Chapter 17 Yael
17
Yael
Under the high-noon sun three days later, a carriage arrives just as Yael’s parents promised—or rather threatened. It appears from the distance as a black spot against the gently sloping countryside. Its ebony wood is polished to a high gloss and crowned with sharp gold trim. On one door panel is a golden Clauneck seal, and on the other, a painted panorama of the Copper Court with the vast Clauneck Company offices at its center, twin-peaked towers rising from the roof akin to horns. Perched on the raised box seat, a coachman Yael recognizes from their family’s employ but couldn’t possibly name holds the reins for a pair of giant boars, with shaggy black fur and eyes like fiery coals sunk deep into skulls as large as carriage wheels.
“Nice, Father,” Yael mutters, scowling.
If only they could have ridden Sweet Wind. But returning to Ashaway with the steed would most likely mean returning the steed to Oreborn. At least they were instructed to wait at the outer gate; Yael is grateful for that, though it meant half a mile’s walk with their trunks. Devils forbid the carriage had driven into Bloomfield to pick them up, terrorizing everyone in its path. Even Margot looks like she would rather walkthe rest of the way to Ashaway than climb inside this monstrosity.
Yael reaches for her hand. “My family never was subtle in their villainy. But it’s actually quite nice inside. There are curtains for privacy, and there’s very comfortable seating. There may even be snacks.”
Margot looks nervously at the boars. “Do they bite?”
“Not as hard as I do.”
This earns a burst of laughter. “Thank gods you’ve managed to restrain yourself so far.”
“Just barely.”
Yael opens the carriage door for her to climb in before the coachman can hop down to do it. They settle across from each other on the plump, purple velvet bench cushions, the cabin wide enough that they could only just touch fingertips if they leaned all the way forward toward each other. The coachman slaps the reins to start the boars moving. The carriage churns down the dirt lane away from Bloomfield, and Yael watches from their backward-facing seat as the old outpost walls disappear past the rolling horizon line.
Margot never turns around to look, only staring past Yael at the path in front of them.
They reach the Queens’ Road, and the carriage turns north toward the capital. Yael watches out the window as they retracethe miles Yael barely remembers from their months-ago drunken sprint through the dark. They wind alongside a sluggish river where gold-plated fish flash through hazel shallows. They pass fields of waving grain, then meadows of parti-colored wildflowers where mountains rise in the background like sleeping mammoths.
Occasionally they pass fellow travelers in carriages and carts and on beast back, all of whom goggle at the Clauneck carriage then quickly avert their eyes—because they either recognize the family seal or have the wits to sense danger when it meets them on the road. Margot speaks less and less the nearer they draw to Ashaway, despite Yael’s jokes and attempts to crack the strange ice that’s settling across the cabin between them.
Perhaps she regrets offering to come with Yael. They know she’s worried about the greenhouses, though Clementine and the townsfolk have promised to take turns tending them until Margot and Yael return, and she’s cast spells to keep the soil damp and the vines winding upward. Besides that, being thrown together with the family that ruined hers is probably the last thing in the world she wants. Still, selfish as it is, Yael feels enormously grateful not to be churning toward Ashaway alone. They’d like to think they’re capable of telling their parents off and turning right back around for Bloomfield after the damn masquerade…but they’ve never been very good at standing up to Baremon and Menorath. Disappointing them? Easily done. Denying them? Not so much. Last time, they had to sneak away in the night. Without Margot here to keep them from falling back into the Claunecks’ trap, who knows if they’d be strong enough to slip out again?
“Have I thanked you yet for coming with me?” Yael asks to break the silence.
Margot doesn’t look away from the landscape beyond her window. “About fifty times.”
“Have I thanked you yet for last night?” Sprawling decadently across the bench, they prop one dusty boot on the velvet cushions and raise an eyebrow.
Margot grins, remembering. “You did most of the work.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. It’s been true every time since the first.”
“Well then, my father will be thrilled to hear I’ve finally developed a work ethic.”
“You know I’m perfectly capable of leading, right?” Margot rolls her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I—Of course. Anytime you want.”
“Now,” she says urgently, meeting their eyes at last.
“What?”
Margot shifts on the bench, clutching the green linen of her traveling dress. “I need a distraction. Badly. But if you don’t feel like—”
“Oh, I feel like.”
“How far are we from the city?”
“Hours yet.” Yael sits upright, reaching across the cabin for her.
She ducks past their outstretched hand to kneel on the embroidered rug between Yael’s legs. “And it’s my turn to take care of you?”
They gaze down at her as she peers up at them and feel the breath leave their lungs. Nobody in the kingdom could be as beautiful as Margot is right now. Her hair is twisted and pinned into crown braids the color of the wild indigo that grows around the cottage (see, Yael listens when Margot talks about plants), and her mouth flushes red where she sinks her top teeth into her bottom lip.
Still, Yael hesitates.
It’s not that they need to lead in the bedroom. Or the greenhouse. Or the carriage. They’ve had lovers who preferred to take charge. At least, they preferred to think they were in charge. It’s just that Yael is so good at this. They don’t have many skills or talents, but divining what or who their partner wants them to be, and performing the role as lavishly as possible, is a talent of which they’re particularly proud. Even when they’ve felt like they had nothing else to offer, they had this.
But Margot knows them, doesn’t she? She knew them for years before they found each other in Bloomfield, and for months before they found their way into bed together.
She must see something more.
“Yes, Daisy.” Yael reclines against the bench back, resting their arms atop the cushion. “It’s your turn.”
Her wide gray eyes turn storm-dark just as the carriage hits a particularly deep rut, rocking side-to-side, and Margot grabs Yael’s thighs to brace herself.
Yael’s fingers twitch against the velvet as they struggle not to grab the back of her neck and guide her lips to theirs. They can admit to themself that the sight of Margot between their knees is something they’d imagined in their room above Clementine’s tavern, usually while sliding their own hand inside their underpants. To stop themself from reaching for her again, they shift just enough to close the thick privacy curtains across each window, blotting out the world beyond.
Margot grabs the buckle of their trousers, undoing it, and begins to tug downward. “Since it’s my turn, I’ll tell you what I want, yes?”
Yael lifts their hips to make it easier for her to slide their trousers and underpants down until their clothing catches on their boots. “Tell me.”
She pulls their boots off to finish the job, tossing the bundle across the carriage floor, then sits back on her heels to consider. At last, she declares, “I want to hear the sounds you make when I’m inside of you.”
“Gods, Daisy.” Their belly clenches.
With a villainous grin, Margot pushes their legs even farther apart and dips forward, her tongue finding them.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” they grunt as they try not to grind into her mouth; they really do. They shouldn’t be surprised by how good it feels; in all things, Margot is competent, confident, magical. But godsdamn.
Some number of blissful moments later, she surfaces, slipping two fingers inside of them in place of her tongue. “Do you know what I thought of you the moment I saw you in Clementine’s Tavern?”
“What?” Yael breathes out, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. It’s hard to focus while the pace and pressure of her fingertips continues to stoke the swelling heat between their legs.
“I thought that even after years apart, you were still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. And I remembered that when I was young, before I even knew about…about all of this …I’d looked at you and dreamed about burying myself in you, and coming out as somebody new.”
“But why would you want to be—” They’re cut off by the insistent slide of her fingers inside of them, stirring harder and faster now. “Gods, Margot!” It’s becoming impossible to keep still.
She laughs, reaching up with her free hand to cradle their jaw and press her thumb across their lips. “Do you want the coachman to hear you?”
Yael shakes their head once.
She tugs at Yael’s bottom lip with the pad of her thumb. “Well, I do,” she says, gray eyes sparkling.
Yael obliges.
Their feet skate against the cushion and their back arches above the bench as the climax rolls through their body like a warm sea wave, filling every part of them before it breaks. How many times has Yael sat in this carriage with their family, fidgeting anxiously as they rode toward some ball or business dinner they dreaded attending until they were scolded to just sit still, to just keep quiet. For twenty-three years, this cabin (or one exactly like it) has witnessed Yael’s silence and dread and shame. Even now, moving toward Ashaway, they should feel nothing but miserable.
But because of Margot, they feel good. They feel so good.
Like a disciple of one of the gods of the plane besides their own might bless a haunted field or manor house, Margot’s cleansed this carriage, and Yael inside of it.
Yael really doesn’t deserve Margot Greenwillow.
They blink awake some hours later to the coachman’s shouted warning.
“City gates ahead, sir’ram!”
Yael stretches where they lie entangled on the narrow bench cushion with Margot, who stirs against their body, yawning. Neither of them bothered to straighten their clothes before napping, and in fact, they took off a good deal more between them. Margot’s dress and Yael’s shirt and trousers lie crumpled on the rug under their dust-caked boots, which is not the impression they’d planned to make on the capital after months away. Maybe Margot can magic away the wrinkles and dust. They’d do it for her if they could, they think sleepily; they hate to wake her to ask.
Now you long for the family magic? You’ve wanted nothing to do with this family for more than an entire season, but suddenly you’re in sight of the manor, and you can’t manage without us.
Yael freezes mid-stretch. They haven’t heard Clauneck’svoice in their head—like the sour, off-key peeling of a dented bell—for weeks. It was foolish to think they’d never hear it again. But after confessing to Margot about their patron, Yael had hoped there was no corner of themself for Clauneck to hidein.
“I don’t need you,” Yael mumbles back, too low to disturb Margot, at least no more than the noise of the carriage and the pounding of the giant boars’ hooves against the Queens’ Road.
We’ll see, shall we?
Sitting bolt-upright (startling Margot in the process despite their intentions) Yael moves to the window and yanks back the curtains, watching the nearby settlements of Higley Brook and Poppler approach, and the vast black city walls and southern gate grow larger and larger as they churn unavoidably forward. “Once we’re inside, ride on,” they shout up to the coachman. “We won’t be staying at the manor. Take us into the city proper, where we’ll secure lodging for ourselves.”
Margot blinks, looking up at them curiously.
“I’ve instructions to deliver you both to the estate,” the coachman calls back, uncertain.
“And what if we jump from the carriage and sprint down the Queens’ Road, shouting, Kidnap! I’m sure I could cause quite a scene if I tried. I’m actually known for it.”
Reaching across the cabin for her dress, Margot slides it over her head, still staring at them.
There’s a long beat of silence before the coachman sighs defeatedly. “Where to, then, sir’ram?”
“As I said, take us to the city, to the Glowing Coin.” They turn back to Margot, explaining, “It’s right on the edge of the Golden Court, with the best view of the palace in the city. And the best chef outside the palace itself. You’ll love their spiced bat.”
She frowns. “I’m not sure I’ve been paying you high enough wages to afford the Glowing Coin, and nearly all the gold Rastanaya gave us is back in the greenhouse till.”
“Never fear.” Yael waves away her concerns as they shrug on their shirt then reach for their trousers. “We’ll purchase our room—our rooms, if you prefer—on Clauneck credit.”
“And your parents will allow that?” Margot asks, seeming dubious.
“By spreading rumors of my supposed injury, my parents have made it clear they’re trying to keep our family business out of the public eye. They won’t risk creating a spectacle by cutting me off in front of the whole capital.”
Thinking like a Clauneck all of a sudden? Interesting…
For perhaps the first time ever, their patron sounds as though they have found something of interest in Yael.
They would prefer not to think about that, so they press on. “Besides, I’d sleep on a bench in Coult Park before I put us in the same house as my father and mother, after what they did to yours.”
“Yael…” Margot starts, “your mother…”
“Yes?”
Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head, then says, “I don’t think Menorath is going to like me much.”
Laughter bursts out of them, and they fall back against the bench. “The fact that my mother may hate you is one of the many reasons I love you.”
Margot freezes halfway through retying the bodice of her dress, knuckles turning white around the laces, lips parting as if to protest, but nothing comes out.
Recognizing panic when they see it, Yael rambles, “Not that I’m some angry young person trying to piss off their parents in return. I swear I’m not. I mean, I am angry at them, but I just meant to say that you’re nothing like my mother, and that’s why—”
“Why you love me?” Margot whispers, her gray eyes wide, looking like a cornered cat.
She looks the way Yael feels whenever they think of returning to Ashaway: like they’re strolling into the mouth of a beast, having narrowly escaped its teeth once before.
“I…I…” The carriage is stifling all of a sudden, the air sucked out by Yael’s obvious mistake. Of course she doesn’t want to hear their accidental admission just as they’re about to ride through the capital’s gates, placing her back within the reach of the people ( Yael’s people) who took everything from her in the first place. This is hardly the time to talk of love.
Gods, they never do stop to think.
Oh, Yael. Do you believe a time will come when Margot Greenwillow looks into your eyes and does not see everything she’s lost? Do you believe you’ve anything to offer that will persuade her to see a lover—a beloved, even—before she sees a Clauneck?
“That’s not true,” Yael insists.
“What’s not? That you—”
“No, I didn’t mean…” Yael grinds the heel of their palm into their temple, but Clauneck has fallen silent. “I mean that…You know, I’ve just been really thoroughly fucked, so I wouldn’t take my word on anything right now.” A flimsy excuse, and a cowardly path out of the conversation.
But Margot takes it. She hesitates for only a moment longer, then goes back to tying her laces, perhaps tugging more roughly than necessary (certainly, Yael would’ve treated her more gently). “Well then, we’ll write it off to being thoroughly fucked and save our words for the innkeeper, if you think you can convince them to give us a room.”
“Not a doubt in my mind, Daisy.” Yael sprawls out on the carriage bench once more, the very picture of calm, cool, unbothered.
They tell themself that Margot will soon forget their mistake.
They tell themself that all of this—leaving Bloomfield, letting Margot accompany them, and placing them both back under Yael’s parents’ influence—isn’t one huge mistake that they’ll live to regret.