Page 35 of Anathema
“Why are we fighting them?” I dared to ask, directing my attention to Moros and ignoring the strange implication in the captain’s comment.
“Their land is brimming with resources. Wasted on such primitive creatures.” Whatever credit I’d given to the man shifted with that one snide remark.
“If they’ve no use for it, can’t you strike an agreement with them? An exchange of resources? Surely, we have something they, too, desire?”
“Of course we have what they desire,” the captain said beside me. “Our women, namely. What they would do with such an innocent thing like you.” Again, he brushed his fingers over my thigh, and I dug my nails into his hand, earning a quiet growl from him.
Turning completely away from the man, I faced Mr. Moros, whose expression, brimming with suspicion, told me he must’ve caught on to my struggles beneath the table. “I don’t question defense in an attack, but seizing land seems … hostile.”
“They’re a primitive people,” the captain said in a bored tone, easing back into his chair. “Certainly not capable of civilized negotiations.”
“But haven’t you lost men fighting them? Good men?” I bit back the urge to defend my father, even if I’d never agreed with his position on religion.
“We have. And for just cause. The righteous are born to suffer in this life so they may be exulted in the next.”
My tongue practically bled with the effort to keep my ever-sarcastic tone in check. Arguing against his point might’ve been viewed as an insult to the church. “It just seems to me that there would be peace between the two countries, if we were to leave them be.”
The captain snorted beside me, and the entire table broke into laughter at my expense.
“Why, it seems your decades of brilliant strategy and victory has been usurped by a young girl who’s likely never been outside of her own parish, Captain.” The older man from earlier smirked before sipping his brandy. “Yes, perhaps we should leave the uncivilized brutes alone and let them live in peace.”
Moros patted my hand the same way an adult might pat the head of a small child. “Perhaps one day you can accompany me to Lyveria and see how these wild creatures have chosen to live, with their many gods who praise depravity and indecency.”
“I look forward to traveling outside of Vonkovya, Sir. I’m certain it’ll be enriching.”
One of the servers, a young woman who seemed only slightly older than me, appeared at my side, filling my glass with the sweet tea that I’d only sipped halfway. I sent her a smile, which she returned with a nod, and in not paying attention, she overfilled my glass.
“Onith!” Glass clinked as she pulled the carafe back, taking my glass with it. The tea spilled across the white linens and onto my dress, which didn’t trouble me half as much as it seemed to worry the girl. “Onith! Oh, gods!” Her mouth pinched together, and she shook her head, scrambling to dab my dress with a napkin she swiped from the table. “God.”
“You bumbling imbecile!” Moros barked, scooting his chair back from the table as though it had spilled over him. “Take Miss Bronwick to the kitchen and have Shireen help with her dress.” With a huff, he took my hand. “Truly sorry, my dear. I’ll be sure to replace the dress.”
“It’s only tea. It’s fine.”
“Come, Miss. Please,” she said in a thick accent. It was as she took my hand that I noticed the stark difference in skin tone, hers a more ruddy color, and the mess of scars scattered across the back of her palm. Horrific scars that looked as if she’d sewn the wounds herself.
I followed after her, through a set of french doors to a sitting area, and down a corridor to an expansive kitchen with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, dozens of cupboards, and more cutting surfaces than one could possibly need. A white porcelain basin and spigot, connected to copper pipes across the wall, indicated modern plumbing that I’d heard was very common in the more luxurious manors. Nothing like the clunky well pump attached to the trough sink back home. Although, I couldn’t complain too much, seeing as a number of the rural cottages didn’t even have an indoor toilet. A welcomed amenity in the thick of winter.
The girl’s hand trembled in mine, and she released me and scrambled for a lower cupboard, from where she removed a stack of cloths and a basin. After twisting a dial on the spigot, water spurted into the basin, filling it. She skittered across the kitchen for the pantry, then back again, rounding the corner for whatever stood on the other side. Presumably searching for Shireen.
“It’s completely fine,” I said, chuckling as I nabbed one of the cloths and dipped it into the awaiting basin of water. “I’m horribly ungraceful when it comes to food. I’d have spilled something on it at some point.”
She rushed over to me and gently took hold of the cloth, brows perked. “Please. Allow me.”
I focused on the accent. Aside from the minor differences in language between the various parishes in Vonkovya, we mostly sounded the same. Her accent was rich and pleasing to the ear.
“Truly, it’s no …” The look in her eyes begged me not to protest. “Of course. Thank you.”
As she soaked the skirt of my dress in water, I stared at the scars on her hand.
“You’re Lyverian?”
At that, she lowered her head.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve never personally met someone from Lyveria before.”
She offered a slight smile, still not bothering to lift her gaze to mine. Or speak again.
As she rinsed the cloth in the water, the tipping of her arm exposed a bruise so dark it appeared black. The shadowy shape of fingers told me she’d been handled roughly.