Chapter 39
THE POISONER
My new flat was full of the scent of pine and apple.
Phoebe and John were in the kitchen sorting out the goose and pies, Rebecca and Mary were tending the fire, and everyone else had found a seat on couches, chairs, or cushions on the floor.
The glass observatory was the most popular seating area, as the girls enjoyed looking at the busy streets below or the sky above.
We had to use nearly every full kitchen for the geese since they had the largest ovens. The breads were done in the ground-floor communal kitchen since it would be closest to our pantry with the flour. Others made their own small dishes in their own kitchens to fill out the plates.
We managed to find a decent tree to display this year. It was tall and proud in the middle of the room, the centerpiece of the evening, with the couches rearranged around it. Last year, we completely forgot and ended up sticking a broom in a corner to mark where the presents would go.
The tree was covered in strings of cranberries and popped corn while fruits were nestled in between the branches, waiting for when they would be plucked off later as a late-night treat. Candles balanced on the branches, flames dancing like timid ghosts.
The mantel on the far side of the room had a long pine garland draped over it, adding a pleasant scent to the smell of burning hickory. Decorating the garland were dried circular slices of orange to add a bit of color to the green.
The girls were dressed as festively as their surroundings. Velvet textures, knitted blankets, and borrowed ribbons as accessories. They made perfumes from spare orange peels, juniper, or concentrated vanilla.
With all the ruction, I never knew what to do with myself. Much like typical parties, I found myself becoming a mute in a far-off corner, the silent observer most comfortable in the shadows.
Not only was I out of my typical environment, but I was barely in my own clothes.
A deep green gown with black ribbon details.
One of those ribbons was tied around my throat with the bow to the side.
The stones in my ears were almost as heavy as my hair.
I styled my locks half up, yet I could feel the soreness starting at the back of my neck.
Borrowed clothing, borrowed jewelry, borrowed time; all to myself.
The entire morning was dedicated to cooking, starting as early as four o’clock. I helped make apple cider, the only thing I knew how to do. The trick was to add an orange and an equal amount of red and green apples to the simmer pot, then add bourbon or rum to taste.
The geese had been cooking most of the morning. They were huge, and justifiably so due to the number of mouths we were feeding. Some girls made other small dishes to pick at with fresh bread.
Phoebe interrupted the chatter by ringing the dinner bell. “The geese need to rest, so let us trade gifts while we wait!” she announced.
The dampened muttering returned to life as people got up to grab their presents to distribute. One by one, people plucked the wrapped boxes and scurried to find their gifts’ intended.
I planted myself in the corner, out of the way, in no rush to participate.
Luka was sitting off to the side, watching the mayhem as well.
It seems that I wasn’t the only one with the same line of thought.
I almost expected him to harbor some sort of animosity in that proud posture of his.
Instead, he looked disjointed, longing, awkward above all else.
He sent unsure glances at his cup, in embarrassment of wherever his mind wandered to.
He reminded me of a terrible child knowing that coal awaited him under the Christmas tree, not bothering to get his hopes up for anything more.
Then, Edith approached him, sitting next to him as she clutched a small, parchment-wrapped box with twine string. Luka gave her a puzzled look as she spoke. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I watched her lips move quickly; then she stopped and bit her lip.
She handed him the box, and he froze, unsure of what to do.
In clear shock that he had received anything at all.
As he tugged the strings and unwrapped the box, he gently lifted the cover from it.
His face went through what looked like the seven stages of grief.
He glanced back at her before looking down again.
He lifted a proper inking pen from the box.
I didn’t think it was possible, but I swore I saw tears in that man’s eyes.
He raised his hands, my heart leapt, only to settle when he slowly hugged her. Though in the embrace, his chin buried in her shoulder, and his eyes clenched shut, like he was holding any sort of human resemblance back.
The gesture made me flinch; it was wholly unexpected from a thing like him.
Everyone formed groups after trading gifts, gathering around to spectate as they shared their gifts with one another.
Mary made another member a skirt with embroidered flowers along the trim.
Rebecca bought Mary a few porcelain thimbles with little blue details painted on them.
Others traded ribbons, hats, shoes, sweets, and whatever else they had collected or made for one another. The whole thing was very heartwarming.
The unfortunate part of all this merrymaking was that, even with the beautifully touching atmosphere, I ached inside.
I itched for something stronger than the liquor in the cider.
The way I couldn’t find a place to put my hands unless they were crossed, shifting on my heels as I leaned against the doorway to my room, the urge to retreat quietly and close the door behind me.
I was able to break away from my post to refill my cider, moving to the kitchen where a pot of cider rested next to the turkey, potatoes, vegetables, and pie. As delicious as it looked, I couldn’t bring my appetite to allow it.
“Alina?” Phoebe spoke from the archway of the kitchen.
“Oh, merry Christmas, Phoebe.” I smiled tiredly, eyeing the pot before reluctantly turning away from it. “I’m beginning to doubt we can finish all of this food, for once.”
She stepped forward, eyeing the cider pot.
She was wearing a red dress, bolder than her usual girlish colors.
The sturdy fabric extended high on her neck, framing her pale face between the fire of her dress and hair.
It made her seem older, mature. For once, there was something more vibrant than her locks.
“Merry Christmas.” Her eyes fluttered to mine, her hands behind her back.
“No,” I caviled. “I told you I do not need anything this year.”
“Don’t worry; I didn’t spend a dime,” she laughed. She took my left hand. “Close your eyes.”
I sighed but gave in to her request. She pinched around my fourth finger.
When I opened my eyes, a ring lay there.
It was a gold band with small diamonds and a ruby stamped within small, engraved designs.
The circular ruby was placed in the middle with a smaller diamond on either side.
The gold gave it an expensive glow. I already knew it was too much.
“Before you scold me about money”—Phoebe held my hand tightly—“it was my mother’s. I came across it recently when going through some of my things. I am not a fan of rubies, but I didn’t have the heart to sell it. I thought it would look best on you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. I don’t trust anyone but you to do it justice.”
“You are a sap.” I smiled, hugging her tightly. “It is lovely. Now I have a total of two pieces of jewelry,” I laughed.
“I wanted to give it to you before I started carving the geese,” she giggled. “Go relax. Rest. Enjoy the holiday for once.”
“You say that like I have become elderly.”
“Twenty-five is quite a rickety number.”
“We are the same age.”
“I’m about ten months younger, if we are going to nitpick!” She pulled away to begin prepping.
I played with the ring, spinning it on my finger with my thumb to watch it shine, abandoning my original reason for going to the kitchen.
As I turned to enter the archway to the living room area, I bumped into a hard chest.
“Did the raven find something shiny?” Silas purred.
“Gifted, not found,” I corrected.
That is when I remembered.
I was supposed to get Silas a gift.
I gulped, fidgeting with the ring, hoping he wasn’t bold enough to expect anything more from me. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was staring expectantly.
He placed his hands on my waist and stepped forward, making me take a few steps back to meticulously place me in one specific spot on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled, glancing at his hands on my hips, keeping me firmly in place.
He smirked, then he tipped his head, staring directly above us.
Hanging from the wooden beam on the ceiling was a piece of mistletoe, neatly wrapped in a black ribbon.
“If I give you this, will you leave me alone?”
“If you don’t, does that mean I get to bother you for the rest of the night?” His voice was just above a whisper, lingering above me. “Well, that seems more fun, if you ask me.”
He tensed under my palms as I smoothed them over his shoulders.
I stood on my toes, whispering close to his ear. “Must everything be a game to you?”
“It seems to be the only way to keep you interested.”
“You’re lucky I entertain it at all.” My voice was so quiet, the words almost didn’t manifest as my lips hovered over his.
Then, like some irresistible force, I kissed him.
His lips moved against mine, like they were waiting for an excuse to meet, waiting to be invited with steady patience.
As I relaxed against him, his tension melted like sugar turned to caramel. I could taste the cider on his tongue, or was it from my own? The mix of pine from the room and the familiar scent of tobacco teased my senses, the thread of good memories at the tip of our tongues.
His hands found their place around my waist, and my rigid posture thawed under his palm.
One hand cupped the side of my neck, gently this time, his thumb brushing against my ear.
A small gasp came from him in an attempt to breathe, to gather himself before deepening, tipping me back slightly as if desperate to keep me, in fear I would run.
For a minute, I forgot that itch to be elsewhere. My arms slipped around his neck to keep from falling back. I was, for once, feeling like I belonged right where I was. There was no deal, no Vipera, no death, no qualms.
I broke our kiss to breathe, and I caught him looking at me. He raised his hand to touch my cheek, then my lips, then to raise my chin again so he could taste me some more.
“Silas,” my voice shook, “we can’t.”
“Why not?” he whispered, straining.
I didn’t have a good answer.
“Will you visit me tonight?” he teased, his thumb running over my cheek.
“We are in the same place.”
“No, later.” He smirked.
“I think you have to earn visits like that.”
“Shall I buy another building? I can do that, too.”
“Silas,” I scolded, but I admit it was a cheeky comment.
“Will you really be so cruel? After not getting me a gift?” His head sloped to the side, refusing to look away.
“My presence is your gift, that is what you have been begging me for, is it not?” I pried myself from his arms, almost instantly regretting the absence of him.
I did not have to regret it for long, as my hand was snatched back. He pulled me along the wall, past the excitement of the evening.
“It’s almost time for dinner—”
“I’m not hungry,” he interrupted, slipping me past the crowd and closing the door to my room behind us.
Compared to the parlor, my room was dark and muffled, like waking suddenly from a vibrant dream. The only proof of color was peeking from under the door, a warm light closed off from the lonely confines.
I stepped back, the sudden muffled sound of Christmas music and people merely a thrumming in the background, dampened by the walls between us.
He approached, his hand reaching out, but I avoided the touch.
“Don’t be like that.” He pinched the tail of the ribbon around my neck. “My present wrapped up all pretty for me? You shouldn’t have.”
My breath hitched, feeling the ribbon tighten on my throat before it loosened, slipping away across my skin.
He played with it between his fingers, brushing the silk against his cheek. “There is nowhere to run, nowhere to slip away to,” he reminded me, taking a step forward.
I stepped back in tandem, my back hitting the French doors of the balcony.
He hung over me, his eyes reflecting the last bit of light that was quickly disappearing over the buildings. If I looked too long, they would burn into my retinas, and I would never be rid of them again.
“It’s a bit warm in here,” he mumbled, slipping his hand behind me to unlatch the doors, sending me stumbling backward.
He tugged me forward by the waist.
My nails dug into his shoulders, squeezing tight.
He leaned down, his lips skating across mine. “Do you want me to let go this time?”
I let out a quick, nervous huff of laughter, side-eyeing the semi-circular balcony edge.
He hooked his free hand around my waist, the other one removed from my neck, and took my hand in his. The neck ribbon from his hand fluttered into the air when a small breeze blew forward, sending it out into the air and getting smaller as it descended toward the street below.
“You wouldn’t let me go, even if I asked you to,” I finally replied, my breath hitching when the cold air hit my face.
His slow smirk grew at my words. “Escaping me would never be as easy as a request, my dearest fixation.”
“Then where do we go from here?” I hummed.
The music from the main parlor room traveled lightly with the wind. It was quieter being at the top floor of a building, so all we had was the music traveling from the cracked window, and the smell of crisp winter to wake the spirits.
He held me close, and then a small sway along with the music, my hand in his, his hand on my waist. “We will go wherever you please.”
I laughed again, leaning against him. “And if I say I’d like to go beyond the clouds?”
“I will find a way.”
“Even if it is impossible?”
“I think we have shown each other enough of the impossible already.” He lifted my hand, giving me a slow spin before dipping me. “Everything worth something has a place.”
“And where is yours?” I asked. “Your place?”
“Wrapped around the fourth finger of your left hand.”
I rolled my eyes as he pulled me up straight, and a bell chimed sharply in the distance, within the main rooms.
We stood, nearly nose to nose. Every breath was impossible to hide when the frozen posture gave away how much or how little we did so in each other’s presence. I leaned up on my toes again, my lips against his cheek and then his ear. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Forbes.”
With that, I left him for the warmth of the festivities. He did not join us for the feast that night.