Chapter Twenty-Two
Nancy dressed her simply this evening: a white blouse cut low on her shoulders, and a soft skirt the color of cranberries. Her hair was caught up off her neck with a plain silver comb, which was her only jewelry.
"I do not," Becca said to her maid, "appear to be very well dressed for dinner. Am I to expect a picnic on the grounds?"
Nancy of course did not answer, unless the sharp movement of one dainty shoulder could be interpreted as a shrug. But, thought Becca, even if it were so, was it a shrug of ignorance—dismissal?—general insolence?
It occurred to Becca that Nancy did not care much for her—which was . . . unsettling. The servants in her father's house—Cook, Mrs. Janies, Lucy—had been fond of her in various degrees. Those in the city had perhaps not been quite so fond of a strong-willed, countrified miss who had brought scandal on the house of Beauvelley, but that had hardly mattered, so long as they did their duties—which they did, punctiliously.
Nancy, though . . . Nancy was a device.
Altimere had said that she had no more feelings than a buttonhook, or a quill, or a fork; that she had been created to mime all the motions of a living creature, yet experienced neither thought nor emotion. And that was even more distressing than the notion that her maid might dislike her. As unsettling, in its
way, as the shadow of the bandy-legged, tuft-tailed man shape she had glimpsed beneath the shadow of the trees.
She wondered if she would tell Altimere about that sighting, and decided that she would not. Elyd had been horrified enough of the possibility of her escaping over the fence and into the wood, as if Altimere's estate were some prison that she wished to flee! She was shrewd enough to suppose that the stable boy was under strict orders to keep her upon tame land, and she had no wish to expose her friend to Altimere's displeasure.
In the mirror, she saw Nancy flitting back and forth. It seemed to her that the tiny creature was . . . annoyed, which would seem to put the lie to Altimere's claims. Though why he should wish to prevaricate over such a matter was more than Becca could fathom.
"Yes, I see," she said, standing up and shaking out her skirt. "Thank you, Nancy. That will be all."
"And how did you spend your day, child?" Altimere's dress this evening was a simple as her own: a dull gold waistcoat over a creamy shirt, and long pants in smoke gray.
"Elyd and I went for a ride," she told him, taking care with her pronunciation of the Fey words. She paused, and sipped her wine with trepidation. While most of Altimere's wines delighted the nose and tongue, there were two in particular that she found unpleasant—a red that bore a strong aftertaste of pepper and a white that tasted so much of cinnamon that she could not drink it without her eyes tearing up.
"It seemed a pleasant day for a ride," Altimere murmured. "Did you go far?"
"Only to the south field," she said, finding that the wine this evening was one of her favorites, lightly chilled and tasting of peaches. "Rosamunde wanted to run."
"Rosamunde would run from here to Xandurana," Altimere said fondly, placing the cheese platter near her hand. "She is very much her of her grandsire's line. Try the blue, zinchessa, and tell me what you think."
Obediently, Becca took a slice of the purple-veined cheese and nibbled.
"I think it excellent, sir!" she said, surprised. She reached for another slice.
"Do you? I had been concerned that it were too . . . wild a flavor."
"Not at all!" she assured him. "The flavor is just what it ought to be and the texture is delightful."
"Well, it does me good to hear you say so, child, for your kest never leads your wrongly in such things. Did you see anything untoward, in the south meadow?"
There had been something . . . Becca frowned and sipped her wine. Oh! She had decided not to discuss the day's ride in detail with Altimere! What a strange idea. As if she could not tell Altimere everything and anything! He held her kest and her future, how could she make him free with so much, and not trust him with the simple events of her day?
"We saw something at the edge of the Wild Wood, Rosamunde and I," she said, setting her glass aside. "Elyd swore he saw nothing, but I think that was because he was angry with me."
"Angry with you? How very odd. I had been certain that he was . . . fascinated by you."
"No, I annoy him," Becca said seriously. "Badgering him with silly questions, and nagging at him to take time from his duties to teach me to read."
"Can Elyd read? You surprise me."
"Well, I own that I found it odd, too. But he can read quite well, sir, and he is very good at explaining—"
"But . . ." Altimere coached gently.
"But, he has his duties in the stables and for the horses. It is not his job to teach me to read. As he rightly points out to me." She paused, suddenly struck by a thought. "Altimere?"
"Yes, my child?"
"Could—we—not hire a tutor to come and teach me reading?"
"Why, I suppose we might," he said, sounding much struck. "Let me think upon it."
"Thank you," she said.
"There is no need to thank me," he said, nudging the platter nearer. "The pinchmelon is quite good, I think. Do try some."
After the meal they rose, as always leaving what remained of the meal to be cleaned up by invisible and efficient Gossamers, but when Becca stepped toward the door that led to the inner garden, she was restrained by a gentle hand upon her arm.
"Let us come into the small parlor for a moment," Altimere murmured, sliding his hand slowly up her withered arm.
Becca felt her skin heat under the light fabric, and allowed herself to be guided down the hall.
She had been in the small parlor only once. It was an oddly shaped space that ought not really have been a room at all. Situated behind the dining room, it was a weirdly shaped cave of a place, with neither prospect nor art to recommend it.
This evening it was . . . less ill than it had seemed on that previous occasion, for someone had laid a small fire, and lit real candles. The dance of live flame against the darkness served to conceal the room's odd proportions, and made it seem a safe and cozy haven.
"Here," Altimere murmured, guiding her over to a small table where two candles burned merrily, casting their light onto polished wood and a pouch of some material so dark and dense that it seemed to absorb any flicker that touched it.
"Now," Altimere said. "Do you recall that I said it pleased me to make you a gift?"
"I do, indeed, sir. And I recall that you have given so many gifts already—"
"Peace." He raised his hand, his smile flickering in the candlelight. "I have said that it pleases me to do this. That does not mean, however, that you should feel in any way compelled to receive what I offer. Take it only if you desire to possess it."
Impossible to read his face in this light. Still, he sounded serious, his voice resonate with meaning, as it had been when he had taken her life and her future into his hand.
"Of course anything that you give to me is precious in my sight," she said slowly. "And it must please me to receive any token of your regard."
"All very pretty and proper." He sounded—amused, now. "I say again, child: Receive it only if you desire to possess it."
He extended a long hand, his fingers washed in golden light, and plucked the fabric away.
Starlight burst across Becca's vision, impossibly bright; a thousand scintillant points burning against the dark.
Diamonds, she understood slowly. A diamond collar, the stones so pure they burned blue at the heart.
Another vision rose, partially obscuring the glory spread before her—the vision in the wine cup, of herself gowned like a queen, strolling at ease among her attentive trees, and around her throat, a diamond collar, glittering like all the stars of summer.
The memory faded, leaving the reality of the collar, sparkling in the candlelight, colder and more brilliant than the moon.
She wanted it. Of course she wanted it! More, she was meant to have it! Had she not seen it? Did the vision not mean that she had already accepted and treasured this gift? Why else, indeed, was she here, except to make that vision true and real and her own.
Becca extended her right hand, felt the reflected glory sparkle across her skin.
"I will require assistance . . ." she murmured, hardly hearing her own voice.
"Perhaps not," Altimere answered, his voice so low it seemed she was hearing it inside her head. "Remember, zinchessa: Receive it only if you must possess it."
She shook her head. There was no question that she must possess it! Possession of the collar would make her future perfectly . . . real.
Shaking, she slipped her right hand beneath the stones, not at all surprised to find them pleasantly warm. A moment later, concentrating, she was able to slip her left hand also beneath the collar. It clung to her fingers as she raised it, shaking harder now as pain shot the length of her ruined arm, but she persevered.
The collar was hers. She would be worthy of this gift.
Her whole future depended upon it.
Sweat ran her face, and tears, and still she pushed, demanding that the strengthless limb do as she desired, ignoring the agony that threatened to burn her bones into ash.
The darkness edged tighter, the candlelight glaring cruelly, and still she demanded, and still her ruined arm rose, inch by torturous, agonizing inch . . .
The collar was against her throat now, warm against sweat-soaked skin. Becca gathered herself, and pushed, driving dead muscles to do her bidding. Her arm jerked, the necklace slipped in feeble fingers, she pushed once more, and the two ends met, meshing with a snap that was loud even over her scream.
"My brave, beautiful child!"
Altimere's arms were around her, cuddling her against his chest. He stroked long, clever fingers down her back, down her arms, and the pain died, cooled by his touch. A kiss and her tears dried. She lay against him, content, fulfilled, the collar an unaccustomed weight around her throat.
"Well done, well done! Your strength is of legend. There were heroes who had not done so much!" Altimere crooned, and kissed her cheek once more before setting her away from him and smiling down into her face.
"Now, if you will, we shall have a small demonstration."
"Demonstration?" Becca looked up at him in amusement. "What sort of demonstration can we need?"
"A definitive demonstration," he answered, quite seriously. "We have come far, and gone boldly, but it will not do to become overconfident. So." He moved away, one step only, and smiled at her.
Becca smiled back, dreamy and content, not much surprised when she felt the silken tumble of her hair against her neck. She threw the silver comb lightly to the table, where it landed on the cloth that had hidden the collar, glinted once in the candlelight—and was extinguished.
Smiling still, she felt a tug at her breast, and looked down to see her busy fingers languidly unlacing her blouse. As the laces loosened, she stroked the curve of her breast, sighing pleasurably. The ribbon slipped through its last eyelet and dropped to the floor from negligent fingers. Becca was busy looking down, watching her hand move across her own body, shuddering with pleasure, though with a yearning, a yearning for . . . something. She scarcely knew . . .
No, she realized. She did know what she desired. And she knew where it was to be found.
Without a word, she left Altimere, walking down darkened halls with no misstep and let herself out into the night. The breeze was cool and sportive against her exposed breasts. Her feet were sure on the path. The door swung open at her touch.
Elyd leapt from his bed of straw, shirtless, his hair unbraided, and a look of horror on his rugged brown face.
"No," he whispered. "Becca—leave me."
"Leave you?" she asked and her voice was thick with anticipation, for this, yes, this was what she wanted. This was what she would have. "But we are friends, are we not?" She stepped closer, fingers at her breast, pinching the upright nipple.
Elyd stood like a man transfixed, his eyes wide, his face sick with longing. Becca closed the distance between them, pushing her body against his, flesh to flesh, his maleness hard against her belly.
"No . . ." he whispered, as a shudder ran through him.
Becca laughed, twisting her fingers through his hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
He shuddered again, and his arms went around her, bruising, exciting. She felt the warmth pooling in her belly, rising from the base of her spine, exalting her, making every touch an agony of pleasure.
Elyd clawed her shirt down and bent, licking her breasts, her belly . . . She put her hands on his head and stepped back, undid the single button and stepped out of her skirt.
He moaned, his face suffused with an expression she had no trouble recognizing as desire—and yet he shook his head.
"Go," he said harshly. "Root and branch—" He reached out, arms trembling. "Stay. You are so beautiful. I must . . ."
"Must you?" she murmured, stepped close, rubbing her nakedness against him. "Must you?" she asked again, and licked his cheek, feeling his panic, his yearning.
One hand on his chest, she pushed him back; back and down until he was flat on his bed. His eyes looked into hers, as he unbuttoned his breeches, freeing himself. Becca smiled and bent to place her lips on his hardness.
Elyd sobbed, his hands twisting in her hair, whispering over and over, "I must . . . I must . . ."
He grabbed her shoulders, urging her up, and she kissed him tenderly on the lips as she lowered herself onto him, his hips rising to her—and she rode him until they both screamed with pleasure, his body arcing under hers—
And going utterly limp, as light, desire, and life left his eyes.