Eleven Avirin
ELEVEN
Avirin
Dishware clinks as the second course is cleared from the table. The dinner party has gone on for nearly an hour, but Avirin hasn’t been able to eat a thing. She’s too distracted, too warm, gripping her napkin until it threatens to tear in half.
Lord Riften traces indiscernible patterns on her leg. It almost seems accidental, an errant finger brushing the outside of her skirts. Her face flushes, gaze darting to the others around the table, but no one looks their way.
Lord Riften’s hand wanders higher.
Gingerly, he rolls up the fabric of her skirt until the hem bunches around her thighs. She can’t look at him, but she can’t focus on anything else when her body pulses with desire.
She doesn’t want them to stop. She has never wished for an end to anything Lord Riften does, but this is completely absurd. How can she crave their touch at this crowded table? How can she be so entranced by the thought of sneaking by unnoticed? Why does the thought of being caught thrill her more?
Lord Riften’s fingers tease the slick heat between her thighs. No one else knows what he’s doing to her. No one else knows the great and terrible way she needs him.
“If I were your husband…” Lord Riften inclines their head, breath warming her cheek. “Would you let me feed your hunger?” His teeth graze her earlobe. “Would you allow me to show you things you’ve never let yourself imagine? Would you trust me with every part of you?”
Avirin’s fingers curl desperately into the tablecloth. “Yes. Anything, anything, anything —”
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Are you in another one of your dudgeons?”
Avirin tenses. Her mother stares from the far end of the dining table. The rest of the house is silent around them. There is no dinner party, no guests, just Avirin’s active imagination. She wills the heat away from her cheeks. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
Lord Riften’s face between my legs. His teeth scraping my thighs. His tongue stirring my —
Avirin swallows the truth with a spoonful of soup. “Bees,” she coughs. “Honey. How it’s made.”
Her mother clucks her tongue. “You need to get your head out of those books and start concerning yourself with something real.” Her mother punctuates the word with a clink of her spoon.
“This season has gone on too long without any prospects of a husband. I finally made some progress, but it will take an inordinate amount of convincing.”
One of the housemaids enters to stoke the fire. When she turns to leave, Avirin ducks her head. “Thank you, Ms. Haskett.”
The woman pauses, but only long enough for Lady Ellison to set down her spoon. “I have told you not to speak to them, Avirin! You converse with them far too readily.”
While Ms. Haskett retreats, Avirin lowers her gaze and stirs her soup absently. “Will father be joining us for dinner?”
Her mother sighs and waves the question away. “You know he’s busy. He had some business to settle at the club.”
Avirin does not know why she feels a pang of disappointment. If her father were here, he would be alone in his study, away from them. His presence has long felt incorporeal, as fleeting and untouchable as a ghost.
Avirin wishes she did not yearn for him to haunt her.
She wonders if he is where her peculiarities come from — withdrawn and reclusive, discomforted among crowds, a desire to be surrounded by books.
She has always thought the two of them were more alike than different.
What would have happened if he’d allowed her into his world?
If he’d taught her how to navigate her strangeness?
If he saw his own strife reflected in her?
But her father does not struggle. He does not need anyone else, certainly not a curious daughter reaching for his hand. He is strong and silent. He provides. He knows his role among society, as Avirin must know hers.
Her mother dabs her lips with her napkin. “You’re not taking this seriously, Avirin.” Her tone is pinched thin, much like her patience. “I told you what will happen if you cannot fix this. You nearly threw all your chances away when you danced with that cockteaser weeks ago.”
Avirin jolts at the word. “Don’t call them that!”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Her mother smooths her hand over her napkin.
“It’s what he does in those whorehouses, wearing clothes that aren’t made for him, defiling his body alongside everyone else’s.
” Lady Ellison shakes her head like a prayer, repetition to keep the evil at bay.
“Is that who you got it from? This sickness?”
Avirin tries to shrink her human pupils further.
The awful man from the pleasure gardens flashes through her mind, a caricature of herself.
Perhaps he was right. Since Avirin became this, she’s been drawn to things she never considered before.
Her mind has been consumed with lust, and her situation grows more dire.
For the past week, her hunger has been harder to control, her eyes growing black at the slightest provocation.
Is this the punishment for her sins — or worse, her enjoyment of them? Guilt pulses through her. Will every moment she indulges transform her into something beastly and obscene?
Her throat grows tight. She knows what she’s doing is wrong; it’s what she’s always been taught.
Marriage to a proper member of society is the only thing that can save her.
She needs to secure a fitting husband before she succumbs to this curse completely, before she is sent away and loses any semblance of freedom she has.
“I’m not very hungry tonight, mother.” Avirin sets her silverware aside and tries to keep her voice from shaking. “I think I shall retire to bed early.”
After she’s dismissed, Avirin lies in the dark for hours.
She knows what she should do, but no matter how she tries, she cannot find the strength.
The threat of losing everything she knows sinks like a weight in her stomach — but the thought of never being touched by Lord Riften again steals her breath.
Everything about him is so…free. He is a stallion galloping across an open field, and he carries Avirin with him.
How can that be wrong, when it feels exactly like the sun on her skin and the wind in her hair?
One more night, she tells herself. Tonight will be the last. After tonight, I will do as I am supposed to. I will be good again.
But even as she thinks it, she prays it isn’t true.
Avirin peeks through her keyhole until her mother’s candle finally goes out.
Avirin dresses and slips out of her bedroom, lingering on the landing until the long-case clock begins eleven tolls.
Sneaking out of the house now comes with relative ease.
Avirin has learned which hinges whine, which stairs creak, which horses whinny when she passes behind the stables. Another mark against her sanctity.
It’s quickly forgotten when she sees Lord Riften’s coach.
It waits exactly where he said it would, far enough to be discreet but close enough to keep Avirin from harm.
She is surprised to see a woman perched on the driver’s seat, her tan skin warmed by the lamplight.
Two stubby horns peek out from her red hair, and Avirin can make out druidic runes beneath the sleeves of her dress.
Beside the carriage, Lord Riften waits, and Avirin’s worries blur away. For the first time, she can see the ink in their skin contrasting proudly with their corbeau green gown. Mushrooms and skulls and fruit are emblazoned across their bare neck and arms, their fingers and ears adorned with rings.
Lord Riften looks completely unfettered. Avirin has never seen anyone so beautiful, and she fears she never will again.
She removes the wrap from her shoulders, and Lord Riften’s spine straightens as he takes her in.
She’s tempted to shrink away from the attention, but she keeps herself still; this dress is for him, after all, crafted during many secret meetings with the modiste.
The fabric is light and airy, a stark contrast to its rich black color.
It clings to her chest and hips. Thin muslin wraps around her upper arms, barely concealing her skin where the sleeves sit at the edge of her shoulders.
Lord Riften is quiet for a long moment, but when they do speak, their voice is hoarse. “You never fail to surprise me, Lady Avirin.”
The driver mutters something, and Lord Riften curses her playfully, making her toss back her head and laugh before she inclines her smile toward Avirin. “I’m Selbie, my lady. Pleased to transport you this evening.”
Avirin curtsies in reply, and that makes Selbie smile wider.
Lord Riften opens the coach door and extends his hand.
Avirin takes it, fighting not to catch fire when his skin meets hers.
The carriage sets off. Inside, the curtains are mostly drawn, leaving Avirin and Lord Riften in shadow across from one another.
The jostling lantern outside does not shine on Lord Riften’s face, lighting only their hands resting in their lap.
Avirin tries not to remember where those fingers have been. “You needn’t have escorted me tonight, Lord Riften. I could have met you wherever it is we’re going.”
“I don’t want your carriage connected with our destination. Mine, on the other hand, is already tied to it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Do you play cards, Lady Avirin?”
Avirin narrows her eyes curiously. “A bit.”
“Then I hope you will enjoy our evening. There will be games and drinks and…” She can practically feel the smirk in their voice. “Other festivities at the molly-house.”
Never has she heard the term uttered so comfortably, and certainly not by someone speaking to her.
To most people, “molly-house” seems to be a curse, a word not spoken in polite company, but Lord Riften is unbothered.
It never seems he intends to shock her, but simply to provide information, to make use of the disparaging terms that have long been used against him.
“In the hedge maze…” She can hardly get the words out without remembering that night, his lips glistening with her desire while he stared up into her eyes. “You mentioned certain potions. Ones meant for those who do not wish to have children.”
Lord Riften is silent for a moment. “I did. Do you have thoughts about them?”
Her heart races. She should be ashamed. She knows the look of horror anyone else would give her if they heard her speak such blasphemy, but a steady urgency thrums inside her. Here, in front of Lord Riften, she can she finally speak it aloud. “I would like to have some of those potions.”
In the dark, she can just make out Lord Riften’s reassuring nod. “Then I will procure them for you — even after our lessons have ended. All you need to do is write.”
Relief floods her. She’s almost giddy with it, a tightness in her chest loosening that she hadn’t realized was there. It’s quickly replaced by a different understanding. “Will tonight be our final lesson?”
When Lord Riften smiles, there is a trace of melancholy in it — or perhaps Avirin only wishes there were. “After tonight, you will have no more need of me.”
It’s a crushing blow. No matter how Avirin told herself the same thing, it’s completely different to be faced with the truth from Lord Riften themself.
This makes it real, and Avirin isn’t sure she can bear it.
“And if I prove to be a disappointment? If I fail as your pupil, will our lessons continue?”
Lord Riften’s eyes narrow. “You are an exceptional student, Lady Avirin. There is no world in which you are deficient.”
“Perhaps I require remedial lessons.” Her tongue dips over her lips. “A refresher course.”
His jaw twitches. Is he warring with a smile or something else? “You require no such thing.”
She should leave well enough alone, but something about Lord Riften makes her want to be stubborn and hoydenish. It makes her feel like she can be. “Then a final examination. With you. To appraise all I’ve learned.”
Lord Riften’s gaze scorches her. She doesn’t blink. She keeps her eyes on theirs and refuses to feel ashamed.
The carriage halts and dashes Avirin’s hopes with it. Lord Riften gives her a lingering look before he exits and calls up to Selbie, “Will we see you inside?”
“If you’re lucky,” she shouts back.
Lord Riften turns back to Avirin and extends his hand. “Shall we?”