Interwoven

by Rene Folsom

  Madame Kincaid takes a few long strides, stomping toward me, until her face is inches from mine. “Now see here, little girl. We will have zero tolerance of insubordination. If you run, we will catch you, and you will reap the consequences.”

  “You will fry!” Greann added, her face now as close as Madame Kincaid’s.

  “That’s enough!” Vulcan barks just as Seneca leaps forward, capturing my arm as if to ground me, ensuring I won’t float away.

  If only I could.

  “You would choose a commoner over your betrothed?” Greann asks, only her voice is no longer sweet like syrup. No. Instead, her tone drips with disdain and hatred—hatred for me.

  The worst thing the Kincaid brothers could possibly do in this clusterfuck of a situation is to stand up for me. Yet here they are, doing just that. It’s clear as crystal Madame Kincaid and Lady Greann won’t stand for it. It’s also obvious I will be thrown to the wolves for tempting the brothers. Even if I had no intention of making them take an interest in me to see if I’m this chosen person they seek. I’m not. Perhaps it’s all a cruel game to them. Something to pass the time. It could just be some sick game they play with new servant girls.

  No one will fight for me.

  No one will see my side of the story.

  As far as they’re concerned, my side doesn’t exist.

  I’m nothing to them.

  And therefore, I will vanish—I will become a figment of their imagination—a memory they can’t quite place.

  I will become nothing but fog on the horizon.

  I will become nothing but smoke to their ashes.

  To my surprise, and thanks to Graham, I’m allowed to go back to my room, though a guard stands watch outside of my door the entire night. I know he’s there just by the smell of the male testosterone that lurks beyond the slab of wood, his boots casting ominous shadows beneath the crack.

  I’m too exhausted to pay it any mind. There’s really no sense in it anyway. At least I am allowed to sleep for now, to dream of a life where I’m not subjected to ridicule with every twisted turn I make.

  And dream I do, even if wishing of a better life is more like a nightmare than a dream. Hell, reality is more like a nightmare every single day I continue to breathe.

  My nightmare wakes me from the sweetest of dreams with shouts and bangs from the hall.

  “I don’t give a care what she’s wearing. Bring her to the square!” I hear a voice demand, and it’s clear exactly who it is.

  Greann is here to collect. She’s summoning me so she can follow through with her word.

  And I’m royally fucked yet again.

  Sleep leaves me like a tidal wave of urgency, and I make quick work of finding my garments. The last thing I want is to be executed in my nightwear. I’d be lying if I said a smile didn’t grace my lips the moment I caught sight of my cap… the same cap I thought was long lost in the gardens.

  Someone, though I don’t know who, has been looking out for me. Just the simple act of kindness has hope blooming in my chest, despite the constant noise from the hallway.

  My door nearly splinters at the hinges when a guard pounds his way through the wood just in time for me to slip the tank over my head and onto my body. It’s tight on my chest, but it’s not like I have a choice. I try not to panic as I trip over my own legs, my pants slipping over my butt just in time.

  “Come with me,” the guard says, grabbing my arm. While his words are forceful and match his hold on my bicep, I can tell by the expression on his face he’s not at all okay with what he’s being forced to do… where we’re being forced to go.

  “Wait!” I scream. “My boots! I need my boots!” Barefoot, I try to find purchase on the concrete floor as the strong guard drags me to the doorway.

  He doesn’t give in, continuing to strong arm me into the hall.

  “You don’t need boots where you’re going, Zhavia.” The silky, metallic voice of Greann—the lady of House Kincaid—croons. For the first time in my life, I feel like I truly despise someone. I’ve never been one to hate, even someone like Greann, but as I stare at this filth of a human, I can’t for the life of me find a single thing I like about her. After getting to know her, she looks ugly on the outside, which totally matches her on the inside.

  “Why are you so hateful?” I ask, hating I’m giving her the satisfaction of knowing her actions bother me. I honestly didn’t want her to know how manipulative she is, but my words spilled out before I could stop them.

  A light titter echoes throughout the hallway as another guard joins the first, one holding me on either side as they force me in front of Lady Greann. She’s laughing, yet I will probably never understand what she finds comical about our current predicament. “You’re such a naive child, Zhavia. I’m not hateful unless someone decides to step into my territory.”

  She stalks closer to me, her face so close to mine I can feel her breath as the guards hold me in place. I can’t hold back the scowl that coats my expression.

  What can I say? She brings out the best in me.

  Sticking out her long, red fingernail, she traces the line of my jaw, causing me to flinch away from her filthy touch on my skin. “And you have definitely overstepped your boundaries. Your insubordination won’t be tolerated, and I plan to use you as an example for all the help at this house.” I’m speechless as she turns and starts to saunter away. But before I can breathe a sigh of relief that she’s not within throat-slitting distance, she turns, her eyes boiling with rage and focused on me. “You will pay for touching my men.”

  Men.

  Not man. Not singular. But men… plural.

  Her words were clear. I will be punished for touching her men.

  “Looking forward to it,” I sneer, the guards still effectively making sure I don’t pounce on the devil herself. I want to spit at her feet. I want to see her bleed. I want to see her world fall apart just as quickly as it was put together by her selection. She was selected to be the lady of a family even though she is anything but.

  Greann doesn’t bother to acknowledge me. My comment was clearly disrespectful anyway, so I’m betting she is just trying to save face because she knows I would have refused to take it back or apologize. A grin of pure hatred forms on my face as her back disappears just beyond the turn in the hallway.

  “Move it!” a guard barks as he kicks at my bare heels. I’m not even given a moment to absorb my encounter with Greann before her guards are dragging me down the hall, following in her wake.

  In the shadow of the devil.

  While the sounds are loud and overwhelming in the square, I’m still surprised how many are present before the first sparks of sunlight hit the earth, especially since I’d never even come through this area of the property before. With it still being dark, not even a single ray of light ghosting through the horizon, I’m taken aback at the large turnout. I’ve heard that the square of House Kincaid is often busy with the help, their chores and jobs much more important than anything else that is happening around them. But tonight they were roused from their beds and ordered into the darkness, most still holding the candles they used to light their ways. The flicker of tiny flames causes an ominous glow that encompasses the entire square.

  In House Kincaid, it’s apparently a requirement for servants and workers to watch their equals, subordinates of their kind, being disciplined—to witness the event where the help is put in their place so it can be used as an example to them all on what will happen if they step out of line.

  And I am now that example.

  Yay for me.

  I can’t say I regret what brought me to this moment. I will always stand up for what I believe in, even if the powers that be don’t agree.

  But as they tie me to a post in the square, my heart begins to race, and I start to question why I dared to challenge my superiors. But no matter what happens, I refuse to shed a tear. Even as the guards roughly shove my head down and bind my arms, I don’t want Greann to believe she has w
on. I don’t want her or Madame Kincaid to know they’re the winners in this situation, even if I feel vulnerable as I’m bent over a post, barefoot and exposed to the entire square.

  “Zhavia Starke. You have been accused of attempting to escape beyond the walls of House Kincaid.” The guard’s voice is booming, echoing off the walls of the square. “You will be disciplined for your actions amongst your peers who will witness consequences of your treachery. Your escape attempts will be made obsolete, and you will no longer have the means to run from your essential obligations.”

  They are going to punish me for something I haven’t done yet, and they make no mention as to why I’m truly here. Greann must not want anyone to know.

  My eyes squeeze shut, and I try to prepare myself for the inevitable. Because even though the guard didn’t say it outright, I understood the meaning of his words, even if I don’t want to accept what is about to happen.

  The first lash of the whip to my feet makes me involuntarily cry out despite my strength, my back arching as the sting of pain overtakes one of the most sensitive part of me. I want to yell an apology, even though I know it won’t do any good. They don’t want to hear the word sorry. It isn’t in their vocabulary. All they want is suffering. To cause pain. To assert their absolute authority over the people.

  And as my feet are struck again and again, the whip cutting deep into my skin, I acknowledge that they have won this round.

  I am suffering. I am rethinking my actions. I am at their mercy.

  But am I sorry? Do I want forgiveness for what put me in this position?

  The answer to that is no. I will remain strong and defiant until the end. Even if it means my end.

  Langston pops into my mind as the whip continues its assault on my skin. I’ve never been sure of an all-powerful deity who looks after our wellbeing, but right now, I pray. I pray to any god who will listen, asking—no, begging—that Langston won’t have to feel a single sting of the whip, especially because of me. That he hasn’t already been punished in a similar way.

  The sounds that escape my chest don’t even resemble my voice as the third strike slices through me, digging deep into my soul. There’s no doubt my feet are cut to the bone. I imagine Madame Kincaid and Lady Greann believe I deserve every single lashing. And maybe I do. Maybe Greann knew of my attempts to escape. Maybe she was able to foresee my plans for freedom. The more likely scenario is she had someone watching me. Maybe she remembers my comment when I was first assigned to the house.

  Maybe I don’t care.

  Hating the fact I’m in pain and that everyone can see the agony I’m in, I attempt to wipe all traces of emotion from my face. Attempt to put on a blank mask. Hardening my expression and refusing to let another sound of weakness leave my lips will be the only way I will get through this ordeal intact.

  Overlapping thoughts of tranquility overtake my vision, and I barely make a sound as the fourth lash slivers through my skin.

  My head heavy with the overwhelming pain, I flutter my eyes open and gaze toward the right. It takes several blinks and another agonizing slap of the whip before I can make out those in the tight-knit group, their eyes watching me so intently.

  The brothers Kincaid.

  There they stand, watching, waiting… they’re actually condoning the fact I’m being tormented with a whip. And for what? Because they chose to kiss me? They’re allowing their selected to do this to me, when in reality, it’s all their fault. They’re allowing Greann to take her hatred out on me after all they’ve been guilty of.

  I’m clearly just a pawn in this screwed-up society.

  Rage fuels my strength through the next few cracks of the whip, and I do my best not to show any pain in front of the brothers.

  They don’t deserve to see me suffer. They don’t deserve to see me in pain. And the last thing I want is for them to see their lady at work. I don’t want them to know she has gotten to me, even if I’m the one being metaphorically burned at the stake. To think that they told me she had no pull in this house. Clearly, they had lied.

  With the tenth and final strike to the soles of my feet, I stare right into Vulcan’s eyes and watch as he flinches, his large body and stony face cringing with the sound of the lash. I don’t even react to it, though, my feet already numb to the pain of the leather shredding my skin. But I can see his red eyes as they close with a fierce wrinkle, his face contorting into that of pain when the whip cracks with a vengeance against my bone.

  He’s putting on an act. For who though, I’m not sure. I’m confident it isn’t for me. These men couldn’t care less about someone of my station. They wanted this from the start. To play with my emotions. If they did give a damn, they wouldn’t have stood by watching as the whip sank into my feet.

  I want to pass out, my world getting darker and closing in on me with each labored breath I take. Each passing beat of my heart has black pulsing in my vision.

  I’m still shackled to the post when the administer of my punishment finally relents and backs away.

  Madame Kincaid, Lady Greann, and the five brothers—they’re all my judge and jury—they’re all present to be sure my crimes are accounted for. Though I am not the guilty one. They are.

  And I hate them for it.

  I hate them even more than I thought possible.

  Once the guards approach me, their warm hands enveloping my limp body as they unhook my shackles from the post, I can’t hold onto reality anymore.

  I try. Oh, gods, I try.

  I try to hold onto any sliver of hope I have that I can still escape, regardless of my bloody, wounded feet.

  Yet reality continues to pulse beat by beat…until my entire world goes black.

  13

  When I finally came to as my limp body was being dragged back into the mansion, I hoped I wouldn’t remember anything from the past few hours.

  Yet here I am, my feet leaving a trail of blood along the cobblestone walkways, and every single second of the moments that led up to this point in time are burned into my brain—leaving memories that will plague my life for all eternity.

  My dreams are cluttered with dragons and scrutiny, yet I’ve never slept more soundly. Despite the nightmares, I still wake up more refreshed than I have in years.

  With my arms stretched above my head and my brain clearing, I finally allow my eyes to flutter open, only to be met by an old and haggard face of a man, gray beard and all.

  “Langston!” I cry out. I don’t care how desperate I sound, the hope and joy at seeing him evident in my tone.

  Where am I? It appears to be dungeons of some sort. I’ve never witnessed catacombs before, only heard of them as a scare tactic when I was little. It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if I was sequestered down in the pits of hell along with my brethren.

  “Zhavia,” he says back with a labored gasp. “It’s a breath of fresh air to see your smiling face.”

  Without a second thought of who is around or how he feels, I leap up and wrap my arms around his neck. It’s the first time in a very long time I’ve hugged someone. I cry out as the pain in my feet remind me of the day before. My agony takes my breath away, and it takes several seconds to attempt to speak. “Oh, you have no idea how happy I am to see you! I thought I’d gotten you in trouble!”

  A low chuckle bounced from his chest, his lungs wheezing with the effort. “Silly girl. You shouldn’t be attempting to walk right now, and I would let you ride again if it meant seeing that smile on your face.”

  With that line, and that line alone, this old, ragged man became like a father figure to me. I’m truly blessed, even if it’s only for a few days in my lifetime.

  I look around us, trying to find something familiar to place our whereabouts, and sit back down on the bed, wincing from the pain. “Where are we?”

  “The clinics in the underground. You’re lucky, though. I’m surprised they didn’t take your life for the tricks you pulled.”

  Do I dare tell him the truth? Do I dare t
ell Langston the only thing I’m guilty of is threatening to run away from Greann and her lackies?

  He wouldn’t understand. No one would. I’ve never met anyone who wanted out of this life more than I do.

  Without responding to him or telling him of my ever persistent desire to leave, I avert my eyes, unable to admit to him the real reason Greann so willingly cut me down.

  The pain must be evident in my face as I try to stand once more, needing to look him in the eye as I talk to him. “Don’t,” Langston demands, his hoarse voice echoing off the stone walls around us. “You can’t move again. Not yet.” I’m taken by surprise when both his frail, skinny arms reach out to me, stopping me from standing on my own two feet.

  I look at him with attitude. “What the hell is wrong with you, old man? I just want to stretch my legs.”

  There are times when I wish I weren’t as stubborn as I am. This is one of those times. All it took was very little weight and an overwhelming slice of pain to remind me once again about my feet.

  With barely more than a grunt of pain, I hit the ground—hard. How I stood a few moments ago without passing out, I’ll never know.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel defeated. I can’t walk, and I realize now just how effective their punishment is for those who attempt escape.

  Or those who just threaten escape, I guess.

  “Girl, I tried to tell you,” Langston scolds while attempting to help me up. Tears threaten to well up inside of me, and it has nothing to do with the pain that’s torturing my feet.

  A breath hisses through my teeth as he assists me in getting back onto the cold, hard platform I’d just stupidly leaped down from. I have no words as I stare at my heavily bundled feet.

  Clearly, House Kincaid doesn’t want me to escape, yet they’re going to take all usefulness from me by slicing the shit out of my feet? How is anyone supposed to work without the ability to walk? Maybe that’s their game plan. Maim the help so they can be sent back to the camps to die.