13. The Display
The Display
A s the night wore on, Jezebel continued to drink heavily, and Mila sensed a hard edge take over the princess. She considered the snippets of information she’d picked up about the woman over the past few weeks and tonight, slowly, the bigger picture of Jezebel’s life started to reveal itself.
Jezebel was in her own quiet struggle with the Church, specifically with the High Priest Abbott, for relevance and power. Unfortunately for her, the Church as a national institution had far greater ability to impact the lives of citizens than Jezebel did. Despite the mythology that surrounded Jezebel’s existence, her only true influence amongst the population was as an icon in seasonal fashion. In some circles within Artor, this held great weight, but in others, it did not, and in the evening’s current company, she had very little to offer in tales of adventures or near misses with pirates. Tonight, those stories were social currency.
In this room, amongst these people, Jezebel’s insecurity that she was nothing more than a sideline distraction, rather than a true political power, began to flare, and what happened next to Mila and Jahan, Mila realised later, was all part of that insecurity.
“Jahan, I’m…I’m inclined to have my dessert before my main meal. Fetch it for me from the kitchens. And I could use a footrest, demon,” she demanded of Mila.
For a moment, Mila’s heart jumped into her throat, thinking that she might be sent away from the room to fetch the object, but when Jezebel made no move to unclip her from the lead, Mila realised what she meant. She acquiesced, kneeling before Jezebel and allowing her to place her feet upon Mila’s shoulder blades.
When Jahan returned, Jezebel realised that her little display with her attendants had attracted the attention of the room again. She smiled, determined to hold it for as long as possible.
“Jahan,” she said, her tone cool, “put your tray down and move over there. Take a spare chair with you.” She gestured to a large window that had a slightly raised floor protruding from it like a small stage. The man obeyed and placed his chair on the platform.
“Demon,” she leaned down to unclip Mila’s collar from the lead with a small laugh, “join him, but take this bowl.”
Mila’s stomach dropped as she found her feet again. She was finally free from the lead, but she was acutely aware of the attention. The buzzing hunger for entertainment that hung about the room felt as dangerous as finding herself standing inside an angry wasps’ nest. All eyes were on her as she was handed a bowl that held small, sweet grapes in it.
Something about the pageantry of the directions and Jezebel’s cruel energy pulsing throughout the room made her survival instincts kick in.
Now was not the time for escape .
She moved over obediently to where Jahan stood and waited for further direction.
“Now, Jahan,” Jezebel called from her seat, directing them as if she were an orchestral conductor, “sit down, and demon, I want you to sit on his lap, and feed him grapes.”
Jahan did not hesitate. His face was a mask of composure as he sat in the chair and looked blandly up at Mila, radiating his resignation to whatever was about to happen. Mila slowly, agonisingly, turned to face him.
The whole room paused in their meal, watching in amusement. As she stood over Jahan, Mila considered for a moment refusing the command, weighing the cost of her defiance. The answer to that question was the gaping hole where Jahan’s eye had once been, and eventually, her fear of Jezebel’s retribution won out. She finally placed her legs over Jahan, straddling his lap as commanded.
Someone from the table gave a drunken, appreciative whistle.
“Wonderful.” Jezebel clapped, her hard eyes shining. “Poor Jahan’s been working so hard recently, and with only one eye too. He deserves a little rest and attention, I think.”
“Don’t we all?” another man of the company called out, and Mila shivered in fear.
She raised a grape to Jahan’s mouth. Haltingly, he parted his lips for her, and she placed it in. They did not speak, but as he chewed and swallowed, he watched her cautiously. He made no move to touch her – hands remaining as though rooted to the sides of the chair – and she lifted another grape.
His lack of movement caught Jezebel’s attention.
“You have a beautiful creature on your lap, Jahan,” she crowed. “I know she’s a demon, but if you don’t at least touch her, I’m going to think you’re unappreciative of my goodwill. ”
Jahan’s hands left their place and moved to Mila’s sides.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly as he placed them against her waist and moved them slowly up and down her body.
“Whatever we have to do to survive,” was all she dared whisper back in response, placing another grape in his mouth.
Together, they breathed slowly in and out, enduring this moment as a single unit, wondering if the next order from Jezebel would demand more.
Jahan’s hands were not exploratory upon her body. They maintained a repeated, predictable pattern, as though he were a man petting a cat for comfort rather than a man groping a woman for the pleasure of a voyeuristic audience. Mila found the sensation of the weight and warmth of them almost comforting.
Jezebel grew disgruntled with the obvious lack of fire between the two of them, as if she’d somehow expected them to passionately fall into one another’s arms for her entertainment on a whim.
“He needs a little more encouragement, I think, demon. Kiss him.”
Mila reminded herself that public humiliation was just a tactic of the vulgar. Kissing Jahan for Jezebel’s amusement did not diminish her unless she let it. She could still move, breathe, smell, see…and so long as she was still able to do all those things, she would survive, she could escape one day.
She repeated that mantra over and over as she leaned forward and placed a hand to the unharmed side of his handsome face before kissing him. It was a chaste kiss, no more than a placement of her soft lips upon his, but the close connection meant she was swamped momentarily by his energy. It was calm and stoic, Jahan accepting the moment for what it was and taking strength from her strength. For the first time in her life, Mila found an energy that exactly matched hers, and it was the most reassuring sensation she’d ever experienced. It felt as though they were both helping the other cling to a rock in a turbulent ocean.
The solidarity after weeks of isolation caused her so much joy that she couldn’t help herself. Almost as a reflex, she leaned into his energy, and by doing so, she involuntarily deepened the kiss, turning her head slightly to take in more of him. His hands tightened around her waist in response, and from behind her, she heard another wolf whistle.
“That’s more like it.” Jezebel’s gratified energy hit Mila from behind, waking her from the spell of the safe space Jahan had offered.
She drew back from him, clear-eyed but a little flustered. “I’m sorry.” It was her turn to whisper now.
He nodded. “Whatever we have to do to survive,” he repeated her words back to her.
“You know, Princess,” a man said from behind them. “If you like this sort of entertainment, I have some slaves especially trained for this. Perhaps we could schedule another visit soon, and I’ll bring them along.”
“Mmm, that does sound interesting. Demon, fetch me some more wine, then come rub Vastifan’s feet as he elaborates further.”
Obediently, Mila rose, grateful that her role in the spectacle seemed to be over for now, but also mournful for the sudden distance she now had to put between herself and Jahan. His calm energy and close heat had felt protective. Its absence made her feel cast adrift again.
She moved over to where the old man, Vastifan, held out a clean-ish foot for her to rub with a very satisfied smile on his face. She took it without hesitating, hoping that her continued compliance would distract Jezebel from clipping her back onto the lead. And it worked. She remained free to move around the room, but unfortunately, not free from Jezebel’s hawk-like attention .
Jezebel forced Mila to dance for the men during dessert and wield demonstrations of her power like a fortune teller during the rounds of port. Most of the room’s occupants found the entire thing delightful, Culis watched it all intensely, and Jahan stood impassively behind Jezebel’s chair, burning with feelings of sympathy.
Mila repeated her mantra to herself.
It doesn’t diminish you unless you let it. Survive and you can escape.
With this playing in circles inside her head, she kept her emotions in check and simply continued to do what she needed to do to survive the evening.
* * *
Once the dessert had been cleared, Culis again approached Jezebel’s seat and knelt beside her, placing his face close to hers. The two spoke conspiratorially, with bemused smiles on their faces, and not even Mila could make out what they were saying. Jezebel was leaning in, lips pursed and cleavage bursting. Culis was less intoxicated but playing a game he knew well. He leaned in, close enough to blow a soft kiss of breath against her jugular, and Jezebel’s eyes rolled back, anticipating the lips that never came.
Infuriated, she abruptly stood from the table and took his hand, pulling him from the room and out onto the small balcony at the side.
Mila coolly glanced around the room to see who else had noticed their departure.
No one.
This was the moment. It would never come again.
Her heart pounded as she slowly reached for the dirty napkins on the table, acting as though she were assisting the servers in clearing them. Dirty napkins in hand, she walked slowly in the direction of the servers’ door, wondering if any eyes in the room were following her .
They were not. The dinner guests were all engrossed in their own private conversations.
Mila continued to pace towards the servers’ door. She was five steps away, four steps, three…
Clink.
A noise by her ear made her jump, and she spun to see Jahan by her side. For a moment, she wondered with elation if he was coming with her, but then she saw the golden lead in his hand, the end of which was now securely reattached to her collar, and her stomach plummeted.
Jahan said nothing, but his eyes and energy told her that he’d seen everything and knew exactly what she was trying to do. She wondered if he’d tell Jezebel. She had the sick thought that perhaps tomorrow morning, she would find herself also blinded. She began to tremble in fear as she followed him back to the place beside Jezebel’s empty chair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him.
“Clearing the napkins is a servers’ role, not yours,” he said coldly, then, almost as an afterthought he added, “I didn’t think ‘whatever it takes to survive’ meant signing my death warrant.”
She realised then that he believed Jezebel would have punished him in retaliation if Mila had escaped, and perhaps he was right. She hadn’t thought of that.
“I’m sorry,” she said again and then dared the next words. “Come with me. While we still have this chance. Let’s leave this place.”
Mila felt her words strike a strange chord within the man. His energy shifted to one of intense fear, and also shame, as if he was ashamed that a demon could believe him so easily swayed away from his beliefs and his prestigious role. He did not deign to reply to her question, and Mila turned from him in misery.
Thwarted. And she’d been so close.
It didn’t seem real. She couldn’t believe that this opportunity had been taken from her so abruptly. Jahan would surely report her escape attempt to Jezebel, and her life wouldn’t be worth living. She couldn’t give up now. She had to do something tonight, had to change something about her situation now.
In a moment of inspired desperation, she stuck her foot out just as Eliza in her serving role was backing away from the table, causing the poor woman to trip. A crystal goblet she’d been carrying spun in the air before striking the corner of the table. It smashed into several large, jagged pieces.
Mila dropped to her knees, wincing with pain as she hit the floor, but ensuring that her dress covered a large piece of glass.
“I’m so sorry,” she said loudly and made a show of helping Eliza and other servers collect each piece of visible glass on the floor before her.
As she stood, she tried to discretely palm the piece of glass that had been hidden beneath her dress, and perhaps Jahan would have caught her in the act if Jezebel hadn’t returned from the balcony at that moment, looking dishevelled and deeply unhappy. The sound of a smashed glass wouldn’t have been enough to break her preoccupation with Culis, but it had served as a sufficient enough excuse for him to extract himself from her, and she was very unimpressed.
The princess now moved to where Jahan and Mila stood and snatched Mila’s lead back into her hand. Her energy was roiling and raging with hurt and fury, as though she couldn't believe she'd been abandoned so easily. She shot Mila a daggered, accusatory glance as she then, without ceremony or need to excuse herself, stormed out of the hall and back to the carriage. She dragged Mila painfully by the neck all the way back to her apartments and into bed.
* * *
The sex was demanding and angry .
For once, Mila was not in control, but simply a vessel for Jezebel to unleash her pain and hurt. At the end, Mila found herself holding the furious, desolate and heavily intoxicated woman, who sobbed large, salty tears into her collarbone.
“Ignored and rejected…after everything I’ve done for him,” she cried. “Nobody loves me unless they can use me.”
Mila made soothing noises and held her as she trembled, rocking her as a mother gently rocks a distraught child.
It became clear then that the ordeal Jezebel had put her and Jahan through tonight had been, in some warped way, all about impressing Culis. But it had backfired. It hadn’t made him more impressed with Jezebel. It had simply made him more curious about Mila.
Mila couldn’t help but feel a modicum of pity seep through for the woman.
The life Jezebel had here in Jeralusah was opulent, but not a good one. She was lonely most of the time and continually hurt by those around her. Her mother had died soon after her birth and she’d been raised by simpering servants. She didn’t know how to interact with others to achieve what she wanted and so resorted to childish petulance and irrationality to maintain people’s attention.
Mila knew that, deep down, she just wanted what anyone wanted: to be loved unconditionally, to have friends who noticed her needs and enjoyed her company. She wanted to be admired and respected, by colleagues and lovers, but instead, she was merely tolerated – and she knew it.
Her status was her curse. Who would Jezebel have been if she hadn’t been the daughter of the God-King?
Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Jezebel’s hiccups turned into a snore, and Mila detangled herself from the mess of arms and legs, moving obediently, under the watchful eye of the Guard of the Body, back to her dog mattress at the foot of Jezebel’s bed. There, she subtly retrieved the small shard of glass that she’d tossed under the bed as they’d entered the room. She lay on her side with her back to the guard, pretending to fall asleep as she quickly tore a tiny hole in the fabric underside and tucked the glass shard safely inside.
She then let out a deep breath, trying to expel the stress of the evening from her body.
She was alive. She’d survived. And now, she thought with a grim smile, picturing the shard safely tucked beneath her, she was comforted by the knowledge that if she really needed to, she could slit Jezebel’s throat.