Chương 42: Chapter 41: Daybreak's Residue

Christa's private salon was way fancier than anything Lucien had seen back home. Low tables stood between deep velvet couches. Warm lamplight softened the dark wood and gilded walls, while heavy curtains shut out the rest of the world, leaving him alone with the woman currently driving him insane. Christa had left a few minutes ago to bring something to drink. Which meant something special was on the way. This was something that would have usually intrigued him, if anger hadn't completely taken over.

"I spent YEARS planning this, Silk! You know that. You know how much it cost me..." Lucien shouted while pacing in the fancy room, his unfancy flask denting slightly in his fist.

"I'm sorry! Okay. I don't know what got into me..." Silk said, sitting in the middle couch, her legs extended to the floor and slightly splayed. Lucien whipped around, his eyes meeting hers for a second before hers darted away to something on his left.

"We have one chance. Only one. This is the only way we can escape my mother's gaze and you were about this close to ruining it! Elma had to save you! do you realize how close you were…" He dragged his hands aggressively down his face and let out a shuddering breath.

"…I couldn't do anything..." He turned and with a heavy grunt threw his flask against the far wall, cheap liquor bursting from it, soaking into the expensive velvet. Silence fell over the room, save for Lucien's heavy breathing, that was coming in rapid, ragged rounds. He lowered his head, looking at the damp traces racing down the couches before him.

"I'm sorry," he said. Silk looked at him for a long, heavy moment. She then gathered her legs close to her chest. Her elbows rested on her knees.

"It was the only opportunity I have," she said, her throat tight.

"If we leave, I'll never have another and I will never be able to forgive myself." Lucien took a deep, struggling breath and let it out slowly, his chest feeling narrower than it already was. He reluctantly moved towards her. Silk shrank on the couch as he approached. He awkwardly lowered himself to her right, fidgeting with the tail of his coat for a moment that felt way longer than a moment.

"You know, if you don't want to leave, you can tell me," he said, leaving his coat and folding his hands in his lap.

"Are you serious?" Silk tilted her head towards him.

"I don't know," Lucien muttered. Silk watched his lost expression for a few seconds, then closed her eyes and leaned towards him, her head resting on his stiff shoulder.

"I hate this life just as much as you do, if not more..."

"That's debatable."

"The point is, I want to leave. You know that? It's just..." Lucien was all ears.

"I need to know where my sister is. Who bought her and where is she currently stationed."

"Alright, let's say you found her," Lucien said, his lips quirking.

"Then what?" Silk looked at her feet and her eyes tightened.

"Well, I don't know," she whispered.

"I just want to know where she is." A tightness rose in his chest as Silk's head slowly slipped from his shoulder and came to rest in his lap. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't pretend to understand what she was feeling. All he could do was make sure he wasn't another burden. He passed his fingers through her soft hair, feeling it between his thumb and index, and continued in silence until he felt her head grow heavier against his thighs.

"I'm not going without you," he said softly.

"If you decide to stay then I'll stay with you." Silk turned her head and met his eyes, her hand closed around his where it rested against her hair.

"I'll try what Elma is offering," she said."If it works I'll go with you with a lighter heart, knowing that I at least have caused that bastard's demise. And if it doesn't..." Lucien looked away. Her grip tightened on his hand.

"... I'll go with you anyway." Lucien blinked.

"Are you sure?" Silk gave a small nod.

"I am."

"But…"

"I was reckless today. I don't know what came over me. But I've always kept our escape plan as the goal. I won't let myself ruin it again." Lucien smiled, his eyes a bit glassy.

"Thank you," he whispered right before a small laugh escaped him.

"Also, do you seriously believe that Elma has something?"

"That girl is not normal and you know it! It wouldn't surprise me if she did." Lucien lay back on the couch.

"I always believed those old legendary figures' childhood stories to be exaggerated. I never thought I'd be witnessing one for myself." He looked back at Silk.

"She's meant for greatness. We'll probably be hearing a lot about her in our seclusion."

"Maybe we could return one day once she's in charge."

"Umm, no thanks. I'd like to keep my head right where it is. She's probably gonna be worse than mother. Hell, she's worse now." Silk laughed loudly.

"I bet she's already planning her conquest."

"Yeah, I just hope Christa makes it."

"Christa…" Silk repeated distantly.

"... When do you plan on telling her?" Lucien didn't answer immediately. It wasn't right, keeping it from his sister. But as much as he loved Christa, she was an open book. Hell, an open book could be more challenging. If he told her, even if she agreed, her sadness would still be visible whenever she looked at him. Anastasia would sniff it out almost instantly, and even though she already knew about him and Silk, she wouldn't approve of him leaving with her. Then they'd be doomed. Lucien wasn't theorising.

This same scenario had played out hundreds of times before, and for some reason, he'd always do it again. But this time, she'd have to forgive him.

"Soon," he said.

"You two are soo cute!" Christa was suddenly at the door, an ornate decanter filled with amber-orange wine in one hand, while three slender goblets dangled neatly between the fingers of her other. Silk shot upward, sitting upright like a pillar. Lucien looked up at the ceiling, his face tightening as a dull, throbbing pain lingered in his thigh. He squeezed his eyes shut. Silk had left quite the knot there.

"I leave you alone for ten minutes," Christa said, looking between the two of them with an amused smile.

"And somehow the two of you go from glaring at each other to curling up together." Lucien cleared his throat, his gaze settling on the ornate decanter in Christa's hand.

"What is that?" Before she could answer, Christa's eyes darted toward the couches farther ahead. Lucien's unmistakable flask lay on one of them, with damp spots scattered across several others. Christa froze in that smiling pose for a moment, her jaw working behind it.

"Oh, that!" Lucien brought his hands together.

"I was just pacing back and forth after you left me, and I tripped over one of the couches. Yeah, I'm… I'm really sorry about that." Christa looked back at the flask. The large dent in its center did little to support Lucien's story. Her grin twitched at the edges. She then took a deep breath.

"It's fine—" A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. One of the goblets slipped from her fingers.

"Oop." The goblet shattered against the floor.

"Watch out!" Lucien shouted, a little too late. Christa simply raised her index finger. A current of air swept beneath the broken glass, lifting the shards neatly from the floor and carrying them into the small metal refuse pail tucked beside a cabinet.

"It's fine," she repeated.

"And to answer your question, dear brother…" She lifted the decanter.

"This is called Daybreak's Residue."

"Cool name," Silk said.

"It's a secret stash. This bottle has been sitting here since before the Tide had even formed." Lucien's exhaustion seemed to evaporate.

"What are you waiting for, sis? Come sit with us." Christa laughed softly and lifted the decanter.

"The oranges used to make this wine were said to be larger than a carriage. They grew in an orchard that disappeared long before our time. The fruit was supposedly so sweet that it needed almost no fermentation to produce something this rich." Lucien's eyes widened.

"Larger than a carriage? Veraxys really is something."

"That's what they say." Christa slipped off her shoes and sat on the mattress beside them. She poured wine into one goblet and handed it to Silk, then filled another for herself.

"Uh… what about me?" Lucien asked.

"Ohhh," Silk said after taking a sip.

"This is good."

"I told you," said Christa.

"Christa?" Christa lowered her goblet, one hand caressing the decanter beside her.

"You want something to drink?" she asked.

"Go squeeze those curtains for it."

"Come on, Christa…" Christa took another leisurely sip.

"And wear them while you're at it," her gaze scanning Lucien's coat with a curled lip. A small laugh escaped Silk. It stopped instantly when Lucien turned toward her. She looked back down at her goblet.

"Ok I'm sorry," Lucien said, glancing sideways at the damp patches soaking into the velvet.

"I really am. I'll have someone come clean it—""Don't worry about it." Christa reached over and ruffled his hair, hard enough to mess the careful part he'd clearly spent time on that morning.

"I only have two glasses anyway."

"I'll happily go find a third."

"Don't bother." Christa's hand drifted to rest on the neck of the decanter, fingers curling around it with mock possessiveness.

"This is a one-woman, one-guard occasion. You had your chance to be interesting company and you spent it throwing furniture."

"I didn't throw the couch, I threw the flask—""Honestly," Christa continued, warming to the subject now, "I don't even know why you keep that beard." Lucien's hand immediately rose to his chin.

"What?"

"It's uneven. Sparse in some places, nonexistent in others. At this point, I'm fairly certain you're growing it out of spite." Silk made a small, strangled sound beside him that turned, unmistakably, into a laugh.

"Oh, don't you start," Lucien said.

"It's not making you look wiser, you know," Silk added, her lips twitching.

"If that's what you were going for." Lucien's fingers lingered against his beard. A faint flush crept up his neck.

"I wasn't!!" Christa laughed outright at that, bright and unguarded in a way Lucien hadn't heard from her in longer than he wanted to think about, and for a while the two of them traded increasingly creative insults at his expense while he sat there and endured it, arms crossed, doing his best impression of a man deeply wronged. It was, he privately thought, worth every word of it, just to watch Christa laugh like that.

Eventually the jokes wore themselves thin, tapering into contented silence, and Christa relented with a sigh.

"Fine. I'm starting to feel bad. Go bring a cup." Lucien didn't need telling twice. He was up and across the room before she'd finished the sentence, rummaging through the cabinet by the window until he found something that looked vaguely goblet-shaped, and by the time he made it back to the couches he'd already poured himself a measure that would have made Christa splutter. The moment the wine touched his tongue, Lucien froze.

It was rich and impossibly smooth, with layers of sweetness and spice that seemed to unfold with every breath. He swallowed slowly, eyes widening. This was, without question, the best thing he had ever tasted. An hour later, he'd worked his way through most of the bottle.

"No more," Christa said, watching him sway where he sat, one hand braced against the armrest like the room had developed a slight and personal grudge against his balance. She wasn't faring much better herself, her cheeks flushed and her own movements beginning to lose their precision.

"I'm fine," Lucien said, with the particular conviction of a man who was very much not fine.

"I'm completely— I'm fine. I just want to say something."

"Please don't..." A hiccup interrupted her.

"Not tonight."

"Being born a Kresnik man," Lucien announced to the room at large, "is a fate worse than death." Christa closed her eyes, blinking several times as she fought to keep the tears welling in them from spilling over.

"I mean it. The gods are stupid. How does a god even do that? We are the Kresniks, blessed by the Moon Weaver itself. How dare they..." He gestured vaguely, sloshing wine over his own wrist.

"How do you sit up there, all-powerful, infinite wisdom, and decide to curse this specific gender in this specific family? What was the meeting like? Who proposed it?"

"I'm sorry," Christa said, the words escaping in a voice that nearly broke.

"It's not fair," he continued. Christa slowly set her goblet down, the soft clink against the table cutting through his words.

"Being excluded from ever becoming Resonants wasn't enough for them? They had to curse us on top of that. Have no children, and you turn into a monster. Have more than one, and you die. That's the choice we're given? I have to have exactly one child just to live normally, and I'm running out of time. What if I accidentally have more than one? I... I don't want to gamble with that." Silk quietly placed a hand on his thigh.

"We're fine," she said softly. Lucien nodded, swallowing hard.

"I know." He leaned into her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. Christa was quiet for a moment.

"At least Mother doesn't blame you for your father's death," she said finally, her voice gone very soft. It cracked, and a quiet sob escaped her.

"She doesn't want to look at me. She sent me away because she hates me!"

"It wasn't your fault," Silk said quietly.

"Even my daughter doesn't want to see me." Christa's voice trembled with a sob.

"They all hate me so much… what's wrong with me?"

"Elma?" Lucien asked.

"I don't know!" Christa went on, her voice climbing toward something brittle.

"Something is wrong with her, and I think she blames me for it. I don't know what to do." Her voice faltered.

"She even called me a crazy woman…"

"Christa." Lucien set his cup down, some of the drunken looseness draining out of his posture.

"You need to get a grip." She looked at him, stung.

"I don't mean it like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, doing his best to hold a steady gaze despite the room's ongoing betrayal of his equilibrium.

"Elma doesn't hate you. I've spent enough time around that child to know she doesn't do anything without a reason, and I don't think you're it. I think she's four years old and terrifyingly capable and she knows how far she can push before anyone stops her—including you. You're too soft on her, Christa. You always have been. She's taking advantage of that, whether she means to or not." Christa searched his face for a long moment.

"Do you actually believe that?"

"It's obvious." Christa lowered her gaze, turning the words over.

"Then I'll be harsher." Lucien's expression shifted. He had a feeling he was going to regret saying that.

"If that's what she needs," Christa continued, "I'll stop letting her walk all over me."

"What do you mean something is wrong with her?" Silk asked.

"I don't know. Serena and I—""Serena?" Lucien interrupted.

"Christa, don't tell me you still see her."

"She is the reason Elma was born well. My womb is cursed—""No, it isn't!" Lucien snapped.

"Christa, Serena sold us all off. Her whole family, including you. She abandoned us." He shook his head.

"And you're fine. Plenty of women have children who don't make it far in life. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with them."

"But…" she started, and didn't finish. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, unhurried, drawing closer to the door. All three of them turned toward the sound at once. Silk was on her feet before the door had fully swung open, her posture snapping into the flat, alert stillness of a personal guard. Anastasia stepped inside, one eyebrow already climbing as she took in the scene.

"You're all having fun," Anastasia said, "and nobody thought to call me?" Some of the tension bled out of the room at the sound of her voice—Lucien's shoulders dropping, Christa's spine losing a fraction of its brittle straightness.

"We would have," Lucien said, "if we'd known you were awake." Anastasia's gaze slid over to Silk, still standing at attention, and softened.

"You can sit down," she said, not unkindly. Silk hesitated a beat too long before lowering herself back onto the couch, the rigidity draining out of her shoulders slowly.

"It's fine," Anastasia added, crossing the room to pat her once on the shoulder as she passed.

"I remember what it's like to be young and terrified of getting caught enjoying yourself. It fades. Eventually."

"Speak for yourself," Lucien muttered.

"I'm thirty and still terrified."

"That's because you never stopped being a child," Anastasia said, settling into the last free spot on the couch.

"Your sister at least learned to hide it better."

"I heard that," Christa said, without much heat behind it. Anastasia smiled, reached into the folds of her sleeve, and produced a worn deck of cards, the edges soft and rounded from years of handling. She fanned them once against her palm with a practiced flick.

"Care for a game?"

"Oh—no, I don't think—" Christa's hands moved to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her dress, her eyes darting toward the door.

"It's getting rather late, and I should really check on—""We might as well hand you whatever we're betting right now and save you the trouble," Lucien said.

"We've never won." He stared at the table for a moment, then gave a drunken little shrug.

"But I feel lucky today. Bring it on." Anastasia laughed, low and warm, already shuffling.

"You don't have to wager anything large, if you're frightened."

"I'm not frightened." Christa's chin lifted a fraction.

"I simply value my belongings."

"Come now," Lucien grinned.

"Live a little. What's the worst that happens—you lose your favorite hairpin to a woman old enough to be your mother?" Anastasia dealt the first hand with the brisk, unhurried confidence of someone who had never once lost at anything by accident, sliding cards across the low table with a sound like dry leaves. Christa sighed, resigned, and reached for hers anyway. Silk leaned forward despite herself, curiosity winning out over caution, Lucien scooted closer to get a better look at his hand.

"Alright," he said, squinting at his cards like they'd personally offended him.

"But you're going to have to teach me how you do that thing where you always know exactly what everyone else is holding."

"That," Anastasia said, "is called paying attention. You should try it sometime." Lucien played better than he expected. For once, he actually managed to keep up with Anastasia, catching several of her tricks and even forcing her to rethink a few of her plays. It wasn't enough. She still won, of course. Anastasia always won. As he gathered his cards, Lucien glanced toward Christa. She was smiling faintly, the tension that had followed her throughout the evening almost completely gone.

He found himself watching her for a moment longer than he meant to. He was going to miss this.