Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAEVYTH

S houlders pulled back, every muscle in my body urging me to run from the room, I stood before Mr. Moros, who sat on the couch across from Agatha.

“I can assure you,” the old woman said in a voice that scratched at my ears like nails on glass, “aside from the small imperfection in her eye, she suffered no other physical deformities.”

In the last hour, I’d begun to appreciate those new imperfections that had now labeled me anomalous in Agatha’s eyes.

“You’re welcome to examine her further.” She turned toward me, eyes sparkling with feigned adoration. “Maevyth, dear, lift your skirts so the good sir can assess you.”

Dryness tore through my throat, my eyeballs bouncing between Agatha and Mr. Moros’ shifting form on the couch.

“Don’t be rude. Do as you’re told, girl,” she chided, ushering me with her hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” Moros said, much to my mortified relief. “I trust she’s perfect.”

“Well, not entirely so. There is the eye, and the scar she now bears on her arm. Grotesque looking thing, though it seems to be easily hidden beneath her dresses.”

“Miss Bronwick,” Mr. Moros said, not bothering to acknowledge Agatha. “Might I entice you to lunch, then tea in the gardens, this afternoon? A public affair, I assure you. A number of respected members of the community and their wives will be in attendance. Some who knew your father quite well.”

While I was inclined to refuse, the prospect of having to listen to Agatha lament about my new imperfections one moment longer urged me to accept. Besides, no wouldn’t have been an acceptable response to her, either, so in essence, I had no choice. I also welcomed the opportunity to hear about the adopted father I hardly knew, one whom Agatha had made a point to exclude from any of the family albums, or conversation. “I’d like that, thank you, Sir.”

“Very good. Perhaps you might want to … consider more comfortable attire.” It was clear he meant my lack of undergarments, and clearing my throat, I nodded. With Agatha’s dismissal, I darted up the staircase for my bedroom, and once inside, I performed a quick sweep for the egg I’d hidden beneath my bed. Thankfully, it remained tucked against the wall, where I’d hoped Aleysia wouldn’t find it.

Once I’d slipped into my undergarments and corset, replacing the high-necked dress and cross, I headed back down the stairs. In truth, I hadn’t yet been to the northern side of the parish, where most of the military and politicians resided. I’d heard there were far more amenities there, including a telescope, which I longed to see someday.

When I returned to the parlor, a new but familiar face stood chatting with Agatha and Mr. Moros. One of the executioners from The Banishing days ago. The one who’d snickered and stabbed the prisoner with his bayonet.

Across from them sat my sister, the anger in her eyes telling me everything.

He was the man Agatha had chosen for her.

A long and opulent table stretched from one end of the dining room to the other, and around it sat twenty-two of Foxglove’s more prominent residents. Mr. Moros had claimed the head of the table, while I sat wedged between him and an officer, identified as such by the embellished uniform he wore. Across from me were the parish physician and his wife, who’d already assessed me prior to the lunch. The Governor’s clerks, some of the women Agatha often gossiped with, one of the Sacred Men garbed in the telling red robe, and a few others I didn’t recognize took up the remaining chairs. A sea of vibrantly-colored attire.

Meanwhile, I wore my usual black dress and choker, which I found oddly comforting amongst uncomfortable company. A second skin that made me invisible for the way their eyes skated over me with the same disinterest as if I were a dried and withering rose in a garden of bright tulips.

For most of the lunch, I sat through mind-numbing, political commentary and loathsome gossip of villagers, until a man two seats down finally asked, “I understand you made quite a discovery while mining in Lyveria. Is that true, Mr. Moros?”

Beside me, Moros frowned, raising a bite of too-rare venison to his mouth. “And how did you come upon this news?”

“News is my business, Sir.” It was then I recognized the man as a scribe for the Foxglove Gazette. He’d come to the mortuary not long ago, scrounging juicy bits on why the vineyard had failed so miserably.

Moros dabbed his face with a napkin and cleared his throat. “I did, in fact, make a new discovery.” From his coat pocket, he pulled a small vial containing three milky white stones, their surfaces sparkling. “The stones were buried in what appeared to have been hardened lava rock at one time.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No. I’m having it examined. Virtually indestructible, so it may prove useful as weaponry, if we can find a way to melt it down.” After another long stare, Moros tucked the rocks away inside his coat.

“It must be dangerous mining so close to the Lyverians.” The observation came from one of the women, dressed in a flamboyant pink dress. “I understand they collect the bones of their kills.”

“Yes. The Lyverians are quite hostile, but the Vonkovyan forces have been gracious enough to guard our operations there. The good captain here has ensured we remain insulated from attack.” Moros nodded toward the man sitting beside me, and I didn’t bother to turn and look, as I could feel the whole table staring our way. “They’re quite primitive, I must say. Using bones for weapons.” He chuckled, dabbing his mouth again, before setting the napkin atop his empty plate. “As I understand, they worship some ancient goddess named Morsana. The Goddess of Death, and the bones are part of their many rituals.”

One of the women at the table gasped so dramatically, I turned to see if she’d choked.

“Positively malevolent! Call it cultural all you want, but it’s pure witchcraft, if you ask me.” The speaker was an older man, sitting beside her, with tufts of white hair, and his gaze fell on me, as if I somehow embodied the evil to which he’d taken offense. “I must say, Mr. Moros, I was a slight bit hesitant to accept your invitation when I heard that she’d be in attendance.” He gave a nod toward me, and I shrank in my chair at the sudden attention. “Are you aware of the girl’s history?”

“I am. And I find your superstitions to be somewhat …” Moros lifted his glass of wine, pausing to smile. “Ridiculous,” he added, before tipping a sip.

“Ridiculous?” The older man scoffed, shifting in his chair like he’d forgotten how to get out of it. “Were you not in attendance for The Banishing? Did you not witness the evil that lives within those woods?”

“The Banished spoke to her in tongues, for goodness sake.” The woman in pink feigned a shiver that ruffled the lace of her dress. “If that’s not proof of her malevolence, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t forget the young girl she murdered years ago,” a woman on other side of the accusing man added. “Lilleven Pontrey, I believe was her name.”

It was her name. One that I had thought of every day since, particularly so on nights when she’d sneak her way into my nightmares.

“And what about her?” Moros couldn’t have possibly looked more disinterested, as he held his wine up, seeming to examine it with more curiosity than he showed for the woman’s comment.

“Well, she was trampled.”

“By Ms. Bronwick?”

One of the guests chuckled, but the woman who’d spoken wore a frown. “Of course not. The girl willed Lilleven into the road.”

“By her own hands?” Moros continued to mock the woman, perhaps already aware of the rumor.

“No,” she answered sharply, eyes narrowed on him. “By her evil mind. She spoke the words of the devil, and Lilleven ran in front of the carriage.”

In the thick of an argument, I had told her that I wished she’d get trampled by a horse. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, and she’d turned and walked into the road, where she’d gotten run over by a carriage. For the two years that’d followed, I’d refused to speak a word, believing I’d caused her murder. I’d believed that I really was evil.

Moros chuckled in response, his reaction earning another gasp.

“It’s true! Lilleven’s brother saw the whole thing. This girl is the anathema, a witch , and deserves banishment to The Eating Woods!”

Before I could breathe so much as a word, Moros rested his hand over mine, offering what I took as a reassuring squeeze, though my first inclination was to push him away. “It is apparent to me you’ve not ventured outside of Vonkovya—perhaps not even Foxglove Parish. There are no witches here, I can assure you. If you long to witness witchcraft in its purest form, observe a priestess from one of the Lyverian tribes. They’ll have you shuddering.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Moros,” the older man cut in, “she is birthed from the same evil that resides in those woods.”

“It is my understanding that the girl was found abandoned. A child cast off by a frightened mother, I presume. You call her an anathema, but I say it’s a miracle she lived!”

The man hmph ed, glancing at me again. “Our Governor says she was not harmed because the evil recognized her.”

“Your Governor is a kind but foolish man.” The comment earned Moros a collective round of whispers. “I’ve traveled far enough to know that evil does truly exist. And I can assure you, this poor young lady does not harbor such malevolence. As for the girl who was trampled? Well, it would seem to me, she’d have done well to watch for approaching carriages before stepping into the road.”

A hum of chatter followed, his words undoubtedly new fodder for gossip. Fortunately for him, he was a respected man.

Every part of me wanted to push his hand away, but perhaps my speculations were correct about Mr. Moros. Perhaps he was my key to freedom, somehow. So long as I played along.

“She’s quite lucky to have such a kind and benevolent suitor, Mr. Moros. I’m certain you will make a fine couple.”

Moros raised his glass of wine. “Thank you. I look forward to our nuptials next week,” he said, and tipped back his drink.

Having just swallowed the water I’d sipped, I immediately coughed into my glass. “I beg your pardon, Sir. Next week?”

“Yes. I’m a man who gets things done. Why postpone the inevitable?”

“It’ll be a glorious wedding!” the woman in pink exclaimed with an air of celebration. As if she hadn’t insulted me only moments before.

“Indeed,” said the captain beside me, patting my thigh beneath the table.

Frowning, I swatted his hand off and turned my knees to the side.

“Tell me, Captain,” Moros said, drawing the man’s attention from me. “I understand Lyverian rebels have crossed Sawtooth and seized Murkmire Parish in the north. What are your intentions there?”

The man beside me groaned. “Murkmire is nothing but wetlands and the poor who refuse to leave its sinking abysmal property value–certainly not worth our resources.”

“But aren’t you afraid of the message it sends? If one parish can be seized so easily, perhaps our defenses are … weak ?”

“I fear nothing, Mr. Moros. Should they dare to test our defenses, they will find themselves at my mercy.” He turned to me, offering a slight smile. “Only those deemed worthy long to be there, I can assure you.”

“Why are we fighting them?” I dared to ask, directing my attention to Moros and ignoring the strange implication in the captain’s comment.

“Their land is brimming with resources. Wasted on such primitive creatures.” Whatever credit I’d given to the man shifted with that one snide remark.

“If they’ve no use for it, can’t you strike an agreement with them? An exchange of resources? Surely, we have something they, too, desire?”

“Of course we have what they desire,” the captain said beside me. “Our women, namely. What they would do with such an innocent thing like you.” Again, he brushed his fingers over my thigh, and I dug my nails into his hand, earning a quiet growl from him.

Turning completely away from the man, I faced Mr. Moros, whose expression, brimming with suspicion, told me he must’ve caught on to my struggles beneath the table. “I don’t question defense in an attack, but seizing land seems … hostile.”

“They’re a primitive people,” the captain said in a bored tone, easing back into his chair. “Certainly not capable of civilized negotiations.”

“But haven’t you lost men fighting them? Good men?” I bit back the urge to defend my father, even if I’d never agreed with his position on religion.

“We have. And for just cause. The righteous are born to suffer in this life so they may be exulted in the next.”

My tongue practically bled with the effort to keep my ever-sarcastic tone in check. Arguing against his point might’ve been viewed as an insult to the church. “It just seems to me that there would be peace between the two countries, if we were to leave them be.”

The captain snorted beside me, and the entire table broke into laughter at my expense.

“Why, it seems your decades of brilliant strategy and victory has been usurped by a young girl who’s likely never been outside of her own parish, Captain.” The older man from earlier smirked before sipping his brandy. “Yes, perhaps we should leave the uncivilized brutes alone and let them live in peace.”

Moros patted my hand the same way an adult might pat the head of a small child. “Perhaps one day you can accompany me to Lyveria and see how these wild creatures have chosen to live, with their many gods who praise depravity and indecency.”

“I look forward to traveling outside of Vonkovya, Sir. I’m certain it’ll be enriching.”

One of the servers, a young woman who seemed only slightly older than me, appeared at my side, filling my glass with the sweet tea that I’d only sipped halfway. I sent her a smile, which she returned with a nod, and in not paying attention, she overfilled my glass.

“Onith!” Glass clinked as she pulled the carafe back, taking my glass with it. The tea spilled across the white linens and onto my dress, which didn’t trouble me half as much as it seemed to worry the girl. “Onith! Oh, gods!” Her mouth pinched together, and she shook her head, scrambling to dab my dress with a napkin she swiped from the table. “God.”

“You bumbling imbecile!” Moros barked, scooting his chair back from the table as though it had spilled over him. “Take Miss Bronwick to the kitchen and have Shireen help with her dress.” With a huff, he took my hand. “Truly sorry, my dear. I’ll be sure to replace the dress.”

“It’s only tea. It’s fine.”

“Come, Miss. Please,” she said in a thick accent. It was as she took my hand that I noticed the stark difference in skin tone, hers a more ruddy color, and the mess of scars scattered across the back of her palm. Horrific scars that looked as if she’d sewn the wounds herself.

I followed after her, through a set of french doors to a sitting area, and down a corridor to an expansive kitchen with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, dozens of cupboards, and more cutting surfaces than one could possibly need. A white porcelain basin and spigot, connected to copper pipes across the wall, indicated modern plumbing that I’d heard was very common in the more luxurious manors. Nothing like the clunky well pump attached to the trough sink back home. Although, I couldn’t complain too much, seeing as a number of the rural cottages didn’t even have an indoor toilet. A welcomed amenity in the thick of winter.

The girl’s hand trembled in mine, and she released me and scrambled for a lower cupboard, from where she removed a stack of cloths and a basin. After twisting a dial on the spigot, water spurted into the basin, filling it. She skittered across the kitchen for the pantry, then back again, rounding the corner for whatever stood on the other side. Presumably searching for Shireen.

“It’s completely fine,” I said, chuckling as I nabbed one of the cloths and dipped it into the awaiting basin of water. “I’m horribly ungraceful when it comes to food. I’d have spilled something on it at some point.”

She rushed over to me and gently took hold of the cloth, brows perked. “Please. Allow me.”

I focused on the accent. Aside from the minor differences in language between the various parishes in Vonkovya, we mostly sounded the same. Her accent was rich and pleasing to the ear.

“Truly, it’s no …” The look in her eyes begged me not to protest. “Of course. Thank you.”

As she soaked the skirt of my dress in water, I stared at the scars on her hand.

“You’re Lyverian?”

At that, she lowered her head.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve never personally met someone from Lyveria before.”

She offered a slight smile, still not bothering to lift her gaze to mine. Or speak again.

As she rinsed the cloth in the water, the tipping of her arm exposed a bruise so dark it appeared black. The shadowy shape of fingers told me she’d been handled roughly.

“He hurts you,” I said before I could stop myself.

On a sharp inhale, she stepped back, dripping water onto the floor.

“I’m sorry. I …. Please tell me. Did Mr. Moros do this to you?”

Her brows came together, clearly not wanting to say.

I placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Please. I need to know.”

Fidgeting with the cloth, she still seemed hesitant to say, but she eventually sighed and gave a solemn nod.

“He pretends to be kind, but he’s cruel, isn’t he?”

Another nod.

My stomach sank into itself, and I longed to wrap my arms around her. To let her know not every soul in Foxglove loathed the Lyverians.

A busty woman in an apron with graying hair appeared and hobbled over to us. “What is going on here?”

“Mr. Moros asked that I clean her dress. I … spilled tea on her.”

“Red God in Heaven, Danyra, you mustn’t be so clumsy!”

“I’m perfectly fine. I’ve got plenty of these godawful dresses to last me the year.” I chuckled, catching the clipped smile Danyra tried to hide.

“Well, then, I’ve got a platter of desserts and hot tea on the way, Miss. If you’d like to return to the table.”

I didn’t, though. I’d have much preferred to stay in the kitchen with the two of them. How could I possibly entertain the man, or pretend to enjoy myself, knowing he’d hurt the poor woman that way? Perhaps worse.

When Danyra walked off, Shireen smiled at me in a way that had my skin crawling. “Say the word, Miss and she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry … what?” Gone? As in let go, or executed?

“You’re to be the new madame of the house. If she displeases you, I’m happy to rid the house of her.” Still wearing the smile, she casually set plates of dessert onto a brass serving platter.

“I do not live here as of yet.”

“We’re making preparations, Miss.”

Preparations? My stomach twisted at the thought of marrying him. It was one thing when I thought of him as mildly decent, but knowing the abuse he’d inflicted changed the landscape of that. I doubted I’d have been any safer as his wife. “Do you …. Are you asking if I want you to let her go?”

“We do not let Lyverians go.” Her spinechilling words held me speechless for a moment.

“She doesn’t displease me.” Eyes squinting at the confusion, I shook my head. “I want to keep her here. In the house. Alive.” I spoke with as much clarity as I could muster, given the urgency I felt in my chest. “The spill was merely a mistake and nothing more. My fault, really. I distracted her.”

“As you wish, Miss.” A long nod, and she waved me toward the door. “Please.”

I never wanted to leave a room so much in my life. At the same time, I didn’t want to return to Moros, either.