The End of E~~
Jun. 20th, 2012 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
frogs_of_warI have been seeing a distressing number of dead birds recently. This latest makes five, I think, out of my last twelve walks (previous to this I might have seen one in two years). I could understand the one flattened in the road (although birds are rarely hit by cars), but the rest looked like they fell dead onto the sidewalk from the trees overhead. Other years I’ve seen dead bees and caterpillars, which are worrisome enough, but birds are a whole other thing.
Title: The End of E~~
Status: Complete
Genre: historical, family, twins
Content: a scream, stockings, constricting clothing, running, darkness, bad men, a mercy killing, more death, rescue, a bath, sleep
Length: 2,900 words
Emma’s scream rings down the corridor and I am on my way to her side long before the echoes die away. She must be upstairs somewhere, but why?
She should be hosting the party downstairs. I am not much of a host; I mostly leave that to our guardian or Garron, our father’s oldest friend, but she is supposed to be playing me, and I’ve never run off while I was doing my duty, much as I wanted to.
I should be playing hostess, mingling with guests, making sure everyone’s glass is full and that no fights erupt among those people brazen enough to wear swords. I suspect one of Emma’s reasons for trading places was to get out of such things. I mostly just stand around the edge of the party and watch. That is what she should be doing tonight. That’s what I wish I were doing, not trying to run these shoes.
Boots, why can’t I be wearing boots?
These dainty shoes with their high little heels that Emma made me wear tonight hamper my every step. I must get them off or I will twist my ankle or fall down the stairs and never reach her at all. I have to get to her. I need to stop whatever made her scream. I’m her brother, her twin. My job is to make everything right.
First, I must remove these shoes.
I bend as far as I can, fighting the heavy skirts and spot the pink ribbon holding on one shoe. I can’t reach it. I dig through the skirts and into the small pocket that hangs at my hip to find my knife. No one will ever catch me without some form of protection regardless of what I am wearing.
Why did I finally let her convince me to trade clothes today, of all days? The day when freedom of movement that my normal clothes bring would have brought me to her side ages ago.
The gown isn’t exactly tight, so much as constricting; it doesn’t allow a woman to do anything she shouldn’t, like touch her nose or bend over, which is what I’m trying to do. I lean over as far as I can and cut the ribbons that hold the shoes on. Emma will forgive me. Once she is safe.
I slip out of the shoes, but as soon as I step off the carpet, I slide on the smooth marble floor. I need these stockings off.
Garters, wrapped around my thighs, hold up the stockings, the few items of clothing that don’t change when I am dressed as my sister. I can untie the garters though the slit in the skirts where I wear the pocket, but then I will need to take the stockings all the way off. That will require too much time.
I will cut them off. But how? These skirts keep me from seeing my feet and I have nothing to sit on but the floor.
The floor will have to do. I plop down and pull my foot over the skirts. The corset squishes my stomach, but I do not feel the pain; my sister is in need. I should be by her side.
I slip my blade between my two longest toes and then angle it to slice though the bottom of the stocking. A small yank and my foot is free. On to the second. I am wasting time. My sister needs me.
Emma isn’t the kind who screams at nothing. Really, I wouldn’t have thought she was the kind to scream at anything. She didn’t even cry when she broke her arm when we were eight, but last year she let out a shriek that should have wakened the dead; only it didn’t. Even her scream couldn’t bring our father back to life.
Emma screams again before I can climb to my feet. The skirts slip on the slick floor, but I manage to stand up. Emma, I’m coming.
I take the stairs two at a time. Where are the guards? Why is she still screaming? Why hasn’t someone come to her rescue?
Is everyone busy with the party downstairs? If I hadn’t left to find my sister, would I be unaware of her distress? I can hear the orchestra even this far away. Why couldn’t Emma have been content with a quartet? And a small party instead of a ball?
This is only the third party we have hosted since our father died. Emma said the time had come for a ball. I disagreed, but I am only a boy.
My feet are silent across the carpet in this dark corridor, but my skirts rustle noisily. Emma’s voice peters out; I can’t hear her, but I know she’s nearby.
I slow to a walk. My heart pounds loudly in my ears. I glance into each room. I don’t want to miss her.
I hear gruff voices, but not any words, and turn a corner. Light escapes from a room, flickering faintly at the end of the otherwise dark hall. I hurry over and step into the doorway. Inside the room, the fireplace is cold and dark drapes block out most of the moon’s light. A half-lit candelabra shines onto the desk and the carpet in front of it…
…And onto my sister, bleeding freely from multiple wounds in her belly. Mortal wounds all, though not immediately fatal. Emma will die, but only after days or weeks of horrible pain.
Why her? Why not me? If I just held out one more day, I would have been the one cornered, but I would not have been defenseless. I know how to fight.
Four men, holding lumpy sacks, stand around her and one kneels at her side, blood dripping from his knife.
“Masselin owes us big time,” says the one on the floor. “He promised us a boy. I‘d‘ve never took this job if I’d known it was a bitch.”
He emphasizes his slander of her by digging his knife into her belly and pulling out her guts. She doesn’t even grunt. The man on his knees cannot seem to hurt her enough.
I am frozen. She is dead. My beautiful Emmaline is dead. And the man hurts her still.
The other men grunt in agreement. The kneeling man turns and notices me.
He is small and balding. The next man to turn is skinny and hairy. The third is big and bald, the forth old with a grizzly beard, and the last dirty with days’ worth of stubble.
What are they doing here? Besides killing my sister. Or rather killing me—Elliot, the boy twin. How did they get in? Who helped them? Masselin—Masselin helped them. Masselin, one of my sister’s suitors, sent them here.
Why? I cannot answer that. None of the men do more than stare. My knife is still in my hand. I easily slit the throat of the man nearest me—the skinny one.
The men move, but not toward me as I expect. If the boy was a girl, after all, shouldn’t the girl be a boy? They run through a door into the next room under the weight of their heavy sacks.
I stop to look at my sister. They have torn all the clothes off her torso. Her blood and guts mix on the carpet. She will not survive, but she will live though me.
I quickly cut her throat, relieving her of her pain and cover her with the shawl that has, incredibly, stayed about my shoulders during my mad rush.
Why did she pick today to try her little experiment? She begged me for years to change places with her. When we where little, my excuse to keep my breeches was that she was bigger than me, but last year, about the time our father died, I finally caught up with her in height.
She pushed me hard this morning. Really hard. Father is dead; she would need to marry. She wanted to know, really know, how her suitors treat me when she isn’t around.
I’m not big and strong. I spend hours building my strength, speed, and endurance, but all my effort has not added one inch to my height or to my shoulder width. I am still a tiny weakling, especially in the eyes of grown men like my sister’s suitors.
I have not complained. She just knows. And I was worried. What would my days be like if I lived with an in-law who despised me in his heart? And why would I want to live anywhere but with my sister? Emma said she wanted to live with me forever.
But now we will never have the chance.
I turn back to the door, to the way the men went and I follow Tiny, Baldy, Beard, and Dirty through the room towards the only route that they could possibly take to get out of this big rambling castle without passing though either the kitchens or the ball going on downstairs.
Masselin knows about this exit. Emma told him about it not two weeks ago, when he last came to woo her.
Skinny’s long knife has found its way into my hand. I round a corner and run Beard through without a second thought. I push him off the end of the blade and slit his throat with my small knife.
The sack he carried falls out of his arms and thump, clang, bang the silver candlesticks, crystal vases, and my mother’s jewels scatter down the stairs at my feet.
I gather the skirts in my arms and rush on. My foot comes down on something sharp, but I don’t stop to bind it. The pain of my body is nothing.
Nothing.
Dirty is next. He cowers against a tapestry and I show him as much mercy as he showed my sister: None.
I keep running. A stitch in my side halts each breath, but I press on. I will not stop. I will never stop. As long as I have breath is this body, I will not stop until I get revenge.
Baldy and Tiny come into view. They lean against a wall panting heavily. They notice me and I press them hard. Tiny drops his bag and sends Baldy back to deal with me.
Baldy’s reach is much longer than mine; add that to the length of his sword, rusty as it is, and his much greater bulk; I am heavily beset. This gown, which doesn’t allow me to lift my elbows even with my shoulders, doesn’t help either. But I will not lose to Emma’s killer, my killer, Elliot’s killer.
The ringing of our blades draws the attention of some guards. It’s about time. I scream at them to stop Tiny and nearly get my head cut off in the process.
A guard comes to my rescue and blocks Baldy’s blade. I take the opportunity to stab Baldy in the gut. As he screams, I cut his throat.
“Milady!” says the astonished guard. “Was that really necessary?”
“He killed my brother.” I wipe the blood from my face and lean against the wall. “As did the man who is running away.”
Servants and more guards come out of the woodwork standing around, staring, gossiping. Where were they when I needed them? I hold my painful side and try to remember Tiny’s face. The hollow cheeks, the oddly-shaped, dung brown eyes, the raggedy, long hair that starts just above his ears, as if to make up for all the empty space at the top.
I will never forget him and the next time we meet, he will not be so lucky.
“Milady,” a guard touches my sleeve, “come back upstairs.”
I look at his hand, up his arm, to his face. He jerks away as if I am made of fire and apologizes.
I know I am covered in gore. The servants stare at me in fear.
“Take me to Elliot,” I command, but I cannot take a step without stumbling. Gentle hands draw the knives from my grasp. Strong arms lift me and carry me upstairs and through corridors, bringing me ever closer to my last glimpse of Emma, of myself, of Elliot.
Emma’s governess sees me and tries to stop the guard from carrying me back to my sister, my brother. But if I am not there, someone is sure to find out the truth and I will be unable to keep her alive in my body.
I struggle in the man’s steady grasp and he sets me down gently. He tells the woman to give me my way in this, that I’ve been through enough already.
I leave before he has her convinced and skitter into the room to see Garron pulling back the shawl that covers my sister’s body. My body. Elliot’s.
“Don’t!” I command. “Let him have some dignity! Do not rob him of that as well as his life.”
Garron obeys, but looks at me with pleading eyes. I look away and call for a bed to lay Elliot on. I will prepare his body for burial. I want no other to touch him. I refuse to leave, to my bath and bed, until I have heard every man and woman here swear to it.
They are so scared of me that they obey at once. All but Garron. He finally agrees, and I leave to walk back toward my rooms, but he meets me at the corridor that leads to Emma’s rooms with Fae, our nanny, as I’m about to pass by.
“I think you might need her tonight,” he says. “I will be back once your bath is over.”
The door to Emma’s—my sitting room is open, servants move like a line of ants, carrying buckets of once-warm water from the distant kitchens. A small page, too busy staring at me to see where to put his feet, trips on the edge of a carpet and spills much of his burden down the front of his uniform. Fae takes the bucket from his hands and dumps the water into a caldron on the fire. My bath will not be stone cold.
The blood on my face, hands, and shoulders itches as it dries, but I wait until the bath is full and the servants are sent away before I undress. Fae doesn’t leave; I’m glad. How would I get my clothes off without her?
“My Delicate Cub,” Fae says, “how did you get yourself in this mess?”
I relax. She knows me. Delicate Cub is Elliot; Sturdy Cub is Emmaline. Only to us. To everyone else we are just her cubs.
Fae came with our mother when she married our father and stayed on to care for us when our mother died three days after we were born. She called us different nicknames over the years. I’ve been Small Cub, also Diligent, Quiet, and Brave. Emma was Fluttery, Brash, and Fearless. But when we turned twelve, Fae looked us both over and told Emma not to be jealous, but that I, that Elliot, would always be the better-looking twin. Which is plain nonsense, as we look exactly alike.
Fae works her way through the many layers I wear, until I pull off my chemise and run my hands over the marks that the folds of fabric left in my skin. “Get in, my cubby,” Fae says, “before someone sees you. I’ll scrub your back.”
I take a much longer bath than I have in a while. Years have passed since I’ve had the luxury of Fae keeping the water warm for me. She helps wash the blood from my hair and laughs, saying that it is good that fashion demands men wear long hair. Mine is longer than Emma’s.
I remind her that I am Emma now. With Fae’s help, Emma will live though me. Fae chuckles and says that fate has it right. I will make a much better woman than Emma would have ever made a man.
That truth hurts. If I was the one who died tonight, what would Emma have done? Run to one of her suitors for comfort? Masselin was the only suitor able to attend our ball. She would have fallen into his arms willingly.
I will let nothing stop me from getting revenge. But I must get vengeance in such a way that the blame will not fall at the feet of Emma, the girl I will spend the rest of my life being. The girl I am.
Garron arrives in my room as soon as I am clean, dry, and safely tucked into bed, my sore foot wrapped in bandages. He leans over Fae, speaking in low tones, but she tells him to talk to me himself.
“My lord.” He whispers, although the door is closed. “Why do you persist on this charade? We must bury Emma as Emma.”
I am warm and sleepy and when I close my eyes I feel Emma’s presence, but I struggle to stay awake long enough to explain. “We can’t. Those men wanted to kill me. They wanted Elliot dead. They must think they succeeded. If they learn the truth, they will return. One of them got away.”
He doesn’t try to talk me out of it and he seems content with my plans, at least for now, but I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell him that Masselin will be the next to die and Tiny whenever I get the chance.
Title: The End of E~~
Status: Complete
Genre: historical, family, twins
Content: a scream, stockings, constricting clothing, running, darkness, bad men, a mercy killing, more death, rescue, a bath, sleep
Length: 2,900 words
Emma’s scream rings down the corridor and I am on my way to her side long before the echoes die away. She must be upstairs somewhere, but why?
She should be hosting the party downstairs. I am not much of a host; I mostly leave that to our guardian or Garron, our father’s oldest friend, but she is supposed to be playing me, and I’ve never run off while I was doing my duty, much as I wanted to.
I should be playing hostess, mingling with guests, making sure everyone’s glass is full and that no fights erupt among those people brazen enough to wear swords. I suspect one of Emma’s reasons for trading places was to get out of such things. I mostly just stand around the edge of the party and watch. That is what she should be doing tonight. That’s what I wish I were doing, not trying to run these shoes.
Boots, why can’t I be wearing boots?
These dainty shoes with their high little heels that Emma made me wear tonight hamper my every step. I must get them off or I will twist my ankle or fall down the stairs and never reach her at all. I have to get to her. I need to stop whatever made her scream. I’m her brother, her twin. My job is to make everything right.
First, I must remove these shoes.
I bend as far as I can, fighting the heavy skirts and spot the pink ribbon holding on one shoe. I can’t reach it. I dig through the skirts and into the small pocket that hangs at my hip to find my knife. No one will ever catch me without some form of protection regardless of what I am wearing.
Why did I finally let her convince me to trade clothes today, of all days? The day when freedom of movement that my normal clothes bring would have brought me to her side ages ago.
The gown isn’t exactly tight, so much as constricting; it doesn’t allow a woman to do anything she shouldn’t, like touch her nose or bend over, which is what I’m trying to do. I lean over as far as I can and cut the ribbons that hold the shoes on. Emma will forgive me. Once she is safe.
I slip out of the shoes, but as soon as I step off the carpet, I slide on the smooth marble floor. I need these stockings off.
Garters, wrapped around my thighs, hold up the stockings, the few items of clothing that don’t change when I am dressed as my sister. I can untie the garters though the slit in the skirts where I wear the pocket, but then I will need to take the stockings all the way off. That will require too much time.
I will cut them off. But how? These skirts keep me from seeing my feet and I have nothing to sit on but the floor.
The floor will have to do. I plop down and pull my foot over the skirts. The corset squishes my stomach, but I do not feel the pain; my sister is in need. I should be by her side.
I slip my blade between my two longest toes and then angle it to slice though the bottom of the stocking. A small yank and my foot is free. On to the second. I am wasting time. My sister needs me.
Emma isn’t the kind who screams at nothing. Really, I wouldn’t have thought she was the kind to scream at anything. She didn’t even cry when she broke her arm when we were eight, but last year she let out a shriek that should have wakened the dead; only it didn’t. Even her scream couldn’t bring our father back to life.
Emma screams again before I can climb to my feet. The skirts slip on the slick floor, but I manage to stand up. Emma, I’m coming.
I take the stairs two at a time. Where are the guards? Why is she still screaming? Why hasn’t someone come to her rescue?
Is everyone busy with the party downstairs? If I hadn’t left to find my sister, would I be unaware of her distress? I can hear the orchestra even this far away. Why couldn’t Emma have been content with a quartet? And a small party instead of a ball?
This is only the third party we have hosted since our father died. Emma said the time had come for a ball. I disagreed, but I am only a boy.
My feet are silent across the carpet in this dark corridor, but my skirts rustle noisily. Emma’s voice peters out; I can’t hear her, but I know she’s nearby.
I slow to a walk. My heart pounds loudly in my ears. I glance into each room. I don’t want to miss her.
I hear gruff voices, but not any words, and turn a corner. Light escapes from a room, flickering faintly at the end of the otherwise dark hall. I hurry over and step into the doorway. Inside the room, the fireplace is cold and dark drapes block out most of the moon’s light. A half-lit candelabra shines onto the desk and the carpet in front of it…
…And onto my sister, bleeding freely from multiple wounds in her belly. Mortal wounds all, though not immediately fatal. Emma will die, but only after days or weeks of horrible pain.
Why her? Why not me? If I just held out one more day, I would have been the one cornered, but I would not have been defenseless. I know how to fight.
Four men, holding lumpy sacks, stand around her and one kneels at her side, blood dripping from his knife.
“Masselin owes us big time,” says the one on the floor. “He promised us a boy. I‘d‘ve never took this job if I’d known it was a bitch.”
He emphasizes his slander of her by digging his knife into her belly and pulling out her guts. She doesn’t even grunt. The man on his knees cannot seem to hurt her enough.
I am frozen. She is dead. My beautiful Emmaline is dead. And the man hurts her still.
The other men grunt in agreement. The kneeling man turns and notices me.
He is small and balding. The next man to turn is skinny and hairy. The third is big and bald, the forth old with a grizzly beard, and the last dirty with days’ worth of stubble.
What are they doing here? Besides killing my sister. Or rather killing me—Elliot, the boy twin. How did they get in? Who helped them? Masselin—Masselin helped them. Masselin, one of my sister’s suitors, sent them here.
Why? I cannot answer that. None of the men do more than stare. My knife is still in my hand. I easily slit the throat of the man nearest me—the skinny one.
The men move, but not toward me as I expect. If the boy was a girl, after all, shouldn’t the girl be a boy? They run through a door into the next room under the weight of their heavy sacks.
I stop to look at my sister. They have torn all the clothes off her torso. Her blood and guts mix on the carpet. She will not survive, but she will live though me.
I quickly cut her throat, relieving her of her pain and cover her with the shawl that has, incredibly, stayed about my shoulders during my mad rush.
Why did she pick today to try her little experiment? She begged me for years to change places with her. When we where little, my excuse to keep my breeches was that she was bigger than me, but last year, about the time our father died, I finally caught up with her in height.
She pushed me hard this morning. Really hard. Father is dead; she would need to marry. She wanted to know, really know, how her suitors treat me when she isn’t around.
I’m not big and strong. I spend hours building my strength, speed, and endurance, but all my effort has not added one inch to my height or to my shoulder width. I am still a tiny weakling, especially in the eyes of grown men like my sister’s suitors.
I have not complained. She just knows. And I was worried. What would my days be like if I lived with an in-law who despised me in his heart? And why would I want to live anywhere but with my sister? Emma said she wanted to live with me forever.
But now we will never have the chance.
I turn back to the door, to the way the men went and I follow Tiny, Baldy, Beard, and Dirty through the room towards the only route that they could possibly take to get out of this big rambling castle without passing though either the kitchens or the ball going on downstairs.
Masselin knows about this exit. Emma told him about it not two weeks ago, when he last came to woo her.
Skinny’s long knife has found its way into my hand. I round a corner and run Beard through without a second thought. I push him off the end of the blade and slit his throat with my small knife.
The sack he carried falls out of his arms and thump, clang, bang the silver candlesticks, crystal vases, and my mother’s jewels scatter down the stairs at my feet.
I gather the skirts in my arms and rush on. My foot comes down on something sharp, but I don’t stop to bind it. The pain of my body is nothing.
Nothing.
Dirty is next. He cowers against a tapestry and I show him as much mercy as he showed my sister: None.
I keep running. A stitch in my side halts each breath, but I press on. I will not stop. I will never stop. As long as I have breath is this body, I will not stop until I get revenge.
Baldy and Tiny come into view. They lean against a wall panting heavily. They notice me and I press them hard. Tiny drops his bag and sends Baldy back to deal with me.
Baldy’s reach is much longer than mine; add that to the length of his sword, rusty as it is, and his much greater bulk; I am heavily beset. This gown, which doesn’t allow me to lift my elbows even with my shoulders, doesn’t help either. But I will not lose to Emma’s killer, my killer, Elliot’s killer.
The ringing of our blades draws the attention of some guards. It’s about time. I scream at them to stop Tiny and nearly get my head cut off in the process.
A guard comes to my rescue and blocks Baldy’s blade. I take the opportunity to stab Baldy in the gut. As he screams, I cut his throat.
“Milady!” says the astonished guard. “Was that really necessary?”
“He killed my brother.” I wipe the blood from my face and lean against the wall. “As did the man who is running away.”
Servants and more guards come out of the woodwork standing around, staring, gossiping. Where were they when I needed them? I hold my painful side and try to remember Tiny’s face. The hollow cheeks, the oddly-shaped, dung brown eyes, the raggedy, long hair that starts just above his ears, as if to make up for all the empty space at the top.
I will never forget him and the next time we meet, he will not be so lucky.
“Milady,” a guard touches my sleeve, “come back upstairs.”
I look at his hand, up his arm, to his face. He jerks away as if I am made of fire and apologizes.
I know I am covered in gore. The servants stare at me in fear.
“Take me to Elliot,” I command, but I cannot take a step without stumbling. Gentle hands draw the knives from my grasp. Strong arms lift me and carry me upstairs and through corridors, bringing me ever closer to my last glimpse of Emma, of myself, of Elliot.
Emma’s governess sees me and tries to stop the guard from carrying me back to my sister, my brother. But if I am not there, someone is sure to find out the truth and I will be unable to keep her alive in my body.
I struggle in the man’s steady grasp and he sets me down gently. He tells the woman to give me my way in this, that I’ve been through enough already.
I leave before he has her convinced and skitter into the room to see Garron pulling back the shawl that covers my sister’s body. My body. Elliot’s.
“Don’t!” I command. “Let him have some dignity! Do not rob him of that as well as his life.”
Garron obeys, but looks at me with pleading eyes. I look away and call for a bed to lay Elliot on. I will prepare his body for burial. I want no other to touch him. I refuse to leave, to my bath and bed, until I have heard every man and woman here swear to it.
They are so scared of me that they obey at once. All but Garron. He finally agrees, and I leave to walk back toward my rooms, but he meets me at the corridor that leads to Emma’s rooms with Fae, our nanny, as I’m about to pass by.
“I think you might need her tonight,” he says. “I will be back once your bath is over.”
The door to Emma’s—my sitting room is open, servants move like a line of ants, carrying buckets of once-warm water from the distant kitchens. A small page, too busy staring at me to see where to put his feet, trips on the edge of a carpet and spills much of his burden down the front of his uniform. Fae takes the bucket from his hands and dumps the water into a caldron on the fire. My bath will not be stone cold.
The blood on my face, hands, and shoulders itches as it dries, but I wait until the bath is full and the servants are sent away before I undress. Fae doesn’t leave; I’m glad. How would I get my clothes off without her?
“My Delicate Cub,” Fae says, “how did you get yourself in this mess?”
I relax. She knows me. Delicate Cub is Elliot; Sturdy Cub is Emmaline. Only to us. To everyone else we are just her cubs.
Fae came with our mother when she married our father and stayed on to care for us when our mother died three days after we were born. She called us different nicknames over the years. I’ve been Small Cub, also Diligent, Quiet, and Brave. Emma was Fluttery, Brash, and Fearless. But when we turned twelve, Fae looked us both over and told Emma not to be jealous, but that I, that Elliot, would always be the better-looking twin. Which is plain nonsense, as we look exactly alike.
Fae works her way through the many layers I wear, until I pull off my chemise and run my hands over the marks that the folds of fabric left in my skin. “Get in, my cubby,” Fae says, “before someone sees you. I’ll scrub your back.”
I take a much longer bath than I have in a while. Years have passed since I’ve had the luxury of Fae keeping the water warm for me. She helps wash the blood from my hair and laughs, saying that it is good that fashion demands men wear long hair. Mine is longer than Emma’s.
I remind her that I am Emma now. With Fae’s help, Emma will live though me. Fae chuckles and says that fate has it right. I will make a much better woman than Emma would have ever made a man.
That truth hurts. If I was the one who died tonight, what would Emma have done? Run to one of her suitors for comfort? Masselin was the only suitor able to attend our ball. She would have fallen into his arms willingly.
I will let nothing stop me from getting revenge. But I must get vengeance in such a way that the blame will not fall at the feet of Emma, the girl I will spend the rest of my life being. The girl I am.
Garron arrives in my room as soon as I am clean, dry, and safely tucked into bed, my sore foot wrapped in bandages. He leans over Fae, speaking in low tones, but she tells him to talk to me himself.
“My lord.” He whispers, although the door is closed. “Why do you persist on this charade? We must bury Emma as Emma.”
I am warm and sleepy and when I close my eyes I feel Emma’s presence, but I struggle to stay awake long enough to explain. “We can’t. Those men wanted to kill me. They wanted Elliot dead. They must think they succeeded. If they learn the truth, they will return. One of them got away.”
He doesn’t try to talk me out of it and he seems content with my plans, at least for now, but I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell him that Masselin will be the next to die and Tiny whenever I get the chance.
