I tried to forget the dark happenings of the previous week by losing myself in the preparations for my coming-of-age.
It didn’t work.
Nothing relieved the sense of guilt that haunted me. I just kept seeing that poor boy’s innocent but deathly face.
I’d witnessed one of the child thefts, and the true nature of the crime; its link to magic was as much a problem as the abduction itself. Simply, I’d seen something I should’ve been blind to. To report it would incriminate myself.
The Inquisition might be forbidden to enter Ossard, but the Church could easily arrange my arrest and send me to them. I had to be careful. Such an arrest and consequent journey to the Holy City of Baimiopia wouldn’t end well, particularly for a young woman, and even more so for a lonely Flet.
Mother demanded that I say nothing – and damn the stolen boy!
As a reward for my grudging agreement, she finally offered to explain something else; my bloody tears were a sign of my own awakening. She then made me vow never to speak of it again.
It was a vow I couldn’t keep.
Two days later, I asked her about what she’d said regarding my grandmother. She snapped at me and reminded me of my vow. Her anger came fiery and quick, but it wasn’t built of fury, instead it was founded on terror.
I am not and never have been stupid, even for a girl forced to suffer an education of little more than grooming, appropriate conversation, and how to smile without showing too much red lip or teeth. I suspected that my long-dead grandmother had also held an affinity for the forbidden arts, but confirming that wasn’t going to be easy. Certainly, it was something that would take time, and that meant it would have to wait until after my traditional outing for my coming-of-age.
Ossard crowded at the Cassaro River’s mouth, the river’s waters passing through the city after snaking along the valley that stretched out to the east. Its chill flow ran for days through the rugged Northcountry, marked on its way by rapids, waterfalls, and a wild and icy source up amongst the interior’s snow-capped peaks.
Those mountains rose up not just inland, but all about the Northcountry. They were dotted with exhausted silver mines – the same mines that had long ago fuelled the city’s growth. Today, they hosted the miners’ graves, along with gangs of bandits, and a thick spread of impoverished farming hamlets.
Once the Northcountry had built Ossard, now it fed it.
And just as the land had once brought riches to the city, now the sea likewise delivered. Its deep grey waters, Ossard’s lifeline, brought food, trade, and on occasion even refugees.
The Flets, my people…
My family and I are descendants of refugees, from the thousands upon thousands who fled a war waged against our people by the Lae Velsanans two centuries before. Those dark days, Def Turtung, The Killing, lay behind our people, but far from forgotten.
We Flets are proud survivors of such catastrophe. In truth, if such calamities were omitted from our history little else would remain.
Today, the Flets of Ossard met passing Lae Velsanans with animosity and distrust, but preferably not at all. In such a climate, violence between our two peoples wasn’t unknown.
Myself, I’d never seen any blood spilt in the feud, but for that matter I’d never even seen a Lae Velsanan in the flesh. I’d been told that they looked like us, but stood taller, leaner, and, it was grudgingly admitted, finer. I found it hard to picture such beings as Flet-hating beasts.
Since arriving in Ossard, our family’s bloodline had mixed on occasion with our more numerous Heletian hosts, but our roots remained obvious – as they did for one third of the city. My family, with its blonde and blue-eyed Flet heritage, had never been able to climb above the rank of a relatively successful mercantile family, even with a good portion of luck. As I grew older, I realised that my birth had marked the end of that good fortune.
My mother had suffered a terrible labour delivering me, something that had threatened her life, savaged her health, and brought bloody ruin to her womb. My parents needed sons, not a solitary daughter. Even before I’d taken my first breath I’d failed them.
Despite the disappointment of having only one child, and a daughter at that, our household was still full of love.
Our family stood as one of the most successful within the Flet community, we had not only wealth, but also respect – being generous benefactors to the Flet Guild. Due to our family’s well-known civic nature, we even shared some goodwill from the Heletians, but in the end, to them at least, we were still Flets.
Growing up in a place where one’s people are victimised can be a cruel experience, but also builds character. As my coming of age approached, and with the lotus warming me to the idea, I became determined to catch a man’s eye that would help my parents. Simply, I had to marry a Heletian, specifically the son of a powerful family or a wealthy widower.
In Ossard, coming of age happened on a young man or woman’s seventeenth birthday – a year late compared to most Heletian League states. As with so many things, Ossard was slightly out of step with the rest of the League, partly due to its Flets, but also because of its isolation. Regardless, when the day came I was ready.
At seventeen I stood slightly above average height with long arms and legs, all of it topped by blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. It was often said I had been blessed with the attractive looks of my mother.
Politeness is double-edged.
It’s true that my skin lay smooth and unblemished, but it’s also true that my face hung only neat and plain on an unremarkable frame. At the time I hoped it would grow into something worthy of the compliments. It never did.
It was the day of my first outing, an Ossard tradition at a young lady’s coming of age. In essence, I would be dressed up, reminded of my manners, and then put on show with a chaperone. An outing’s new lady was referred to as a Mint Lady, meaning fresh.
Wearing a new dress gifted to me by my proud parents, I was to be escorted out by a young group led by a distant cousin. On that sunny afternoon, my father and beaming mother saw our two open-topped coaches off at the door with Sef.
My father had arranged for us to go to a fine establishment that overlooked the sea north of the main port. The venue, Rosa Sorrenta’s, was the place for the young of the Heletian upper ranks to be seen. In all, it was an outing someone such as myself should aspire to, but never too seriously expect to achieve. That I was going at all was a gift in itself.
We were all dressed in finery; in the lead coach my cousin and his new wife, and another relation with his betrothed. Also accompanying us were two family friends, both Flet Mint Ladies in their own rights. We three mints sat in the final coach.
I was so dosed up on lotus – courtesy of my anxious mother – that I kept forgetting my companions’ names. Lost in that haze, I just knew that my objective was to find a husband, and looking at the competition, I felt that I wouldn’t be hindered despite being so plain. Forgive my unkind honesty, but one sat as burdened as a heifer, while the other had the face of a horse – an old horse fed on lemons. We spoke little, those nameless girls and I, but we all knew the truth of the day. Following the coach of our chaperones, the three of us sat studying each other and exchanging the most cordial of pleasantries, Horseface, Heifer, and me – Plainface.
The three of us wore similar dresses in the fashion of the time. They were all substantial, well covering, of rich fabric, and showed off a little of the curve of the hip and bosom – a taste if you like. White lace showed through in places as a symbol of our purity, but lay amidst the strong colour of the main body of each dress; mine a deep blue, Heifer’s an emerald green, and Horseface’s a brave violet that verged on burgundy. No one wore red; that would have sent out a whole new round of messages, none that our families were ready to associate with.
The main streets of Ossard were cobbled, seeing our meandering ride towards the northern district in the late summer sun as one of lazy pleasure. Before long we were earning glances from men alongside the road, all flattering and good-natured. Our duties of maintaining fixed, polite, but disinterested smiles in response to their looks and whistles became a challenge in itself. The longer it lasted, the more we gave in to quiet giggles as the iciness between us melted.
During our progress through Ossard’s streets another challenge brought itself to my attention; my undergarments were too tight. Some of the lacings felt as though they were cutting into me, a thing made worse by the constant rocking of the coach. I began rehearsing the conversation in my mind, the one that saw my mother scolding me for bleeding inside my dress. My reply would be that she shouldn’t have laced me up quite so strictly just to hide one of my more popular attributes with the gents, my breasts.
The streets flew by, the buildings changing in nature from the stout stone buildings of the market quarter, all signed and well kept, to the less affluent districts that would never be as successful as those on the high ground and main streets. Here the buildings were predominantly wood, some little more than daub-and-cane.
Horseface spoke, dragging me from my whimsy, “There was another kidnapping last night.”
I paled.
Heifer asked, “Where?”
Horseface indicated a passing alley. “This district, another boy stolen from his bed.”
Looking down the shadowed lane, a place lined with litter, occasional stalls, and a steady flow of residents, it seemed so unlikely. I asked, “Another Flet?”
“Of course,” she said with exasperation.
My father had said that the crowded slums, the most poorly governed districts of the city, were simply the logical place for such diabolical crimes. They were also home to the bulk of the Flet population, not just in Newbank, but also to a lesser degree in the low-lying districts on the Cassaro’s other side. It was just a matter of circumstance. Regardless, we all knew it would take the theft of a Heletian child before the city’s authorities took action.
In a fading voice, Heifer said, “My nephew disappeared a week ago.”
Had he been the redheaded boy?
Horseface and I didn’t know what to say. Her words left me numb, but nonetheless I found myself reaching across to pat her knee. “The Guild’s looking to help, my father’s talked to Heinz Kurgar, its head.”
Heifer nodded as she fought to hold onto her composure.
Horseface thankfully changed the subject, putting on a mischievous grin, “Look, we’re in the port!”
She was right, and we were all glad of it.
We passed along the edge of the district, one side of the road spreading as a seemingly endless row of warehouses, while the other lay thick with taverns, hostels, and brothels. We were supposed to be ignorant of the latter so we tried not to stare, but still took our time to look them over.
The amount of attention we gained from the stevedores, sailors, and other big men who worked the port thrilled us. From the small crowds outside taverns, to men walking the streets. None of them were shy or polite, and few of them settled for just a smile or a wink. They were free with suggestions, both in voice and action, and bold enough to see us blush while they cheered.
In front of a bar, to the roar of a crowd, one burly but drunk Flet stevedore pulled down his britches to let his proud manhood out.
I should have been mortified, instead I could barely contain myself.
I’d had far too much lotus!
We left that seedy place, heading up a rise to the northern district of the city. The quarter was built upon a small hillock that rose from the valley-side to loom over the port, it holding the homes of Ossard’s elite. I looked upon the ornate facades of the exclusive homes we began to pass, many with manicured gardens, walls, and even guards. With few exceptions, the district held an exclusively Heletian population.
Fate would allow a few maidens of Flet-blood to be married to the district’s eligible sons, but less than a handful every year. My plain looks could jeopardise my greatest hope. For a moment I considered my travelling companions; if I doubted my chances, what hope could they have?
For all of us, I slipped into nervous misery.
We passed by Ossard’s second cathedral, Saint Baimio’s, its two spires dominating the skyline of the quarter, and from the hilltop the city below. As with all the spiritual places within Ossard, it lay as part of the Church of Baimiopia, the only legal faith in the lands of the Heletian League. The stone building, vaulting and carved, stood exclusively for the wealthy locals, stopping them from having to mix with the commoners in Ossard’s first cathedral and lesser churches.
While the city stood united in faith, it knelt divided in prayer.
Our coaches finally turned for the cliffs at the west end of the district. My heart fluttered, the sight of gulls and the scent of the sea telling me that we were nearly there.
In moments, I’d be helped out of the coach and into the glory of Rosa Sorrenta’s.
I prayed, a silent thing offered up to Schoperde, the Flet god of love and life. “May today find me a caring and wealthy husband, one who can uplift my family and me.” Our people maintained no public temples to her or our other gods, but we kept our secret beliefs alive. The Heletians’ faith didn’t ring true to us, although we did feign piety.
The coaches rounded a bend and came into a street of brightly painted buildings, many fronted by window boxes full of well-cared-for blooms. There were wine bars, high-class taverns, theatres, and finally, up ahead, Rosa Sorrenta’s. Upon sighting it a tingle of excitement started in my belly and grew.
Our coaches slowed to a stop, waiting for one parked ahead at Rosa Sorrenta’s doors. I tried not to stare, but its dismounting passengers were young gentlemen, Heletians at that, and all tall, dark, and handsome.
I noticed the blue, red, and black crest of the Liberigo family, the rulers of Ossard, on the opened coach door. The Lord’s youngest son then stepped out from the coach to the street. His appearance left me stunned and anxious.
Pedro Liberigo was tall and solid with an olive complexion of near perfect skin, well-tailored clothes hugged him tightly, showing off a good frame covered in muscles’ meat. He turned to look at our waiting coaches, his sculpted face thoughtful and finished with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He exuded confidence, just like the man of my lotus-fuelled dreams. For a moment his mouth moved with the beginnings of a welcoming smile.
He then looked away to break the spell.
Horseface and Heifer gasped, one of them whispering, “He looked at us, did you see!”
Such hopeful words…
Then, as we watched, he glanced back and gazed directly at me.
My fellow mints let out another round of gasps.
In a heartbeat the moment was over. He and his friends had gone inside and their coach was leaving. It left me breathless, but also meant we were free to go forward: It was our turn to join the parade.
Rosa Sorrenta’s stood three floors high with its exterior covered in a subtle pink render, something akin to that of sun-bleached oleander blooms. Planters full of flowering geraniums nestled beneath window frames finished in gold leaf, it all giving a taste of the reputed beauty within.
For my own part, I wanted to see the glory that had given the establishment its name, its rose garden – the cliff-side courtyard was said to be amongst Ossard’s delights. But now, most of all, I wanted to catch another glimpse of Pedro Liberigo.
Had he really been looking at me?
Two doormen came forward to help us down from our coach. They wore cobalt blue uniforms, white leggings with matching caps, and reached up with white-gloved hands to steady our descent upon a set of portable steps. Once down, I looked about as I waited to be joined by Heifer and Horseface, and when reunited, we all shared a moment of innocent joy.
My cousin met us, leading the rest of our party.
Once everyone stood ready, he nodded to the doormen. Impassively, and in perfect unison, they swung open the gold leafed double doors.
The doors opened into a wide hall to reveal a beautifully chequered pink and white marble floor, from which the walls rose covered in burgundy suede, and highlighted in gold. Alongside both sidewalls climbed staircases leading to private dining rooms.
A uniformed host awaited us. Without speaking, our host dipped his eyes and gave a welcoming bow, then rose and turned to lead us through the hall and towards the open doors of a dim lounge. The room spread full of comfortable seats, all of them accompanied by small side tables lit by lamps capped with amber-tinted glass. We passed through the room towards another set of double doors manned by two more doormen.
The lounge was a social place, a space for fine liquor and smoking, and a place at the moment half full. Looking around, I was astounded by the faces I saw. I’d never met any of these people first hand, but I knew of more than half of them. Predominantly, they were of the establishment, and all here to socialise and do business. As we passed, conversations stopped and heads turned; the passage of Ossard’s latest mints always demanded attention.
We left the lounge through double doors that opened onto a hall servicing half a dozen different rooms, and at its end we entered a long and light space; the Sunroom.
The radiance and beauty of the Sunroom can only be described as otherworldly. All the woodwork had been painted white, with an absolutely decadent amount of glass fitted into one wall and part of the roof. A floor of white marble spread before us sporting clusters of chairs, all wooden and whitewashed, with matching cushions. An assortment of lush potted plants, huge and outrageous, worked to break up the brilliant space. Groups of patrons sat back enjoying the room’s light and ambience.
Midway along its glass wall stood another set of double doors, these also panelled in glass. Doormen opened the doors without a word, allowing our passage, and in a moment we went from the splendour of the Sunroom to the blooming glory of the Rose Garden.
The Rose Garden spread as a courtyard that ran the width of the building, making it perhaps sixty paces long and forty deep. At one end stood the glass and wood of the Sunroom, but facing it was a waist-high stonewall, also whitewashed in keeping. The cliff fell away beyond that, plunging to the sound a hundred paces below. The view was spectacular, and only challenged by the magnificence of the collection of blooms that lay within its walls. It was superb.
The area had been carefully planted to mature with an assortment of flowers. Jasmine climbed the tall, whitewashed sidewalls, and in some places the glass of the Sunroom. The rest of the plantings were made up of thick clusters of manicured roses, all perfectly pruned and magnificent in colour. Beneath them spread the soil of their beds, lying dark and moist, to peek from under a frosting of spent petals. The beds lay strung about to create between them large spaces amidst the paving for tables and chairs. All in all, with a variety of vibrant colours and luscious perfumes, the Rose Garden was a wonder.
All of it, its layout, colours, plantings, and the way it mixed with the sky’s blue saw me sigh, yet it lacked something…
Alas, where was Pedro Liberigo!
Our uniformed host led us towards the cliff wall, to a table being prepared by more blue-coated staff. In a moment we were seated, the ladies first, each with our chairs politely pushed in behind us amidst words of welcome.
The other patrons ranged as a mix of Ossard’s wealthy, but weighted with youth. The majority were male and Heletian, though there was also a smattering of Flets and women.
Many of the young men turned our way, some even getting to their feet and walking to the cliff wall to take in the view – a contrivance to enable them a closer look at the city’s latest mints. At this my thoughts of competing with Horseface and Heifer came back to haunt me: They ignored the other girls, I was the sole focus of attention.
Me, simple miss Plainface!
My cousin ordered drinks, something cool to soothe the bite of the sun. They arrived in beautiful glasses, iced, coloured with fruits, and all of it mixed with watered-down rum.
Not long after, the gifted drinks began to arrive.
The majority came to me. The first took me by surprise, the second saw me abuzz with proud pleasure, while those that followed set me to wonder if I’d drown in such generosities. Nonetheless, as the uniformed servers whispered in my ear whom each was from, I offered a coached smile of thanks, while everything was monitored by my chaperoning cousin.
My mother had warned me to watch what was served, and never to take more than a sip from each. In particular, it was not unknown for men to send drink after drink to Mint Ladies in an effort to win their befuddled favour.
The afternoon passed, and the staff began to move through the garden and light coloured lamps. It was then, after losing count of the drinks I’d accepted, that I began to feel quite flush and full and knew with certainty that I needed to get to a privy.
I left our table accompanied by my cousin’s wife, she leading the way. In trying to follow her I found myself delayed by a group of well-watered merchants, they weren’t quick to pass or part as they took their time admiring the evening’s favourite mint. I blushed at their leers as I rushed after Isabella.
The privy lay just off a small ladies’ lounge. After tending myself, it was in the lounge that Isabella and I freshened up, spoke of the afternoon, and giggled as we compared our dresses. It was then, as she referred to one of my fellow mints as Horseface, that I nearly died of laughter. Still, the next moment saw me breathless because of my undergarments tight laces.
Isabella saw my discomfort. “Whatever’s wrong?”
“My lacings are too tight, it’s rubbing me raw.”
Before I knew it, she’d whisked me away to a side room to open the back of my dress.
“The knot’s tighter than a Burvois merchant’s purse!” she cried.
I realised then that her drinks hadn’t been watered down.
She managed to open my dress and began fiddling about with my undergarment’s laces, all the while straining and cursing. The pressure being put on my chest and sides left me breathless. Worried, I gasped, “Just leave it, my mother can see to it later.”
“Nearly there…”
“Really, it’s not that bad.”
“Almost…”
In the next moment, as she strained, our voices were silenced by the angry growl of ripping fabric.
I cried out.
She whispered, “Oh my!”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s the stitching on your unders’, the laces have come off!”
“Oh!”
“I’ll just leave them and do up your dress. No one will ever know.”
I held still as she fastened it. “Please, don’t do it too tight, at least let my dress survive the evening!” Already I knew the rest of the night would be a problem, without being restrained my breasts would be bouncing about like two drunken sailors in a brawl.
Isabella finished and appeared in front of me, laughing as she offered a glass flask that appeared from somewhere amidst the folds of her dress. “Take a sip, it’ll help you forget about it.”
I sulked, “Perhaps I should go home…”
“Go home? This night will mark out the rest of your life, and look at your competition; Horseface and Hog-hips!”
I laughed as I reached for it, and then took a long swig.
Isabella smiled as she grabbed it back.
My dress felt fuller now that my breasts weren’t so restrained. I asked, “Do I look proper?”
A seedy smile came across her face. “You look very pretty.”
We left, heading back to the Rose Garden.
Again Isabella and I became separated amidst the noise and crush of the crowd. I knew where to find her, so I wasn’t concerned – besides I was preoccupied with trying not to stumble.
The drinks were taking their toll, and in that they weren’t alone: My mother’s lotus mixed with everything to make me feel quite hot and restless. My mind wandered from thoughts of husbands to lustful dreams, and even back to the big stevedore who’d exposed himself on the port road.
I was losing control.
The room buzzed with music, conversation, and laughter. Ahead, I caught a glimpse of Isabella as she reached the Sunroom. I’d catch up with her soon.
It was then that I heard a man speak from behind, his tone soft but commanding, “My lady?”
I stopped and turned.
Pedro Liberigo stood there with a bouquet of red roses. “May I present you with these?”
I thought I’d faint!
He reached out to give me the blooms, the stems wrapped in a length of white silk. “I’d be most honoured if you’d also accept a gifted drink?”
I felt vulnerable without my chaperone. What was I suppose to do? Taking the roses would be polite, but they were the most scandalous red. Was it wrong to take them? As for the drink, without my host I couldn’t possibly accept.
He saw my hesitation and offered, “Would you like me to escort you back to your table? When you’re seated, I’ll again make my offer in front of your friends?”
To me, with my mind now swimming under the sting of Isabella’s spirits, and my body burning with my mother’s lotus, that seemed like a noble idea. I nodded, not even noticing in my befuddlement that his gaze rested solely on my breasts.
He offered me his arm, and as I took it the crowd parted so the most eligible bachelor in all of Ossard could escort a Flet Mint Lady, a plain face at that, back to her table.
Strings of coloured lamps lit the Rose Garden, now bathed in sunset’s final glow. My cousin stood at our table searching the crowd for me while Isabella shrugged and sat down beside him. His eyes finally came to rest on me, and then my escort, seeing them fill with surprise. When we reached the table, it was an expression shared by all.
Pedro bowed before the table. “I must compliment the ladies for their beauty, and the gentlemen for escorting out such fine company.”
My cousin replied in kind, “Thank you for your generous words, and returning my charge to our table.”
Then, Pedro, as if he hadn’t stunned me enough, worked to do it all again. “I’d be honoured to have such fine company dine with me tonight in the Pearl Room, if you’d care to join me?”
My cousin couldn’t refuse the offer. It would be a great honour, and sate the curiosity of everybody; the Pearl Room wasn’t open to the public.
“Thank you for the invitation, one we all are most happy to accept.”
Pedro smiled. “Then allow me to provide some pre-dinner drinks.” He looked over his shoulder to a uniformed waiter. With a quick nod and a whisper the attendant disappeared, only to return moments later carrying a silver tray loaded with an assortment of refreshments. Pedro reached for two, handing one on to me. I accepted it and wondered if I’d just been sold, but such was this man’s charm that I didn’t care.
He said, “My apologies for being so forward, but I saw you this afternoon and knew we had to meet.”
A seat appeared for him beside me. He helped me into my own, and then took his before turning and taking my hands. “So, tell me young lady, what ever is your name?”
My heart raced while my tongue sat heavy, and I could only hope that my makeup hid my blushing cheeks. For a long moment I remained quiet, not even acknowledging his simple question.
Isabella, who’d been watching, broke in to save me from my paralysis, “The young lady is Juvela, Juvela Van Leuwin.”
He raised his eyebrows in recognition of the family name.
I smiled, and he went on to speak of rare beauty, fate, and destiny. Like any young girl I believed every one of his honeyed words.
I was swept away.
We moved to the Pearl Room, a fine upstairs suite. The whole room glowed, its white marble walls and floor reflecting the flames of scores of candles, dozens of them alone lighting a chandelier hanging from the vaulted roof. Everything in the room was made or tinted in the colours of cloud-white, crystal, pearl, or silver. The effect was heavenly.
The meal that arrived was as rich and sumptuous, amongst its countless courses, truffle soup, honeyed lamb, and Evoran jellies, with all of it punctuated by yet more drinks.
The evening was graced by easy conversation amongst our selves and a dozen of Pedro’s friends. Every member of our party seemed to be catered for, that is, everyone but me: Our host claimed my sole attention.
We seemed to be getting lost in each other, only momentarily distracted by the arrival of new courses, refreshed drinks, or our fellow guests. Finally, he asked my cousin, “May I have permission to escort Juvela for a stroll in the roof garden?”
My cousin quickly sobered, something spotted by Isabella. “I’ll play chaperone,” she offered, “I need to get some air.” As she rose she placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder to keep him in his seat.
Pedro pulled back my chair so I could rise, my vision spinning as I got to my feet. I tried to stifle a giggle as I walked as gracefully as I could manage, heading for the door where Isabella waited.
We left the room and passed down a corridor, moving towards a narrow staircase at its end. Isabella saw me on my way before dropping back, a moment later I heard her voice hiss in whisper. I turned to see Pedro nod to her as she took something from his hand. She then went back down the corridor, past the Pearl Room, and to a staircase that descended to the ground floor.
Pedro turned to me. “Don’t worry, Isabella won’t be long.”
I laughed and continued to the stairs. What did I care? I finally got to be alone with the man of my lotus-fuelled dreams! I wasn’t afraid, far from it! My thoughts ran drunk with wine and heady with lotus.
I just wanted him to kiss me!
I started to climb the stairs and slipped. Pedro’s strong arms caught me, pulling me against his chest to keep me safe.
He smiled and held me close. “Come now Juvela, we can’t stand like this forever. What will people say?”
With his arms around me, I really didn’t care.
I let him steady me, and then he passed by to lead me by the hand.
Was he planning on taking advantage of me?
Such a fine host couldn’t be doubted – even though I stood besotted by his charms and drunk on his liquor.
Above, the full moon glowed fat and bright, its blue, green, and tan face marked by swirls of white.
Everything was so perfect…
We walked amongst raised beds of herbs, roses, and hedges, all of it lit by occasional lamps. I stumbled several times as we walked along those dim paths, but every time he was there to catch me.
Soon we found ourselves entwined together, and staring into each other’s eyes. He whispered, “You’re such a rose.”
“I’m so glad we’ve met, that you sought me out.”
“How could I not?”
“Oh Pedro…”
And then he bent down to kiss me.
I should have slapped him.
His presence was intoxicating, his smell, touch, and warmth setting me afire. When his hands began straying, I didn’t just give in, I welcomed them.
If I hadn’t realised it earlier in the day, I did right now: This was what I wanted, and I wanted it very badly indeed!
He led me to a secluded corner of the gardens, a place lost to shadow and surrounded by tall hedges, all of it centred on a beautiful lounge. Once there, he untied my dress and helped himself to my breasts while I undid his britches to find the joy within. Finally, mostly naked, and as if the spell had to climax, I reclined as he climbed atop, eased my legs apart, and then slid inside me.
I had never been with a man before, and I swear it was like being born anew and dying all at the same time. It started with pain, but soon became a very morish pleasure, and one that put even my most shameful dreams well and truly in their place.
Amidst our passion, unbelievably, the voices that had haunted my mind chose that moment to return. I began to rock my head about, as if trying to cast them out. That’s when I noticed the men watching; they were standing amongst the hedges.
I would have screamed, but one of Pedro’s hands had come up to stroke my cheek seeing him inadvertently cover my mouth. I tried to meet his gaze, but he was looking the other way, and with his bulk astride me I was pinned and unable to move about. So, while I tried to get his attention, he just kept working me.
Deeper and deeper…
The robed men stepped out of the darkness to close around us in their long blacks, their features lost to hood and shadow. With them came a chill that stirred a fear in me that was nothing but primal.
We had to get out of here!
The voices in my head grew louder, no longer whispering mumbled words, but joining together in a rising wail.
I tried to scream to get my lover’s attention, but his hand, once a tool of gentle pleasure, now pressed down so heavily that I barely raised a sound. Confused, I bucked, thrusting my hips up into his as I tried to throw him off.
He just rode out my efforts.
Harder and harder…
And then one of the robed men stepped forward.
Pedro turned his head in their direction, but instead of showing surprise, he nodded in greeting. My lover, with sweat from our efforts running down his brow, growled, “Hurry!”
He knew them!
The leader nodded and started a chant, the tongue of it foreign, but its rhythm making it ring out like a prayer. The others were quick to join in.
Panic finally overtook the alcohol and lotus in me, yet I lay helpless under Pedro’s weight.
What could I do?
What were they going to do?
Were they all going to jump on top of me once Pedro had finished?
It was then that I realised I knew their leader. I was staring into the same cold eyes that had arrogantly watched me as he stole the redheaded boy away. As if in answer to the thought, he snapped his fingers, and the same child appeared, pushed forward to stand mindless before us.
The voices sounding in my head climbed higher, their choral wail growing more intense.
They were terrified!
I struggled again, trying to force Pedro off. His weight made it impossible, and my bucking only seemed to give him more pleasure.
I had to do something!
I bit down on his hand, but he barely flinched. Blood came into my mouth, but he just kept working me.
Faster and faster…
The leader stood there with the child in front of him.
The chanting built in crescendo and then finally peaked.
Casually, as if filleting a fish, the leader opened the child’s throat with a blade and a quick flick of his wrist.
Pedro gave a throaty growl, pushing down so hard into me that I yelped. And with that deep movement my own body responded, trembling as it found its own release.
Then it was done, both he and I, and the red haired boy.
All of us finished.
I lay there with Pedro slumped on top of me, both of us wearing nothing more than sweat; his of exertion, mine of terror.
The boy still stood, held by two of the robed men. They were draining the life from his body, directing the red flow from his wound into a bowl of silver.
The robed leader wet a brush in the bowl, and then began painting something on Pedro’s back.
I shivered.
The leader finished his marking, and then looked to me. He leaned down, his breath on my cheek, and uttered something in the tongue of the chant before kissing me.
Slowly, Pedro removed his bloodied hand from my mouth.
I tried to scream, but no sound came.
All of them laughed at my horrified surprise, even Pedro.
Their leader said, “You will remember this, all of it, but you will never be able to speak of it.” And then he grinned.
He stepped back into the shadows, as did those with him. In a moment, only Pedro and I remained.
The alcohol had long ago relinquished its grip on me, replaced with horror and shame. Pedro knew, but refused to let me become a prude. He pulled out of me as he rolled off, and with his closest hand squeezed one of my breasts. “Perhaps I’ll see you again, Juvela, you are too special to let go.” Then he got up, turned around, and fetched our clothes from where they lay on the paving.
Under the silver-blue moonlight, I could see that the cultist had marked a four-sided diamond on his back. Painted in blood, it now trailed long dribbling lines from the base of his neck running all the way to his butt. He looked to me and smiled, but it wasn’t of shared joy, instead it was of selfish power.
We seemed to be alone, leaving me to wonder if I was safe. I also worried about the time; Isabella had been gone for far too long.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted Sef.
Pedro dressed himself and then helped me. He pulled me up and off the lounge, forcing me into my dress with well-practiced hands. I wondered with disgust; how many other women had he been with?
Then we stood facing each other.
I scowled at him.
Would he or his robed associates ever want to see me again? I hoped not.
This would be the end of it.
He regarded me. “Your dress looks as it should, but let me fix your hair. He fussed over me, his touch lingering, and then he wiped away tears I didn’t remember shedding.
As if nothing had happened, he asked, “How am I, orderly enough?”
Shocked and numb, I whispered, “Yes.” He actually looked magnificent, truly alive and vital, as if he’d been blessed.
He took my reluctant hand and led me along the path.
I felt stunned and confused. My guilty flesh still carried his memory, worse still a part of me revelled in it.
I’d unwittingly been part of a ritual that saw my previous silence on the redheaded boy’s kidnapping mature into the guilt of being present at his murder. I’d also shamed my family.
Voices rose from the stairs, we turned to meet them. I let go of Pedro’s hand.
It was the rest of our party.
I would try and tell them, I had to.
Pedro stepped forward to greet them.
Horseface and Heifer looked tired and bored, but I couldn’t hold their gaze.
My cousin carried the bouquet of roses. The sight of them hurt me; my perfect dream dead.
I tried to speak, to say that a boy had been killed, that forbidden magic had been worked, but my mouth would simply not move. Despite my efforts, neither my voice nor jaw would follow my command.
Pedro watched me. A sparkle in his eye told me that he knew of my plight. I could see his relief.
Isabella appeared out of the darkness behind us.
Had she been there all along?
Her face gave away nothing.
My cousin said, “It’s a good night for a rooftop stroll, but unfortunately the evening must come to an end.” He looked to Pedro and continued, “I must thank you for your invitation to dinner.“
Pedro bowed and looked to me. “It was a pleasure, and a pleasure I’d very much like to have again.”
I shivered.