Sanctuary

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I t would be demure to hesitate. It would be a sign of a lady to pause before taking a man’s hand. But with a husband? Did women of stature lower their eyes when alone with the man they had married?

She took his hand, and he guided her to sit beside him.

“What,” she asked, a little more breathless than she would have preferred, aware of how her Ensign washed something like relief throughout her insides, “did you want to know about me?”

From her hand, Rand took the cup and poured more tea. “Anything. Your life before you came here. Your pastimes. Anything.”

Their fingers touched as he passed it back to her.

“I don’t think I have any pastimes. I grew up on a farm with fields to thresh. We had one cow and some chickens. I remember I always wanted to ride the cow and pretend it was a Lushu.”

“Your cow a mythical horse with a white head, tiger stripes, and a red tail. Did it neigh, as legend says, sounding like villagers singing?”

Petra smiled and shook her head. “That was difficult to imagine. Our sow protested whenever I tried to climb on her.”

He laughed and encouraged her to share more about her childhood.

Sights, sounds, and smells that had slipped from her senses came rushing back. She wished she had the right words to describe the sound of wind rushing over newly shorn grass. She wished she could relate what hay smelled like on a summer afternoon or the feel of a freshly laid egg, heavy and warm.

Petra told him about the hours she spent in the fields with her mother, planting, culling, and reaping. In the foggiest parts of her memories, she could still see her father’s figure. He worked himself into an early grave and then Aldney stepped forward, at the tender age of twelve, to do a grown man’s work. She recalled seasons when the harvest was thin and the rains unforgiving. She remembered her mother’s determination to teach her the little reading and writing she knew, so Petra would not be like most of the rural adolescent girls—ignorant.

Petra watched Rand listen. Sometimes it distracted her. He listened with his whole being, only sipping tea or adjusting his position when she paused to think. He looked at her in wonder, humor, and tenderness.

If I were a soldier, I would be proud to serve under him. See how he gives himself entirely to what he pledges. Hours ago, he swore himself to me and he listens to me now like we had courted for years. If I were a soldier, I would rush into battle for him. As it is, I will fight beside him as a woman can, as a wife can. This is my duty.

She told him about the times she and her mother fought. Back then, it did not seem like the small house could bear the pressure of their arguments, though she could not recall what any of the disputes had been about.

“My mother deserves everything I can give her. I’m glad she will live with us.”

“So am I,” he offered.

“I want her to have a maid. She’ll pretend she doesn’t like it but I know she will.”

“Choose her maid. You must have one as well.”

“I already know the woman I want, if she will come,” Petra replied, thinking of the friend she had left at the Washing House.

“Send for her before we leave.”

She nodded and leaned forward, picking up the kettle and topping off his cup.

“I do not,” she began, “know very much about you. I know nothing of your childhood. I don’t know what made the man I am married to.”

Simultaneously, Rand chuckled and scoffed. “What made me? Shall I tell you what I have discovered the meaning of life to be, as well?”

“ Have you discovered it?” she teased back. “There are many who would like to know.”

He tipped his head back, resting it on the wall behind, and closed his eyes.

There was a time, years ago, when he would have been loath to confess his childhood was a content one. His mother made her life’s work of making a home and doted on him daily, the only child she had successfully birthed alive. She, herself, came from an educated family and was his teacher up until he left for recruitment to the emperor’s army. His father was a bronze craftsman and did not demand Rand succeed him. In fact, his father made sure his son knew that he supported whatever decisions Rand made in life.

“Looking back,” he continued, “I wonder if that was because I was such a timid lad.”

“You? Timid?”

He smiled and Petra pretended it did not delight her.

“Yes. I was afraid of the kilns my father used. Loud sounds startled me, and I was nine before I made it through a full night’s sleep without wetting my blanket.”

Petra snorted to keep from laughing outright. “I’m...I mean, how awful that must have been for you.”

“My cousins teased me mercilessly. I ran to my mother in tears at least once every day.”

“Is that why you joined the army? To prove...?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not entirely, anyway. I did want to prove myself but joining took me far from the people I would have proved myself to. It was almost the opposite. Neither my father nor my mother asked me to be anyone other than who I was. I wanted to protect that. I wanted to defend those who safeguard.”

“I should like to meet your parents,” she said, observing how his memories turned his gaze far from where they sat.

“I would like the same. And you will.” He sighed. “When this is over.”

“Where do they live?”

“In Haiyang.”

“By the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”

Rand set his cup down and then took hers from her hand. “When we are there, we shall wake early to see the sunrise over the water. And I shall dive deep to find you a pearl. And if you want to be still and listen to the waves pound the shore, I will keep the wind from blowing your hair across your face.”

It was said simply. Matter-of-factly. Like he might tell her of the day’s itinerary. But something changed in the air of the little room. He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.

“Rand...”

“Petra, I am your husband. Your Sacrifice. You have taken all of my life and duties on with the grandeur of a hero. Men have crumbled under far, far less. Soldiers should aspire to keep their chins as high as you. I am strong enough to move the earth for whatever you want in our life together.”

Again, he stated it as fact. Like he might give marching orders to his men. But, oh, how he looked far into her eyes!

Under his gaze, she shivered and that was when he raised her hand to his mouth, kissing the slope of each knuckle with the reverence due to a princess. Around them, Petra swore the room shrunk. She swore he lingered over her skin before he looked up again and handed her the teacup she had forgotten the existence of.

***

C OME THE NEXT DAY, Petra woke early. No sooner had she come downstairs than Bartholomew informed her that invitations from various mansions had arrived, and she should expect visitors by early afternoon. All were curious to meet the bride of Captain Tsenturian. News of their marriage had ravaged the city like wildfire.

Petra looked at the mound of scrolls and folded invitations on the platter the manservant held. This was part of her life, now.

Upon all, in every walk of life, there are expectations. Once hers had been to milk the cow at sunrise and gather eggs. Now she must bear the brunt of social calls and act as if she had been bred for this since girlhood. What she wore and how she bore herself, her words and reactions, were now set to the upper-class societal standard. And those margins were narrow.

Petra exhaled heavily through her nose.

“I shall accept one of the invitations. Whoever’s is the most important. Tell callers I am not at home for them.”

Bartholomew inclined his head. “Well chosen. Might I suggest the invite you accept, my lady?”

“Of course.”

“Lady Theophania.”

“ She sent an invitation?”

“I was surprised.”

“I would think she is too busy with,” Petra waved her hand in the air, “everything.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “I shall write your acceptance and send it immediately.”

She thanked him and turned to go back upstairs and spend time selecting which gown would be the most appropriate to see the future empress in. Too ornamental and it might be viewed as condescension. Yet, neither could she don her simplest gown. This was the future empress of Vale. To dress without thought of the status of the person she would be spending time with was unthinkably rude.

Inwardly, Petra groaned.

There was a pale green dress. Though the wrong color for the season, it was modest with a high collar and cinched wrists, leaving decoration of the skirt to be handled by pleats all around. The servants in Lady Theophania’s residence would poke fun of her apparent lack of knowledge of appropriate seasonal colors but they would also admit the craftsmanship of the dress.

Her hair was another concern. A few choice ornaments might suffice if she wore it down, long over her shoulders.

I cannot do more than braid my hair or wind it in a simple bun. I wonder if Bartholomew is handy with hair styling. He seems to be handy with everything else.

The thought made her giggle.

In addition to her social errand, her clothes and necessities were being packed into carts today. Petra knew she needed to oversee the arranging and how the trunks were loaded even though she trusted the servants. A woman of her standing was expected to be particular about how her clothes were stored and, at least once, Petra must tell the men they were doing something wrong. Otherwise, she might be labeled as a woman who did not know her own mind.

Then it would be said that Rand’s wife was a discredit to him.

“And I’d rather perish,” she mumbled.

However, Samual intercepted her intention of going upstairs and asked if he might escort her to the room where meals were taken.

It was not one of the large rooms they entered but, rather, what appeared to have been a study at one point. Shelves coated the walls. Instead of tomes, however, they were lined with sconces rarely lit, save for the rare nights his lordship lingered after his meal.

“Does my husband linger in silence?”

“No, my lady. My lord Rand occasionally plays the ocarina.”

The image of Rand with the tapered vessel flute on his lips came quickly to her. His large hands over the delicate openings, controlled breath to bring forth music. The thought was pleasing, though she should have her fancies far more in check.

Still, I might be content to watch and listen to my husband play.

“I’m sure my husband plays well.”

Samual beamed. “He does, my lady. Perhaps without flourish but with prowess.”

***

A FTER ENJOYING A SIMPLE meal of small, steamed buns stuffed with savory bean paste, Bartholomew notified Petra that her message had been delivered to Lady Theophania. She was expected in the early afternoon. This gave her enough time to oversee packing.

Though their lives would not return to normal for some time, the older gentleman informed her that her husband had expressly stated his intention to take meals with her whenever duty did not call him first. This morning had called her husband early to discuss the march to Mynydd. She would see him later in the evening.

In keeping with her duties as mistress, Petra should have gone forward with replying to the other invitations. Although, due to her limited writing capabilities, she requested Bartholomew make her apologies known, and spent the better half of the morning watching servants load carriages.

Each trunk was opened for her inspection, and she was asked her preference for the order in which the trunks were packed. Petra felt silly. For the most part, she let the men do their job, only interrupting twice to request a trunk be faced the opposite direction. As if that mattered. Except it did. A married woman of standing knew her mind and had no qualms about speaking her preferences on even miniscule things.

When all the luggage was packed, she returned to the loft and changed into the pale green dress. The color was refreshing amid the cold, like a welcome harbinger of spring.

“Perhaps Lady Theophania will see it just so.”

She took time with her hair, deciding not to leave it long. Dividing it into four sections, she braided each and then wound those around one another, before fastening it all on top of her head, an amalgamation of her styling abilities. It took several tries and her arms burned.

If only for this, I shall appreciate a maid.

Eventually, the finished result was pleasing.

Petra tucked a scented satchel Bartholomew had prepared in the wee hours of the morning under her gown, between her breasts. Sparingly, the satchel had been dipped in elemi and liquid amber. The combined aroma was earthy, sweet, and lemony.

Petra felt it suited her. All her life she had worked with her hands amid grasses and animals. She had been close to the ground. It would not do for her to smell like she had been born atop a bed of rose petals.

Women of her standing had various perfumes and oils they adorned their bodies and hair with. At some point, she would, likely, have the same. For now, she did not visit the future empress smelling like...a human.

After wrapping a heavy fur-lined, brushed woolen cloak about herself and fastening the collar, Petra informed Bartholomew she intended to make her call.

However, the manservant crinkled his nose.

“You do not yet have your maid, my lady.”

“Is it fitting I should be escorted by a male, though?”

“I believe the solution is you should not make the trek on foot. Samual will take you in the rickshaw and wait to take you home.”

Home .

There had not been home since she left hers. Nor had she thought about another “home,” apart from the one her mother lived in. If she closed her eyes, Petra saw her mother sitting at the lone small table, preparing grass roots for steeping.

Yet, this was the place her mother would live out her elderly years. Her mother would call this mansion “home” because her daughter lived here with her husband.

And my husband has done everything he can think of, in this narrow space of time, to comfort me here. Make me feel at home.

“My lady?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m ready.”

***

I T MIGHT HAVE BEEN punishment to Cyprian that Theophania had not yet moved into the palace. Much more probable was that it was the emperor’s method of shaming her for not weeping with joy the instant she was chosen.

Through the gate, opened without question at their approach, at the Mansion of Delicate Petals, Samual drove the rickshaw. He kept a moderate pace, knowing which direction to take from the main courtyard. Theophania’s mansion was the furthest from the entrance for she came from the humblest roots among the other women.

The entrance to her home was a trellis painted in green. Inside, green was everywhere. The tiles of the floor were jade hexagons. The walls were decorated with frescos and tapestries, in every shade of the verdant color imaginable. Chairs were draped in citrus green blankets and pillows.

The woman who emerged from the back of the mansion was clad in fabrics that matched her surroundings, though the sea of tranquil colors were not mirrored on her face.

Petra curtsied.

From reddened, tired eyes and a complexion marred by an allergic reaction of pustules along her jawline, a genuine smile answered.

“Lady Tsenturian, I am pleased to welcome you into my home and into your new life.”

With her hands folded below her breasts, as she had seen ladies of standing do when speaking formally to one another, Petra dipped her chin and then met her hostess’ eyes.

“I thank you, my lady, intended empress of Vale.”

“Please, we are both new to our stations in life. Let us talk familiarly.”

“You are kind, my lady. But my blood does not lift me to even your lowest rank.”

She motioned that they sit at a prepared table.

“You are the wife of a Shivalry captain, Lady Tsenturian. I think that trumps whatever your father’s name was. Humor me. Let us talk as if we are friends.”

“I cannot deny the future empress, though this feels treasonous.”

Theophania smiled and fluttered her hand, letting a replica of the emperor’s crested ring catch the day’s pale sunshine. “It isn’t if I ask for it.”

“Then can I say how honored and intimidated I am to be here, Theophania?”

“If I can confess that I have not slept a full night since the Late Harvest Moon Festival.”

A maid came around the table, poured tea for both women, and then presented a plate of boiled sugar confections that were the stuff of children’s indulgent dreams.

Petra did not take one until Theophania did. Nor did she taste it until her hostess took two bites. Addressing each other by first names was one thing. This was still the emperor’s woman, and her servants were watching.

“I cannot imagine what it is like to be chosen as tsarina, but I thought you handled it with grace.”

She took a third bite. “I thought I should faint.”

“I’m sure I would have.”

“Because you understand. We are not so different, you and I, Petra.”

“I can call you by your given name, but I am afraid to contradict you, Theophania.”

“Think on it. Neither of us were prepared for what happened. And my having been chosen has forced your husband to leave the city. When I heard he had married a woman from the Hall of Couriers who began her life here at the Washing House, I knew I must meet you. There are few who would understand.”

“Understand overwhelm and incapability?”

Theophania laughed but Petra knew she understood. These weren’t reactions exclusive to nobility. The woman who sat across from her, perhaps nearly her same age, was lonely and watching her circle of true companions shrink. Soon the country would be set at her feet and among the masses would be few she could call her own.

Petra placed a second confection on Theophania’s plate. “When I return from Mynydd, I hope there will be time for us to share one another’s company.”

She nodded and was about to answer when one of the maids rushed into the room. She had barely apologized for the intrusion when Rand strode in.