Chương 25: Sister Dearest

Edric's hand closed upon Seraphine's hip, and for four heartbeats it belonged to Cal Rook. She kept her eyes half shut. Beneath her, in the wreck of the sheets, Edric moved with an eagerness which might once have pleased her; his breath struck hot against her throat, his fingers tightened whenever she bent nearer, as if the morning might be taken back from him, and each thrust lifted her against the imagined pressure of another man's hands. Cal would have gripped her harder. Maybe.

He had the manners of a ruffian about him. Or perhaps he would have remained still, watching her with that intolerable composure until she had been obliged to ask. The thought pleased her more. She caught Edric by the hair and drew his head back. Heat gathered where their bodies met. He was slick with effort. So was she. His mouth opened beneath hers, ardent and obedient; she kissed him because Cal had refused even that much, and because, with her eyes closed, the breadth of Edric's shoulders could serve.

He was young, handsome, sufficiently well made, and so anxious to distinguish himself that he had mistaken her impatience for appetite.

"Seraphine," he said against her lips. She silenced him with her hand. Cal had never spoken her name. On the balcony he had called her foolish, which was more intimate in its way; a civil man might address any lady, whereas contempt required attention. She saw again his face turned towards her, the small scar near his jaw pale in the lamplight, his eyes stripped of their customary indolence. Then Elara in the doorway. Elara, silent and astonished, receiving his defence as though it were a gift.

Seraphine moved faster. Edric answered at once, his hands travelling over her waist and up her back. He wanted to please; Seraphine permitted him the pleasure of believing that he did. Yet the body beneath hers remained Edric's, however obliging imagination might be. His breath came too quickly. He closed his eyes. Cal, she felt sure, would have watched. She knew the comparison was unjust, which was why she could not stop making it. Elara had always provided her with such comparisons.

Sixth child and seventh: close enough in age to share governesses, feast-day clothes and the same long nursery table, yet far enough apart that Seraphine had possessed one assured place above her. She had sung better, danced better and learnt early that a lowered voice could draw a room more surely than a raised one. Elara, meanwhile, sat stiffly at the table and answered questions with an honesty that made every meal more difficult than it need have been. It ought to have settled the matter. It had not.

Their mother and father had worn coldness like a season's fashion, though Seraphine had never been childish enough to take that coldness at its face value. People did not spend that much care upon a child they were indifferent to. A neglected daughter was left to grow wild. Elara had been guarded. Who else had been given Celia's hours, or Aldren's notice? Who else had gotten Mirelle to themself in the end?

Seraphine, who gave no trouble and required no special arrangements, had been rewarded with freedom so complete that the household commonly forgot where she was. She had also been left the only hierarchy in which she felt her footing: Elara diminished, and herself, by that arithmetic, secure. Cal had been chosen for that purpose. The salon plan deserved to have succeeded. Elara had come to the salon with Cal, as Seraphine's invitation had requested.

A maid, suitably distressed, was to tell her that her retainer had got himself into difficulty with a gentleman; his lady's presence might still prevent a scene. By the time Elara arrived at the balcony doorway, she was to find Cal alone with Seraphine, close enough for the posture to supply what distance concealed. Seraphine would then suggest the smaller parlour. Cal had only to follow. Elara could have accused no one without declaring why the sight wounded her.

She would have carried it away in silence, and Seraphine would once more have proved how little security there was in anything her sister valued. She remembered her fingers on Cal's forearm four or five heartbeats, long enough for a man of his station to understand the invitation and short enough that she could have withdrawn it as accident. He had understood. He had named the invitation aloud, which no one of any breeding would have done, and then he had told her she was a fool to think it would work.

Men refused out of caution, disinterest or out of a wish to raise their price. She could have allowed either. What she could not allow was the ranking. He had set Elara above her as if the comparison required no argument. Edric made some sound of encouragement. She did not answer it. She had almost got the other mouth onto his.

"Cal." It left her on a breath she had not meant to utter. The movement beneath her ceased. For an instant she remained astride him, one hand braced beside his head, her body still joined to his. Edric stared up. A flush ran from his chest to his face, and damp strands of fair hair clung to his forehead. His hands loosened upon her waist. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"What did you say?" Without the imagined face, he was only Edric Rase. His lips were swollen from her teeth; his expression held the first ugly effort of a man deciding whether humiliation had truly occurred. Seraphine could have laughed, though laughter would have granted the moment too much importance. She ran one finger down the centre of his chest.

"You stopped."

"You said a man's name."

"Then why ask?" Edric's colour deepened.

"Was it Rook?" Seraphine regarded him. He wanted denial; he also wanted the right to despise her denial when it came. The fool.

"Ah. So you do remember him." Pride did the rest. Eldric resumed with a force that had nothing of his earlier care in it, and she let that serve. She kept her eyes on him now, on the wrong mouth and the hurt already gathering under it, and used him until her body seized and spent itself and had no further need for him. Then she lifted away, leaving him unfinished among the sheets.

"Dress," she said.

"And leave." Edric stared at her. He looked, for a moment, as if he might pretend he had not heard.

"I think I am owed—""An explanation?"

"…You cannot be serious." Seraphine withdrew from him and reached for the sheet.

"I assure you, I have never been more so." He sat up.

"You bring me here, call another man's name, and now order me out?" Seraphine found her shift among the clothes he had been in too much haste to fold.

"Would you prefer money, or an apology? I am not prepared to furnish either." When he didn't respond, she gestured with her chin to the door.

"You know the way out, Ser Edric." He dressed badly, which amused her more than a clean exit would have done. The door closed with more force than a guest ought to use. She listened until his steps had left the stair, then let the sheet fall and sat on the edge of the bed. Dismissing the thought of the man, she reached for the cup beside her bed. Her throat was parched, so she drank deeply before setting the cup back squarely upon the table. A knock followed soon after.

"Enter." Master Iven Rusk came in with his hat already in his hand and his eyes already fixed at a point above her shoulder, as they had been on other mornings when the bed had looked no better. Grey had taken what remained of the colour in his hair. Broad through the shoulders and dressed for the day, he spared one glance for the discarded stocking near his boot. His eyes returned to Seraphine's face, unfazed.

"Ser Edric appeared displeased," he said.

"Some private matter, I hear."

"I see."

"You came to report." Iven closed the door behind him.

"Our clerk in Master Dorr's office sent word. Rook visited this morning." Seraphine's thumb stopped upon the cup.

"He requested the Academy primers for his evaluation," Iven continued.

"Charter law, retainer conduct, and first aid. The clerk's understanding is that he intends to proceed with the review." The cup remained beneath Seraphine's hand. Its glazed surface felt cool against her palm.

"But he requested resignation papers just the night before," she said.

"He appears to have changed his mind." … Changed his mind. CHANGED HIS MIND?! What in the seven hells is that supposed to mean?! After leaving Elara's residence with the folded form in his hand; after making every sensible preparation to remove himself from Elara's service; after Seraphine had spent coin and favours arranging the consequences of his departure. He changed his mind?

When Seraphine thought the matter over, the explanation presented itself with insulting simplicity: Elara had called him back, and he had stayed. She could have thrown the cup at Iven's head. It would have struck the wall beyond him, burst against the plaster and left the maid to pick blue shards from the carpet; Iven would scarcely blink, Cal would remain within the Academy wards, and Elara would still have him at breakfast. Gritting her teeth, Seraphine aligned the cup with the edge of the table.

She wanted Rook because he belonged to her sister. That was the whole of it, and she was not so sentimental as to dress it in other clothes. She had meant to take him out of that belonging, and to teach his mouth what the ranking had cost. Both intentions required him to step beyond the Academy's protection.

"The men at Asterbridge," she asked.

"Still waiting, my lady," Iven replied. It was a sound plan, her ploy to seize Cal. She had had Iven hire two men from the watch who would have stopped him on a fabricated blacklist enquiry if he left the freehold. Once detained, Cal could be removed to a private house under the decent fiction of protective custody and kept there for as long as she had use of him.

"I recommend withdrawing the payments," Iven continued.

"The longer those men remain engaged, the greater the chance that one boasts of it. Their discretion is rented by the week."

"Leave them."

"My lady—""If he fails the review, he will have to walk somewhere. I will not pay twice for the same opportunity." She stood, found her dressing-robe, and drew it on without hurrying.

"Can Kilhane be bought?" Iven's brows rose by the smallest degree.

"Coin would insult him."

"Everyone is insulted by the first offer. The sum determines whether his opinions on the matter might change."

"Armsmaster Kilhane has refused gifts from men richer than you may safely pretend to be." When she continued mulling on the idea, Iven gave her the look he reserved for decisions he considered extravagant. He was too well trained to call them foolish. Sighing, she dropped it. Seraphine wanted Cal because he belonged to Elara. She wanted to take him from her sister and keep him where Elara could learn, by slow degrees, that he had chosen another master. After that, his insolence could be corrected at leisure.

She believed desire could strip him of the pride that chains, threats and confinement might leave intact. Seraphine looked towards the hearth. No fire had been laid; a scatter of yesterday's ash showed grey beneath the grate. What other options were open, she wondered. Seraphine recalled Edric's tantrum as he fled, desperate to depart before she saw him falter. His pride had left her chambers raw and seeking somewhere safer to strike. Cal's name could perhaps give it direction.

"If Ser Edric calls, you will receive him. Send up a bath. Hot. I am expected in the hall." Iven bowed and went to the outer door. A maid came through a moment later, eyes down, and occupied herself with the copper and the ewers as if the rumpled bed were a piece of furniture that had always looked that way. Seraphine did not speak to her. She stood at the basin and washed her mouth, then her throat, then the places Edric's industry had left marked, until the water was used up.

By the time the pins were in and the morning dress had been persuaded to sit as it should, she had the face she took into corridors. She answered the porter's good morning with a proper and modest nod as though the night had contained nothing but letters.