Twenty-Six Pye
TWENTY-SIX
Pye
Pye watches Avirin begin to glow.
It’s not just from her feeding, though that alone brings a certain shine back to her.
Pye and Avirin enjoy the rest of their visit with Cascade, traversing the grounds and staying up late into the night (when Cascade isn’t holed up with Selbie).
By the time Cascade leaves, Mothry Cottage feels different somehow — wistful at her departure, but cozier among those who remain.
Avirin does not retreat back into her room.
In fact, Pye is very pleased to see her at the breakfast table every morning, discussing plans with Selbie or describing the latest book she’s reading.
There is nothing he loves quite like watching her elbows press to the table, words pouring out of her as excitement carries her away.
But his favorite mornings are those when she keeps him in the corner of her eye and coyly asks, “What will you do today?”
Pye pours both their tea. “I plan to visit the orchard to prepare for fall. Would you care to join me?”
While they walk the rows of trees, the two of them settle into a rhythm. Pye points out discrepancies that Avirin transcribes in the ledger. He outlines insect activity, and she asks him questions. He ducks under branches, and she follows, the two of them always close beside each other.
After lunch, they make their way to the spring house, where Pye commandeers a jug of cider and lays out a blanket beside the stream.
They sit for the better part of an hour, passing the jug between them while Avirin deciphers his scribbles in the daybook and replaces his illegible scrawl with her orderly penmanship.
By the time they’re through, she’s organized a timeline of the previous year, an agenda of tasks for the next week, and a list of topics to be researched back at the cottage.
Pye leans back on his palms with a fond smile. “You are unceasingly impressive, Lady Avirin.”
She looks up from her notes. Loose tendrils of her hair drift on the breeze, her skin glistening in the summer sun. She starts to duck her head, but then, she pauses. “Lady Riften,” she corrects, cutting him a smug look before she turns back to the notebook.
Once the jug is empty, Pye gathers their things, and the two of them wander closer to the water.
Rain has left the bank muddy, but by the time they realize it, they are already trapped.
Pye tries to help Avirin cross the muck.
He tugs on her hands to free her, but she nearly comes out of her shoes, leaving her gasping until it turns into giggles.
Once the two of them start, they can’t stop, hunched over in preposterous poses to keep their clothing clean. The joy is infectious. Pye loses all his strength to laughter, and Avirin can hardly keep her eyes open, sending her toppling off balance.
Pye dives to catch her and lands against the ground. Cold mud splatters his face and hands, soaking through the back of his shirt. He shifts in the muck. His clothing is ruined, but at least with Avirin lying atop his chest, only the hem of her dress is stained.
He grins. Avirin returns it, and the two of them dissolve into giddy amusement once more.
She tries to brush the mud from his face, but her fingers are already covered, leaving a dark streak across his skin.
She starts to apologize, but Pye turns their other cheek toward her. “I fear you’ve missed a spot, my lady.”
Skeptically, she lifts a brow. When Pye doesn’t turn away, she lifts her hand slowly and draws her muddy fingers across his face again.
“Perfect.” He relishes being painted by her hand, no matter how dirty it leaves him.
She stares at the blemish for a long moment, and then, she reaches for his hand around her waist. Carefully, she pulls it away from her body and guides it down into the mud beside them.
Pye sucks in a breath at the wet earth against his skin. Avirin holds his gaze, staring somewhere deep inside him before she brings his dirty hand up between them.
Her eyes are curious, not quite resolved to what she plans to do. She holds his wrist near the bare skin of her neck, a blank canvas untouched by dirt.
Pye’s pulse thrums. They open their mouth to speak, to assure her that she doesn’t have to, but then she guides their palm to her throat.
They both groan. She molds her hand against the back of theirs, her body warm on either side of the cool mud. It oozes between both their fingers, seeping outward, too much to be contained until his handprint is left on her skin.
He could get drunk on it: the contrast, the sensation, the way her eyes change when he touches her there. He pulls her toward him by the throat, and her eyes go glassy, her hands fumbling with his suspenders.
Pye smirks. “Do you really want the first time you take me to be right here?”
She makes a sound of frustration, nearly tearing the fabric of his shirt in two. “I don’t care where it is!”
“I do.”
Her movements slow. The shadows of the leaves above them hug her face. In this light, her irises look almost black, like they could spread and engulf the rest of her eyes. How would that make her feel? Would she still hide it? Or would she finally let him see all of her?
“I want to give you everything you desire.” Pye fights the temptation of her full figure pressed against theirs.
“But I require more than indifference.” When he looks at her, both their eyelids grow heavy.
He forces his voice to maintain its resolve.
“The first time you have me, there will be no detachment. No distractions. Only intention.” His open mouth drags against hers.
When they breathe together, it’s almost louder than his whisper. “Can you give me that, Avi?”
A strangled noise escapes her. He has never called her that.
He isn’t quite sure where it came from, but his thoughts of her have long been more intimate than the world allows.
Every moment they spend together makes him feel closer to her, and he wants a name that shows it.
A name no one else has ever used. A name that encapsulates the sweetness he tastes every time he looks at her.
After that, Avirin kisses him so soundly that he begins to regret his conviction.
Once they return to the house and clean themselves, Pye and Selbie begin work on the newest section of the herb garden. It’s a project he’s taken particular interest in, and they spend a few hours planting seeds until Avirin comes to retrieve them for dinner.
She looks over their work curiously. “Emory will be pleased with new spices.”
“They’re medicinal herbs, actually.” Pye stands and wipes the dirt from their hands. “I would like to be able to grow certain ingredients myself. To brew my own potions.”
Avirin nods absently, but when she recognizes Pye’s sober expression, her lips part. “Do you mean…”
Selbie rises as well. “Apple seeds are the main ingredient in abortive elixirs. Did you know that? It’s meticulous work.
The seeds have to be added in perfect quantities.
Too little, and the potion is ineffective.
Too much, and it’ll kill the drinker. The brewing requires a sensitive hand.
” She nudges Pye’s arm and moves toward the cottage. “The delicate touch of a painter.”
Pye flexes their fingers. Once Selbie leaves, he lowers his voice so only Avirin can hear.
“I do not want to rely on back alley deals to get you what you need. I want to provide everything that will keep you safe. I want to ensure you are never trapped with child. And, in the process, perhaps I will discover something new to help you. Terminating pregnancy is one thing, but would it not be better to prevent it entirely? I imagine it would be easier on the body, and…”
He quiets at the look on her face. Her lip trembles in the fading light, the sunset reflecting off the wetness in her eyes.
“Oh, Avirin…” Pye reaches for her and thumbs a tear away. “Perhaps my hopes are too lofty.”
Avirin shakes her head, clenching her fists before she flings herself toward Pye. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face against his chest, and he pulls her closer, soothing the palms of his hands against her back.
After a long moment, she pulls back and swipes at her eyes. “Thank you.” Her voice is brittle, but she clears it. “I don’t suppose you have a potion to deal with Lord Reid as well.”
Pye stills dreadfully. “Have you encountered him since that night? Has he harmed you?”
“No, no.” Avirin crosses her arms over her chest. “I just keep remembering the awful things he said. For a while, I was simply relieved to be away from him, but now, I’ve begun to fear for the next girl he gets his hands on.
” Her eyes go glassy and distant. “What will he do to her? What if she can’t escape it? ”
Pye hardly has to imagine it. He has dried the other courtesans’ tears after their assignations with Reid.
He has heard the horrific tales. With a scowl, Pye looks over the plant bed before they turn their gaze toward the orchard.
“Perhaps I will acquire a few more herbs before this is said and done.”
After dinner, Pye writes a letter to an old friend to invite him for a day trip. Although Avirin does her best to hide it, Pye notices the way her eyes dart warily at the suggestion.
His fingers trail along her forearm. “I know greeting the unknown is not among your favorite pastimes, but I believe you’ll enjoy our guest. He’s a professor with a particular interest in poetry.”
She perks up at that.
When Rollo arrives, Avirin is a mix of nerves and intrigue.
He’s a rather stout man with graying hair and mismatched stockings, but he seems to intimidate Avirin.
She lingers beside Pye, hesitantly greeting their guest and listening while he and Pye reconnect.
It’s not until their second round of pall mall that her temperature shifts.
“What are you reading these days, Lord Riften?” Rollo calls over his shoulder, knocking the boxwood ball toward one end of the field. “You’ve always had such eclectic taste, and I could do with expanding my horizons.”
Pye can’t help but smile. “My dearest Avirin recently reintroduced me to the works of Donne.”
Avirin looks up sharply.
Pye lifts a cheeky brow. “His works have far more depth than I gave him credit for. Wouldn’t you agree?”
In minutes, the game is forgotten. Avirin may speak softly at first, but soon, her enthusiasm pours out of her in a torrent.
Rollo leans against his mallet and nods along, gesturing with his own passionate dissections.
Neither of them notices Pye has slipped away until he returns with beverages to whet their discussion.
After that, it becomes routine. Every week, Pye invites one of his most riveting connections to join them for a few days.
Avirin is particularly fond of the savvy women they host, as well as the other members of the cottage who begin to share their areas of expertise.
Marsyas shows off his proficiency with the aulos and details the differences between single- and double-flutes.
Chap proves he can embroider faster than anyone they’ve ever seen.
Emory surprises them all with her ability to sample any wine and pinpoint its exact region and year.
No matter the subject — philosophy, agriculture, languages — Avirin takes to them like a duck to water.
She is full of curiosity and always impresses their guests with her thoughtful questions.
In fact, it seems that she enjoys the preparation more than the social gatherings, spending days plundering the library for books on different specialties.
She’s there right now, reshelving books from her latest studies. “Who will we host next?”
Pye leans against the doorframe and admires the way she lifts on her toes to reach the highest shelves. “I thought we might invite someone very special. Someone I worked with at one of the pleasure houses.” Pye tucks their hands into their pockets. “His name is Egan. He’s a succubus.”
Avirin’s hand lingers on the spine of a book. She almost turns to Pye before she stops herself, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek. “All right,” she says finally. “I suppose I should get started.”