My last night in my bed was spent staring at the ceiling. Even the bone-weary exhaustion that had claimed each and every one of
my muscles couldn’t force me to sleep.
Rest eluded me, knowing that I’d be in the Void between lives in a matter of hours, and I had a brother and a mother sleeping down the hall with no idea how precious little time we had left together. The sun rose outside, the village sleeping a little bit later than usual with the harvest behind us. The festivities usually ran late into the night, with villagers surrounding the bonfires that they lit only one time during the year.
Celebration was frivolous and unnecessary, but it distracted people from the horrors of what they’d done. From the burning corpse on the pyre as a soul waited for reincarnation.
My bedroom door swung open and Brann stepped into the room as I slowly eased myself to a sitting position. “You’ve been out again,” he said, his voice full of accusation as he approached my bed.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been the moment when I denied sneaking out, because Brann hadn’t known about my meeting with Lord Byron. Without knowing exactly what would come of the conversation with the lord, I hadn’t wanted to worry my brother needlessly.
Now I was grateful I hadn’t said anything, wanting one last day with him and my mother that wasn’t tainted by what was coming. It was better if they didn’t know for as long as I could keep it from them, better if we
didn’t spend our morning grieving the loss that hadn’t happened yet, the way we’d done with my father.
My lumpy mattress creaked as he sat down on the edge of it, his brow furrowing as his gaze fell to the fresh cut on my cheek that hadn’t been there the day before. “What’s this?” he asked, his nostrils flaring as he raised the backs of his knuckles to touch it gently.
“It’s nothing,” I said, shrugging off the touch with a smile that pulled at the tight skin.
“This is not nothing, Estrella. Did someone hit you? Were you caught out?” he asked, his logic automatically leading him to the punishment the Mist Guard would deliver to those who were found too close to the Veil in the night.
I might not have been delivered to the gallows immediately, but the end result of my wandering would be all the same. I shifted on the bed as it groaned again, imagining for just a moment how soft and plush the bed that waited for me in the manor must be.
As tempting as that thought may be, the prospect of who would occupy it with me was enough to pebble my flesh with goosebumps. All I’d ever wanted was to be free, and in the end, the pretty cage he offered was still just another prison.
“It doesn’t matter. I promise; everything will be just fine,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing with a dramatic stretch. The wood planks bowed beneath my weight, threatening to snap with the rot infecting our ramshackle home.
I could give them better, if I only spread my legs.
I winced. “Estrella,” Brann scolded, reaching across the distance between us to grasp my forearm gently. “What’s happened?” His inquisitive stare was too attentive for my liking, leaving me with little doubt that he wouldn’t be able to let the issue rest until I gave him something.
“Lady Jaclen is dead,” I said, my lips twisting as I admitted the words. My brother could know everything but the sacrifice. He could know what Byron had asked of me, because that was something he would have no choice but to resign himself to, and perhaps even see the benefit, too.
So long as Byron didn’t poison me the same way he had Jaclen.
“She—what?” he asked, dropping his hand from my forearm. “You were at the manor last night? That’s where you ran off to?”
“Lord Byron requested my presence in the library again,” I admitted, sinking my teeth into the inside of my cheek. He didn’t know the details of what happened within those luxurious walls lined with books, only that I never wanted to speak of the bruises and stripes covering my back and thighs sometimes.
He’d press. I’d refuse to answer, but we both knew it didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. We’d all seen the way Bernice favored her cane at Temple.
“I assume there’s to be a funeral today?” Brann asked, his head nodding as he considered the information. He didn’t question Jaclen’s cause of death, as I suspected most wouldn’t. She’d been sick for years, Byron’s deception of her failing health serving its purpose in making her death seem natural.
“I assume. Lord Byron has declared his intentions to marry me after the rites,” I admitted, making him squeeze his eyes closed.
“I had a feeling he would,” he said finally. “There have been a couple of suitors who inquired about your hand in marriage over the years. We submitted the details to Lord Byron for approval, but he denied each one without explanation. I know it isn’t the kind of life you’d hoped for,” Brann said gently, reaching across the space between us to place his hand on top of my shoulder. “But that kind of title is something none of us could have ever dreamed of for you. He’ll take care of you, keep you fed and rested. Particularly if he intends to have children quickly.” His face pinched as he stepped away from me, beginning to pace as if he knew exactly what battle was ahead of him.
To some, the life that Lord Byron offered me seemed like a dream. All I had to do was spread my legs when he desired, and I’d live in the nicest building in the village. I’d be warm, with servants to take care of my every need as I raised my children without any of the fear of going hungry that most of the villagers faced.
“I don’t want to be taken care of. I want to come and go as I please, and live,” I argued. To be forced to submit to a man I didn’t want for the bare necessities in life wasn’t living.
It was just not dying.
“That is not the way our world works, Estrella. For now, this is your place,” he said, but the gentleness in his eyes communicated that he didn’t
like the status quo any more than I did. He wanted freedom for me; he was just as powerless as I was to achieve it.
“And what happens to me if Lord Byron is in fact the one who is incapable of producing an heir, and I do not give him a son, Brann? Does that mean there will be a slow death by belladonna waiting for me as well?” I asked, scoffing at the shocked expression on his face.
“He poisoned her?” Brann asked, his throat working as he swallowed against the tightness there.
I turned my back on Brann’s shocked expression, unable to tolerate his ignorance for another moment. Arguing about my place in Lord Byron’s life was not how I wanted to spend my last day with my family, not when I’d already made my decision. Every moment I spent hating him in the aftermath of what he’d done only served to solidify that choice.
I’d walk to my death with my head held high rather than spend the rest of a long life on my knees.
My mother waited in the kitchen, her chair already pulled up to the table where she struggled to slice through the stale loaf of bread resting on top. “Let me,” I said, taking the knife from her hand and slicing through the bread quickly. I spread her favorite homemade jam on top of it, handing it to her and turning away to allow her to have a private moment of feeling embarrassed.
She’d never adjusted to being taken care of by her children after her husband died, and with every year that passed the weakness in her body worsened, spreading from her legs to her upper limbs. Her hands shook as she raised the bread to her mouth and took a bite, chewing slowly.
“Are you happy here?” I asked, dropping the knife into the bucket of dishes that needed washing before we headed out for the celebration. The last thing I wanted was for them to have more work to think about while they were grieving.
She smiled wistfully. “Of course I am, sweetheart. This is the only place that reminds me of your father.” I stifled the surge of anger at the reminder, the echoes of his memory lingering in the kitchen, knowing soon my own ghost would join his. My mother would only have her memories of us to hold onto. “Besides, Lord Byron has been so kind about my condition. I couldn’t ask for better care. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I replied, forcing a shrug and a smile through the tears that threatened to spill. “Finish your toast. I’ll wash these dishes. We won’t want to deal with them after the celebration tonight.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked, her brow furrowing with concern. Known for my love of food, I usually couldn’t pass up a meal. But tonight, they needed it more than I did.
“I’m not very hungry,” I said, giving Brann a significant look as he finally stepped into the kitchen. My mother would have appreciated Lord Byron’s generosity, thinking it meant a better life for all of us. Like my brother, she didn’t know the full story of my relationship with him.
Unlike Brann, she had no idea why I had cried every time she sent me to the manor with my Mist Guard escort when I was too young to go alone. We had worked hard to shield her from the worst of my injuries.
I stepped out of the kitchen to wash the dishes, leaving Brann to explain my lack of appetite. The annual sacrifice always churned my stomach, seeing my father’s face in every victim they bled.
What would I see when it was my turn to face the knife?
