Chapter Twenty-Four
In anticipation of the party, Orrin and I settle into a routine.
In the mornings, we wake together, whether in his bed or mine.
We eat breakfast, then spend the day together or apart.
If apart, he trains with Mr. Brown, practicing his fighting, though I wonder if it’s simply a way for him to channel his energy because how much better can he get?
Still, I worry he won’t be good enough, even though he’s had over a century to hone his skill, give or take a few decades—I’m not entirely sure how old he is, come to think of it.
I only hope that if it comes down to a physical struggle that he can best Elisavet’s brawny guards.
My anxiety tells me that she is unbeatable, that we’re fools to even try.
To distract myself, I read or flip through Sélie’s drawing pad, even though I think I’ve memorized each sketch.
There are several portraits of Pearl, which lead me to think, rather gratefully, that she’s joined Sélie at the shop, that they’ve become friends—which means my sister isn’t alone after all.
And I practice my dancing, pushing so hard I astound even myself. I count down the hours until I can be with Orrin again each day.
As we spend time together, the stories of our lives unfold naturally. A beautiful comfort develops.
Splayed across Orrin’s lower body, my chin on his thigh, I stroke his skin absentmindedly as the morning dawns; it’s been about a week since Aven came here.
I say, glimpsing the book on his side table, the spine stamped in gold with one word: Lowell, “I forgot you had books in here, that you like to read too. What is that one about?”
“It’s poetry.”
“Poetry? You continue to surprise me, Orrin.”
“Do I?” he muses, fingers tenderly playing in my hair. He waits a beat, then his sleepy voice starts:
“Hold your soul open for my welcoming.
Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me…
Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,
That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire,
The life and joy of tongues of flame,
And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune,
I may rouse the blear-eyed world,
And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.”
He finishes reciting, his hand pausing in my waves.
We don’t say anything for a few moments.
“I love that,” I tell him. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“I like that one,” he answers, meeting my eyes. A hint of nervousness comes over me, and I look down, uncertain what to reply. I move my fingertips along his nude body, finding my own form of poetry in the tenderness of touch.
When I graze his navel, he sucks in a sharp breath.
I look up, smiling innocently. “Ticklish?”
“You could say that.”
“I wouldn’t think you would be.” I run my fingers along the tattoos on his torso, getting a proper glance at them in the light.
I don’t know why I haven’t studied them before.
Maybe because we’ve been so hurried. So full of heat, and mostly making love at night, in the dim light of candles, or in the sleepy haze of morning, barely coherent.
“You have a soft touch, despite your sharp tongue,” he says sternly, a playful glint in his black gaze. He unabashedly admires my nakedness.
One tattoo catches my eye, and I pause my seduction, looking up at him in surprise. “A Pins anchor?” It’s the same one Wil had, and Darius too—an anchor with a heart, struck through with three pins, the banner cut across it: courage, heart, home.
Orrin says, musing, “I was a sailor. In The Pins. I grew up here.”
I don’t even attempt to hide my shock. “When?”
“About a thousand years ago.”
I sit up, gaping at him. “Really? That old?”
He laughs, reaching over to pinch my plump backside. “No.”
“How old are you?” I study his handsome face with curiosity, his dark hair, his lean, beautiful body. “You don’t look old.”
“I was twenty-eight when I changed—not much more than you are now. And now I’m one hundred and…fifty-two, but only just.”
“Oh,” I say faintly. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift.”
He dances his fingers over my collarbone, down to my breasts. “You did.” Then he pulls me up to sit astride him, my full thighs on either side of his hard, naked body. “Now give it to me again.”
“Did you live in this house when you were here before, as a human, I mean?” I ask as we wander the grounds a few days later, passing the fountain.
My new cloak flutters in the breeze, as deep green, as rich as a summer forest. It is fall in the here and now, though.
The leaves have been changing, turning brilliant red in spots, tarnished gold in others.
The air is cool as it whistles through the trees.
If I’m not mistaken, I think I notice a squirrel perched on one branch.
It’s gone before I look back at it. “You are a Colehart.”
Orrin shakes his head. “I am, but no, I never lived here as a human. It belonged to other Coleharts, distant family. I was poor. I lived near the docks when I was a boy, with my mother, whose family was still in the East. I grew up with boats. The ocean was practically my father.”
“Where was your real father?”
“He died when I was a baby. Lost at sea.”
“The sea takes a lot of people.” I think about Darius.
I squeeze Orrin’s hand and will him to speak so I don’t have to. He takes my hint, nodding in sympathy. If anyone would understand it would be a former sailor. “It does. But I missed it. I’ve moved a lot and not always near the ocean.”
“Moved to be with Elisavet?”
“Sometimes following her, yes.” A wry smile. “Sometimes running from her, as I told you. Such was the case in the last few decades.”
“Did you have friends there in the court? Not just lovers?”
“Many. But not like Glisa. Not like you.” He looks off in the distance, at the sky. His tight inhalation of breath tells me he is not sure he should have said that. There’s still a way he holds back from me.
He pulls me into the abandoned greenhouse, one of the few parts of the grounds I have yet to explore. It is thick with heat and the wilted green smells of herbs, dried flowers, mildewed soil, heavy, however still pleasant.
I lean into his side as we stroll through the greenhouse. “You should fix this up,” I say. I pause to lift a scraggly vine between my fingers. I release it to pick up a small pot with a dead flower, dried and brown in the middle.
“You think?”
“It makes me melancholy, seeing this place. It could be really beautiful.” I look up, and in an instant, the greenhouse transforms. Instead of the broken, dirty panes in the windows, light streams through sparkling glass.
Instead of wilted greens, forgotten flowers, and the hint of decay, everything is green, healthy, lush.
The pot in my hand contains a fully bloomed dahlia, petals pink as a sunset.
“Oh!” I blink. Then it is all gone. I stare at Orrin. “What was that?”
He shrugs, but a smile tilts one side of his mouth. “Nothing, only a parlor trick.”
“What else can you do besides parlor tricks? Can you really bring people back from the dead? You never actually said.”
“Theoretically, I believe so, except it’s a messy art, playing with death, and I’m not sure even Elisavet knows how to fully do it. She may have mastered the art of cheating it, leaning into immortality…but reversing it? I don’t know that it’s something she would do a trade for, to be frank.”
“Then she probably wouldn’t have told Aven she could have her husband and baby back?”
“I doubt it.” He shakes his head. “Death is best left alone, even for our kind.”
“What is it like, do you think? Is there a heaven and hell?” I ask him.
“I’m still not sure. Probably darkness, nothing. Until we return again. I believe our souls live many lives. Some of us more than others.”
“I’ve always been curious about that. Living again,” I say. “I believe so too. But I do like the idea of heaven as well.”
“I know. Though I think heaven can exist on earth sometimes.” His eyes hold mine.
Suddenly shy, I set the pot with the pitiful flower down where I found it, and we keep walking. “You should find a gardener.”
“A level of anonymity has kept me secure, not to mention the fewer staff, the less work for me to manipulate their…understanding of me. But, for you, I will find someone, whether local or not. Do you know anyone good with plants and flowers?”
Voice soft, I say, “Aven.”
Bittersweetly, I remember her tending her lavender and her roses and her lilies.
Her strawberries and herbs for our apothecary.
Remembering her barefoot in the garden Mavis started so many years ago.
Remembering her bringing bundles of flowers into the cottage, setting them on the table with a broad smile, so pleased with herself, with the world itself.
Orrin stops walking to wrap his arms around me. “Then I will ask. After we rescue her, when she’s feeling better. She can bring this broken place back to life, as you have done for me.”
I lean up and kiss him. Words are, as he said before, so inadequate.
Weeks pass by in a breath, and finally it is the afternoon of the full moon.
I come to the ballroom to dance, as I have so many times before.
Though our relationship has taken on a completely different form than how it started, enemies turned to allies turned to lovers, I’ve kept dancing.
It brings us both comfort, a routine he appreciates for the entertainment and the beauty, and for me, the act of dancing itself.
I use the red and pink slippers interchangeably now.
Orrin has been wild all day, pacing and desperate, but when he takes his seat in front of me, he visibly relaxes, waiting for me to move for him. I’m grateful for the chance to ease his anxiety.
I go slow, taking tiny steps across the floor in the red shoes. I twirl then lift my arms gracefully in attitude, holding each pose just so. Taking the ache of my heart along with the steps. Because this can’t be it. Because I don’t want it to be. But also, because I’m not a fool.
It’s a long routine, unplanned, but somehow perfect. I see it on Orrin’s beautiful face as he watches me, and I think, maybe, in this moment, he is truly happy. That his soul is happy.
Something within me breaks open and I could weep, even as I spin.
He is not so much a demon as a broken spirit. I do not seek to fix what is broken, and I never set out to do so. I don’t pretend to be his savior. I will, however, allow myself to celebrate what has been salvaged. And I refuse to let it go now.
With a sharp realization, I know the truth behind this dance. The way the slippers tug me toward the movements, as if there’s a secret behind it all.
I love him. So I pull all the power from the shoes that I can, to show him, to let him see what I am feeling better than I can say myself. I dance it for him.
I dance for his greatness, his passion, his wicked grin and gentle touch, his words, his truth, his darkness.
I dance for his kisses, and his black gaze, and his power, and his weakness.
For the piece of his soul I have discovered, that I refuse to surrender.
My whole body goes warm, his own seeming to brim with a golden aura, a magical light that makes me ache with its beauty.
Orrin grimaces suddenly, and I drop out of relevé, something snagging at me, sharp and painful.
“What? What’d I do?” I ask in alarm.
Still cringing, he murmurs, “I think you were, um, touching my soul a bit again. Sort of pulling on it or something.”
“Oh.” I take a step back, the intensity that was blooming in me softening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t apologize. That was incredible, your dance.” Orrin smiles, eyes shining. “Just get over here already.”
I don’t bother with a curtsey, something that went from a reluctant formality to an impertinent finish over time.
I walk over to him, as he sits in the chair at the head of the room, lean down to kiss him before straightening up.
He draws his hands up my skirts, yanks my drawers down, reaches for me with greedy fingers.
I cast my eyes to the door, where Mr. Brown has already slipped out.
Orrin nods toward the doors and the click of the locks are audible. I raise a brow. “Really?”
“Easy. Another parlor trick.”
“Now what?” My breath is a whisper.
Then he makes love with me, in the ballroom, dying sun outside the windows, autumn leaves falling through the sky, leaving the last of the trees bare.
I want it to be happy and light, to be centered around passion instead of fear, but there is a heaviness, a desperation to our coupling.
Though neither one of us says it aloud, it feels like the last time.