Twenty-One
Avirin
By the time they reach Mothry Cottage, Avirin has mostly recovered. It is a relief to no longer be trapped in the city amongst the gossip about what she looks like. What she’s done. What a threat she poses. With a steadying breath, she pulls back the curtain to take in the scenery.
The cottage is no hovel, but it is smaller than the sprawling manors occupied by most of the ton.
It is a stone building on the hillside, resting amongst the trees with ivy climbing over its facade.
Flowers bloom in a garden that wraps around the building, and in the distance, Avirin sees rows and rows of trees forming an orchard.
When the coach comes to a halt, Pye swings down and opens the door. Selbie begins carrying Avirin’s bags inside, so Avirin pushes down the embarrassment from her outburst and steps down.
Pye’s open gaze makes her feel strange. He looks at her so certainly, no hesitation when her new face comes into view. It’s too much. She wants to turn his eyes away from her, so she focuses on the cottage. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Our —” Pye halts, as if the words might frighten her away. He faces the building. “I am pleased you like it. The previous owner was not one for upkeep, but I’m proud of the work we’ve done.”
“Previous owner? Your cousin, you mean?”
A smile tugs at Pye’s lips. His shoulders fall slack, like he can finally unburden himself of something he’s been carrying.
“Now that we are wed, I believe it’s only fair that I tell you the truth of my predicament.
” He lowers his voice, though there is no one else around to hear.
“I do not come from noble lineage. I have no relation to the previous lord — at least, no familial one. I was simply Lord Kyrven’s favorite whore. ”
Avirin’s mouth falls open. She has long heard the gossip, of course, but she never put any stake in it. There were so many conflicting stories about Lord Riften that one could never believe them all.
“I haven’t avoided suspicion, of course,” Pye continues.
“There is a particular sect of the gentry who would like me stripped of the title, mainly the men who joined Kyrven on his visits to the pleasure houses. Those men are still on the hunt for anything that could contradict the title’s succession, but Kyrven was thorough. ”
“So the rumors are true?”
“Not all of them.” Pye leads her inside through a set of delicate glass doors.
“I did not kill the lord to inherit his title. There was no blackmail. I did not earn my way into the will through a series of debauched nights with various noblemen. Although…” He winks. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”
Sweat pricks Avirin’s neck. She has no doubt Pye could “earn” his way into anyone’s good graces, but the lascivious thoughts make her throat close.
It has been days since she fed her succubus hunger, but the thought of doing so again makes her nauseous.
It reminds her of the last time she fed, before her entire life came crumbling down.
She must look ill, because Pye pauses. “You’ve had a long day.
You should rest.” He wastes no time guiding her to one end of the cottage.
Behind the beautifully carved door is a bedroom draped in luscious greens.
Avirin’s bags sit between a desk and a standing mirror, and by the bow window, there’s a chaise lounge that looks nearly as comfortable as the bed.
“You are welcome in any room in this house.” Pye holds out a brass key in their palm. “But this room belongs solely to you. You decide what happens here. Who enters, how to decorate, what you do within it…no one else has any say. Not me. Not your parents. Not anyone.”
She’s never had a place that was fully her own. Her mother had a key to Avirin’s previous bedchamber, and it was hard enough keeping anything a secret there. The room had always been decorated to her mother’s taste, pastel colors and soft florals.
Now, Avirin can scarcely take this all in. The room is deliciously moody and dark, a perfect place to curl up with a good book, but there isn’t a sign of Pye anywhere. No clothing in the armoire. No brushes in front of the mirror. No glasses on either nightstand.
A question pecks at the back of her mind. “And where do you stay?”
When she looks at him, she’s suddenly aware of how alone they are. How close they are in the doorway. Their bodies give off warmth at the threshold, and Pye looks at her for a long moment before they answer.
“My room is on the other side of the house. I wanted you to have space for yourself.” Their voice is lower than before, but they don’t clear it, letting their gaze dip to her lips. “But as I said. You are welcome in every room of this cottage…including that one.”
Her breath draws tight. She wants to say more, to get closer, but when she moves, her horn snags on the doorframe and yanks her to a halt.
Pye reaches to free her, but when he does, she spots herself in the mirror. Ugly horns curve back along her head. Her eyes are a bottomless pit of black above the dark hollows beneath them. The tip of her nose is flushed from crying. Her cheeks are red and puffy.
She can’t stand to look at herself. To be seen.
Throbbing with shame, she ducks away, her voice lodging in her throat. “I should like to settle in. Thank you.”
Pye looks surprised, but when Avirin retreats into the room, he remains in the hallway. “As you wish. Let me know if you desire anything.” His gaze lingers on hers for a moment longer. “And do know that I am here.”
Once Avirin gets the door closed, she takes a wobbling breath, and the deluge of emotion finally overtakes her.
She covers the mirror and draws the curtains tight.
This is her wedding night. She knows what is expected of her, but the thought of being touched by Pye in this state fills her with nausea.
She can’t stand to imagine his tenderness when she is horrific and brutish, her body jutting out in places that it shouldn’t.
Everything is heavy and lopsided and wrong, and none of it is helped by her adjustment to this new place.
Avirin has never done well with change. Gorgeous as Mothry Cottage is, it is different. She is different. She is married.
During the ceremony, she hardly noticed the ring Pye adorned her with, far too focused on keeping herself from breaking down.
Now, though, she lies on her bed and holds her left hand in her other.
The ring really is a beautiful thing: gold, like all her other jewelry, with three emeralds set inside it.
Her heart swells. It matches the earrings she wore for her first lesson with Pye.
She feels the sudden urge to go to him, to wrap herself in his arms, to let herself fall apart, but the thought of exposing more of herself keeps her rooted in her bedroom.
Over the days, Pye brings her meals, but she doesn’t let him in.
His kindness is too strange. She can’t imagine what she’s done to deserve it, nor what he’s done to deserve her being foisted upon him.
When Pye comes to her room, she intercepts them, doing no more than peeking through the darkened doorway.
“Leave it on the tray, please,” she croaks. “Thank you.”
He stares at her so intensely that she isn’t sure what to do with it. Somehow, it’s as if he sees her horns and also past them into the very depths of her being.
“You don’t have to hide,” he murmurs. “Your true nature is not a blemish. No one here will look at you any differently. You do not have to bear it alone.”
She wants to believe it, but she remembers what happened after the kiss.
The closed door to her father’s study. The disgust on her mother’s face.
The trickle of visitors the next morning, a parade of false pretenses hoping to gawk at the creature Avirin had become.
When she shakes her head, her horns knock against the wood.
“I can’t,” she whispers and shuts the door behind her.
Even hiding in her room, Avirin comes to recognize the sounds of the house.
It almost becomes a game to occupy the hours.
In the morning, there is no bustle of activity, only a warm hum as if the cottage itself is stretching lazily awake.
There are far fewer staff than Avirin would expect.
Of course, there is Selbie, who passes through the corridor humming a gentle tune that Avirin remembers from when she was a girl.
Another person walks much more quickly, always striding with purpose, as Avirin does.
And then there is Pye. Avirin strains to hear them, listening for the dips and shuffles in their gait.
They pass by at least seven times a day, their walk as unhurried as the rest of their motions.
She pictures them strolling past, that unmistakable swagger in their hips until they pause in front of her door — but they leave her alone, as she asked.
It’s not until the fifth night that Avirin finally leaves her room.