Page 35 of Chasing the Night
“Oh!” She startled, and her voice rose just a shade above its usual honeyed tone as she spoke, “I um, I was raised by my mother… widowed before my birth.”
The way she hurriedly added the last part left me wondering if it held even a morsel of truth to it. I looked at her. Not the way I had a thousand times before; I detached myself from the man she knew and looked at her the way I had countless others who had been tied to that very chair.
A thoughtful sigh escaped me as I took in the black dress and shoes. Her belt and jewelry, it was all dark. A purposeful choice. A choice that spoke volumes about the woman who wore it.
“Where is she now?” I asked, bringing my drink up to my lips. I was banking on the fact that abandonment, injury, and dark personal selections somehow reflected a powerless childhood.
“Watching over me, I assume.” Her voice ebbed with a loss that reflected in her beautiful eyes, and she subconsciously mimicked my behavior. Only, Chalice knew no such reserve—her two shots turned to four before I could stop her.
Strike one, I thought to myself, while reaching out to brush her knee.
“Apologies, I shouldn’t have pried.” I made a point of looking down and then back up to her with a remorseful smile.
“You’re fine,” she whispered. Her gaze met mine, and the only relief I found was in the fact that her eyes were dry. It was a wound, but one she was coming to terms with… or was she? I thought back over the similarities of her and Reverie.
“Thank you, for bringing me here. All I needed was a change of scenery. The Villa can be—”
“I know,” I cut her short. “You’re not used to such a large setting. I wasn’t either. Not at first.” I trailed off, and we sat in silence, sipping our drinks, and listening to the waves crash against the dock.
“It was only us… in the beyond,” she added after a time.
My brows climbed despite my will to remain impassive. Was she a battle field stress buster? A wise woman of the forest? Who exactly was this mysterious mother of Chalice’s?
“The beyond… Dirt Dwellers then?” The moment I said it her face flushed, and her glossy eyes locked on mine.
“My mother wasn’t born a Dirt Dweller. She was a daughter of the mountain.” Chalice’s lip quivered, but she held her chin high.
“How does one go from being born of the wealthiest families to sleeping in the dirt with their daughter?” I asked, between sips of the Cognac. It burned on the way down, much like her story. No daughter of the mountain ended up in dirt. They married dignitaries and bred armies of sons to assure their lineage.
“They lead an uprising and murder the Excellence of Rochambeau.” She cockily sang back.
The liquor was talking, but I knew from the proud gleam in her eye, that it was spilling truths rather than drunken drivel.
Chalice
The jail, for lack of a better word, was a floating shack with a few cages and enough floor room for a desk, two chairs, and a trunk. I’d have made a joke about how little crime Rochambeau must have if I didn’t already suspect I was in the presence of a murderer.
I mean, he had said that much, right? So why was I always comforted by his presence and longing for him in his absence? Why had I told him the secret I had been trained my whole life to hide?
Why, while he sat there sipping his cognac, did I want to crawl into his lap and know him as Blazian did?
Fuck her.
I sipped on my drink and stared into his hazel eyes. My lashes felt so heavy, and my mouth was dry. The Cognac didn’t burn anymore, there was no hitch to my breath when it hit the spot. It was all going down smooth, and so was my guard.
“What’s so special about Blazian?” I heard myself ask. I should have been mortified, shamed beyond reason… but instead, I stared at him over the rim of my glass and sipped the Cognac the way Atticus did his wine when people were looking.
“Blaz… Lady Blazian?” He nervously chuckled. When I continued to watch him rather than change the subject, he licked his lips and pawed his chin a bit before leaning in like we were conspiring. “You’d have to ask Atticus, he’s the one that wanted the union.”
I rolled my wrist, watching the liquor lap at the sides of the glass while I inwardly dissected his every word. My mother always insisted I had a gift. The truth is, my ability to read people had nothing to do with blessings or gifts. It was the product of my cursed existence. A life of always looking over your shoulder. Always anticipating outcomes and reactions. The simplest change in tone or expression alerted me toward ill will and impending violence. It wasn’t easy being women in the wilderness. One had to adapt.
“You’re unioned?” I asked, coughing ever so gently to chase the tremble from my voice.
His brows quickly leapt together, and he shook his head in a subtle denial before wiping the air of the entire notion. “No. Betrothed. She is my intended.”
“If you’re so miserable about it, why do you fuck her?” There was something about delivering that word to him that made it suddenly feel foreign and enticing when it spilled from my lips.
His face instantly turned to a blank slate and he hid in his glass.