Chapter 6
Six
A page boy gives a sharp nudge to my ribs, reminding me that I’m still standing on the dais. I hop off with an anticlimactic thud. The patter of my silk slippers is the only sound as I return to my place among the Lady Courtesans, my body rigid and tense with utter disbelief.
“To the ballroom,” the Master of Ceremonies declares, patting his stomach, “for drinking and dancing, my good people. Keepers, take your prizes.”
Prizes.
Balor’s prize.
It makes me want to vomit.
Everyone rises and talks simultaneously, glad to have free rein over their voices again.
The din steadily increases until the atmosphere shifts to a chaotic transition.
Some gossip about the courtesans, some about ex-friends, and some about the war with the Witch-King.
Everything blends like a whirlwind nipping at my heels as I sift through the people—searching.
Where is he?
I strain to find Balor in the multitude as the crowd shuffles toward the ballroom. Behind me, an overly tall lord steps on my gown’s train, too distracted by the bevy of ladies fawning over him to notice he’s currently trampling expensive and delicate fabric.
“Do watch where you step, my lord,” I chastise, yanking my silvery skirts from under his knee-high leather boot.
He turns, an infuriatingly charming smile spreading over his handsome features as his eyes meet mine. I’m momentarily stunned by his angular jaw and playful grin before realizing his emerald skin and orange irises mark him as an orc halfling.
He tips his head in a polite nod. Burgundy curls fall roguishly over one eye, contrasting with the shaved sides of his head.
His broad shoulders are covered by a meticulously tailored navy doublet embroidered with gold brocade.
My stomach flips as I take in his pointed ears pierced with hoops and chains along the cartilage.
Monster-halflings from the Beast Realm aren’t a rare sight, but something about him unsettles me.
“Apologies, my lady.” He laughs, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips, lingering there, as his eyes lust after me.
I pull back in disgust—an arrogant man like all the rest. “Yes, well… perhaps watch where you are walking next time.”
“I shall tread very carefully where you are concerned in the future,” he says with a dramatic bow, his voice rumbling. As I turn to leave, he calls out, “May I ask what your name is?”
I don’t bother answering as I lose myself in the throngs of people. The brief encounter sticks irritatingly in my mind as I follow everyone toward the expansive ballroom. How could he not know who I am after watching the ceremony?
I’m still thinking about him when a quick screech goes off, vibrating my eardrums, and a pair of silk gloves pulls me away.
I jerk my head and find none other than Beatrix staring at me, her eyes glazed with held-back tears beneath her thick lashes and elegant honey hair.
She’s wearing the ballgown equivalent of the plum-colored service dress that every instructor must wear.
Behind her, a gaggle of wide-eyed young courtesan pupils whisper to each other as they watch the nobility.
With one glimpse of Beatrix, I don’t think; I throw my arms around her in a crushing hug. “Your letter said you weren’t going to make it this year.” I choke back emotion, holding her close to get a better look. “What changed?”
“Madame Morgana says her gout cleared, but I suspect the real truth is that she wanted to be away from Instructor Claudine and her incessant questions.” She takes a long breath, as if she doesn’t blame the madame.
There’s so much I want to say—things I wasn’t brave enough to write. How could I even begin?
Color flashes across the room, and Beatrix squeezes my hand as her attention diverts to the elderly madame, who is waving her over with a fluttering handkerchief. Beatrix crinkles her nose as her eyes fall back to mine. “It’s time to take the pupils home.”
“So soon?” I know the young courtesans in training aren’t allowed to attend the ball until their debut, but I was hoping for a moment longer.
“She’s offended Phyrne isn’t here. Morgana believes it’s a slight because she specifically wrote that Phyrne should expect her. You’d think they would give up their bickering in their old age.”
I want to tell her about Phyrne’s collapse, but I purse my lips instead. Not knowing exactly what happened, I stop myself. What if it was nothing at all—or at least nothing serious? Phyrne would make my life torture if I started a rumor about her health.
When a couple of unknown country lords start chatting with the nervous pupils, Beatrix sighs, shaking her half-pinned-up tresses, muttering under her breath, “Morgana will suffer apoplexy if I don’t get them into the carriages.
” She hugs me hastily before pulling back, switching once more into her instructor role as she whisks the girls away.
She looks over her shoulder. I smile and wave as I use every bit of my strength to stop myself from fleeing into the carriage with them.
The remaining noise echoing in the hall returns me to the thinning crowd, which has almost finished filing into the ballroom. Squeezing through, I make my way under the arched entrance.
The conductor gives me a puzzled look from the orchestra platform, silently inquiring when I will initiate the ball by dancing with Balor. I grimace at him.
A large gathering watches the exchange from behind spyglasses and hand-covered mouths. Warmth travels to my cheeks, and again, the same question plagues me.
Where is he?
The musicians strike their chords with an all-encompassing sound.
Vennisa locks eyes with me before giving an overindulgent, pitying smile.
As if taking a cue, she yanks on Rolfe’s arm, and they start the ball’s first dance, twirling in a blur of silver and green.
Everyone oohs and aahs over what a lovely couple they are.
At least she’s drawn the attention away. On the edge of the ballroom, I wait for Balor to arrive.
A slow minute ticks by.
The whispers seep around the edges of my mind. Before they can grow, I slip through the exit.
His vanity is still wounded—of that I am sure. I know he wishes for me to find him.
I search, but the ceremonial chamber and the receiving hall are empty. I’m about to give up when the small page boy—no doubt taking pity—tugs at the back of my skirt and gestures toward the main entrance. My feet slowly move in that direction until I reach a private drawing room with its door ajar.
With his back to me, Balor stands in the darkened center, his stance wide and his arms clasped behind him.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows lining the wall supply a milky beam of moonlight, illuminating the white roses trapped in the crystal vase Balor blankly stares at.
“There you are,” I say. “I didn’t know whether I would find you.”
“As you can see, I’ve been here waiting,” he replies, his tone dangerously soft. He keeps staring at the flowers, his eyes shining and as black as his slicked hair. His pale eyebrows look almost nonexistent in the dim light, and his pallor is so ghostly that he doesn’t seem human.
I swallow my increasing fear and try to bring up a neutral topic. “Listen—I’m worried about Madame Phyrne.” I take a couple of steps closer. “She collapsed as my carriage pulled away.”
“Phyrne is an old woman. That isn’t shocking news.”
I don’t know what to say to his cruel casualness, so I offer, “We’re missing the opening song.”
“We’ve danced it before.” He moves to close the door, plunging us into deeper darkness.
All my senses scream, and a cold sweat breaks across my skin. Still, I need to fix this because we are tethered together—whether I like it or not.
Not to mention, a happy Balor is a predictable Balor.
I stand beside him, my head barely reaching his shoulder, and ask, “Will you dance with me here then?” If he took me into his arms, we could forget everything. We could pretend none of it ever happened.
“I don’t care for dancing tonight.”
His rejection twists through my stomach. I change tactics and nervously blurt, “Thank you.”
Staring up into his withdrawn face, I notice his eyes darken as if the Otherworld were opening to swallow me whole.
“For what?”
“For bidding on me… again. It’s a relief you’re still my Keeper. We can—”
“That is where you are wrong, Tabitha.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying not to sound irritated. “They called your name—” Before I can finish, he slams me onto the table.
Pain slices my brow as my forehead collides with the hard crystal of the vase. The flower arrangement topples in a watery mess, rolling off and smashing into the ground. Shards fly in every direction. A sickening scent of roses fills the air.
He pins me down, still bent over. Water trickles toward me until it saturates my face, neck, and chest, then runs in rivulets over the side of the tabletop, landing in little splashes on the floor and soaking into my silk slippers.
An inflexible grip holds my skull down on the sloppy surface. Balor hisses into my ear, “One way or another, you will give me what I need. You are going to bear sons.”
Repulsion shudders through me.
The missing Rite.
Teeth bared, I snarl, “Let go of me before you regret this!” I have no idea how I would make him regret anything, but I still say it.
“And what do you think you can do?” He chuckles, pushing harder, leaning closer. The whispers inside me erupt, angry as hornets. I throw my head back with force. It collides with something hard. A crunch of bone sounds between us. Agony bursts through my skull in slithering lashes.
Balor clutches his bloody nose. “You dumb bitch—”
I attempt to flee the room, but he intercepts me. He snatches my waist-length curls like a rope, dragging me back and twisting them around his fist. Panic and pain sear as strands snap. He forces me to my feet to face the window.
Through the glass, I can see a handful of High Lords from the High Council cheering him on. Most look intoxicated as they hang over each other, singing bawdy tunes. Their greedy eyes glint as they watch me struggle.
Balor presses his cheek against mine. “Agree to give me what I want, or you belong to them. Considering they paid your fee, it’s only fair.” He’s breathless, panting. “But I’m willing to negotiate. If you’re finally willing to comply, I could reimburse them.”
A tear escapes. Balor licks it from my cheekbone.
“Get-off-me,” I grunt.
“But if you refuse… they’ll pick up where they left off. They quite enjoyed those little assignments I used to send you on.”
Everything freezes, and my face goes numb. “You promised,” I whisper. “You promised to stop asking that of me.”
He clutches my shoulders and shakes me. “And you promised to always please me, yet here we are.”
“Find a wife if you want children!”
“Don’t worry, I’m working on that,” he counters, “but she has to grow up first. Meanwhile, your brats will suffice to fill my lands.”
“You… sick… monster.”
“And you’ll remember that when you desire to tell me no next time. You do not know how monstrous I can be. So keep testing me, Tabitha. See what happens. If you think it can’t get any worse—I’m here to inform you it will. I’ll make sure of it.”
My stomach drops to the lowest it’s ever been. Balor stole my Rite. And now he’s trying to take what minuscule crumb of control I still hold.
If I became with child, I’d be prohibited from living at the Bidding House.
I wouldn’t be a Lady Courtesan.
I wouldn’t be anything.
I’d always be at his mercy, living under his protection—forever hiding in the shadows of wealth and nobility.
Never accepted by the gentry and never accepted by the commonfolk, forever an outsider.
In all of its rules and etiquette, society never allows courtesan mothers to be present.
They’re granted superficial respect at a distance, but nothing more.
And if he died? If he didn’t provide a settlement for me to live on? I’d be forced into a cathedral to serve out my remaining years as a priestess.
With a sinking heart, I know precisely why he wants to sire offspring—the real reason.
It’s no secret that many courtesan sons climb to the highest military ranks, and Balor wants nothing more than a warrior lineage, just to use them to intimidate anyone who might challenge him.
“Give me your agreement.” Pressure mounts as his grip loosens and then tightens again. “They’ll grow bored soon if you don’t.”
I try to wrap my mind around what’s happening. This isn’t how things are done. Rude remarks are one thing, but our bodies are to be respected and worshipped.
Never harmed.
We have laws—laws that Balor himself wrote as Chancellor. Somehow, he convinced me that our little cat-and-mouse games were a necessary bending of the rules so he could exert influence and change the kingdom for the better.
I shouldn’t be surprised; he’s always been a hypocrite.
After everything he has arranged for me to do, why would I willingly have sons and daughters with him? He would use them as pawns, just as he did with me, and I’d rather dig out my womb than provide children for him to abuse.
I kick at the air as he lifts me off the ground.
“You can’t get away so easily.” He pulls hard, and the fabric of my gown rips.
I scream something unintelligible before I spit in his face.
His cruel smile fades in disgust as the viscous liquid mixes with the crusted blood on his nose.
I brace for the blow that will surely land—but a surge of hate courses through my bones like pure flame.
It pushes out of my body until my palm meets his cheek.
My eyes fly open as Balor stumbles backward, hissing in pain.
Large shards of the vase lie at my feet. I grab one and hurl it. It cuts the side of his neck—a small, skin-deep wound. He touches the gash; disbelief colors his features as he looks at his blood-covered fingers.
“You,” Balor whispers, “are going to pay for that.”
He lunges, but the drawing room door opens wide, filling the space with blinding light.