Right back meant Rin and Lyet peeked into the room with a goodie tray from the kitchen long before Jhor returned. Wanting to quibble about the modder’s terminology, but not wanting to stay much longer in the cold room staring in horror at the mechanical parts, she told the group she needed to get the two back to the Eaves for a wrap-up on training.
Brander and Armarandos waved, Patch squeezed her hand, but the khentauree were too involved in their discussion to pay much heed. She hustled the disappointed apprentices out, promising them that a cold wait for news was just as boring as they imagined.
She ignored Rin’s grumbling, tugging on her gloves as they reached the cooler hallway with the guarded door to the cells. Poor guards, standing there shivering all day. Her brother quieted, and she heard a faint voice, the whine over-emphasized, but tears lay behind it. Beltin.
“Go back to the room,” she told them. “I’ll be there soon.”
Rin almost protested, but Lyet caught his arm and dragged him into the tunnel. Had she also heard the whine? Probably. Lapis turned to the guards; they looked at each other, at a loss, and she folded her arms, waiting. In the end, they opened the way and let her through.
“I don’t know anyone named Moorlight!”
She would have believed him when she was twelve. But he helped Kale’s men into Nicodem that day, and survived the slaughter through treachery. No words of denial would placate her—and she doubted they would impact Faelan, either.
She headed for the single metal door left ajar and peeked in.
Fury rose. Luxury met her gaze, from the silken bedsheets and quilts to the golden lamps to the plush carpet keeping bared feet from the chill stone floor. Paintings of majestic people on horses and crowded grand balls filled the walls, lush with the sumptuous fabrics and jeweled trappings of the wealthy and aristocratic. A vase with flowers sat in the tiny barred window, which overlooked an empty tunnel.
In a chair, hunched over, was Beltin. He wore a fine red velvet jacket and pants, but the clothing looked baggy, and the white, open-collar shirt displayed a bony upper breast. His face was sunken, grey rather than sun-touched tan, his brown eyes reddened and saggy in sadness, his thinning hair straggly. His thick-knuckled hands rubbed at his pants in nervous agitation.
Resentment soared. What was Faelan thinking? He deserved none of this!
The story All That He Wanted burst into mind. Her brother had often read it to her as a child because she thought it was funny a man could obtain the luxury and riches he desired, but ended up a miserable wreck because that was all he had—no friends, no family, no acquaintances who saw him as anything but a liability. She had not understood the true meaning of the tale, just that he did silly things to earn outrageous amounts of coin while pissing everyone off. The lack of companionship, the dread knowledge he would die alone, did not make an impression.
It did now. She realized with a jolt, that Faelan did what Beltin never expected—given him all he once desired but infused with sour revenge. The rider paintings referenced his teaching the Nicodem children to ride, something he once claimed he enjoyed. The velvet was a nod to the outfits rural aristocrats would wear to functions during winter, and the balls acknowledged his oft-stated dream of standing among the elite and expounding on what he knew—horses—while he collected a fascinated group around him, enchanted with his knowledge. The flowers reminded him that she and Calanthe would bring him wild blooms to brighten his kitchen. Bright red was everywhere—the bright red of running blood.
And he could brag about none of it. He sat in luxury, but it would never bring the recognition he yearned for, since no one of import besides her brother would ever visit the cell.
She would have preferred a barren confinement to equal his soul, but she understood the need to make him suffer—and by the look of him, his guilty conscience did just that. How odd; she would have assumed he would wallow in the richness of it all, even if no one else was around for him to brag to.
His eyes widened and Faelan looked over his shoulder—the implacable expression intimidated her, but she did not step back.
“You don’t know Moorlight, eh? Well, he certainly knows you.”
Beltin’s lower lip trembled. “Lady Melanthe—”
She laughed, ice racing across her emotions and freezing them into cracked floes. “Lady? Shove your fake respect where it belongs. We both know you don’t feel it.”
“That—that’s not true. I—”
“Looks comfy,” she said absently. “Much nicer than the hovel, right?”
He flinched. He referred to the cozy home her father gave him when he took charge of the stables as the hovel. She never understood the derision, because she thought it a perfectly fine cottage just off the estate, but now . . . she realized he had wanted more. He had wanted a finer house, finer clothing, finer jewels, all to impress the nobles who did not grant him the recognition he deserved. A free abode gifted to him by his employer did not count as rich enough to attract aristocratic attention.
“Is this what Moorlight promised his favorite hound?” she asked. “A nice place, nice clothes, nice food?”
“N-no.”
“Come now. We all know you deserved the moon for putting up with us kids.”
He flinched harder, and by his stricken look, he mulled what else she overheard him say.
“My brother’s too nice.” The flash of disagreement irritated her, and she stepped closer. He leaned back in the chair, panic parading across his face. “My nice died with my family. Do you follow the Stars, Beltin?”
He frowned, confusion penetrating his alarm. “I’ve sat in services, but, well, no.”
Had she startled him into saying one true thing? “Moorlight’s a fan, though, isn’t he.”
He stared, his lower lip quivering. She smiled and watched the realization sink into him that the little girl he once knew had grown into an adult who hated him with every part of her being.
“You are going to tell us everything you know about Moorlight and Mesaalla Kez. You are going to tell us because I’m not the sweet little girl you remember.”
“You were never sweet,” he snapped, immediately regretted it, and opened his mouth to say something. She planted her hands on the chair arms and leaned over; he whimpered and sank down, tears leaking out the sides of his eyes. Her nails sunk into the wood, gouging chunks from the smooth surface.
“You haven’t suffered enough to want death rather than a stilted, bleak continuation of this half-life. Or are you too cowardly to chase it? Betting on the cowardly part.” She clenched her teeth. “The sheets, the carpet, the paintings, the flowers, they’re all you expected from the blood you sacrificed to greed and ambition. But you failed in that, didn’t you? Let me guess, being a traitor didn’t earn you the acclaim you wanted—Kale got that—so you decided to betray those who once held your leash. And you failed again. See a pattern? Or has your wit declined with your morals?”
An arm slipped around her shoulder and pulled her back. Patch stuck his nose in her ear and nuzzled.
“Now now, Faelan’s more than capable of convincing a dead fish to talk.” Her brother’s gaze stayed transfixed on the man, and she knew Patch was right, he was better able to get what they needed out of him. Why had she even bothered?
Because she wanted him to hurt like she had, she wanted him terrified and wallowing in helplessness, hopelessness, a shell ready to crack, but she doubted she made that impression.
She did not recall the walk to their bedroom, but the soft lighting, the lingering scent of days-old incense, slowly drew her back to the present.
“I’ve never been sweet.”
Did that bother her?
Patch laughed, turned her around, and engulfed her in a hug. “Dead fish only have words left, and you should let his suffocate. He wants to hurt you the way he thinks he’s been hurt.”
“He resented my father, didn’t he?”
“I’m betting he did. I’m betting he hated everyone who had money and influence that he saw go in and out of Nicodem. I’m betting he hated the staff he thought your family liked better. He’s the type who thinks his hard work doesn’t pay off because someone else spitefully holds him back. He assumes the jealousy he feels is in everyone he encounters, and that’s what drove him to help Gall. It still corrupts him, because he can’t believe he was wrong.” His lips brushed over her cheek. “Don’t let him wound you more than he already has.”
She dug her forehead into his chest and clutched him close, wanting to savor him rather than dwell on an enemy. She should never have tried to speak with him; current events had distracted her from her anger. Until her rage returned in force, his words would strike her heart and remain a poisoned dart that fed into her uncertainty and pain. But when it did? Well, she would see.
“I have something for you.”
“For me?”
Squeezing him hard, she clawed back the special tingle she felt when she purchased the gift. She wanted happy, not churning depression. She pulled away and retrieved the sparkly blue box she had slid onto the table before she headed to the Eaves. Holding it in both palms, she presented it to him with a small, but genuine, smile.
He took it, lifted the lid, and his body relaxed, his eye shimmering a slushy blue. He tossed the lid, and it clattered on the tabletop, dislodging a sprinkle of glitter that bounced across the surface. With a delighted, surprised grin, he picked up the necklace. “You visited Shawe?”
“Yeah. He was happy to give me a discount.”
He set the box down, pulled the sides apart at the hinges, and slipped the hoop on. The black with purple highlights went well with his tanned skin, and the blue gems almost matched his patch. He clicked it shut, his fingers sliding down, feeling the fit, before he touched the earrings.
“I’ll need to re-pierce my ears.”
“Sanna did Tuft’s.”
He cocked his head, then flicked his left ear. “The transparent earrings?”
“Yeah. If you ask him about it, he’ll go on and on about the gift.”
“So it meant a lot to him.” He tucked his forefingers under the hoop and ran them along the edge. “I know how he feels.”
“It’s not an expensive gem—”
“No, because you knew I’d hate that.”
She laughed and rubbed at her nose. The hoop looked spectacular on him. “This felt like you.”
He caught her close and pattered his lips across her cheek, sending shivers from her chest to her arms. She slid her hands around his back and pulled him closer.
“And so does this.” She pressed her lower regions into his, even though she could not intimately feel his length against her because of her coat. Good thing she had an active imagination.
He chuckled and kissed her, his hands roaming beneath her coat and pulling her shirt up so he could smooth her skin. “How about we spend the rest of the afternoon feeling one another? Best plan I’ve come up with all week.”
She nuzzled his chin as he shoved his fingers under her waistband and kneaded her skin. “All week? We need to shorten that to a day or two.”
He lit, bright as the sun on an otherwise grey-cloud day. “Challenge accepted.”
