Chapter 20 #3
A small, sad smile bows my mouth, and I drop my hand, already mourning the warmth of his skin. “It’s called empathy, Eurus. You should try it sometime.”
He snorts and begins tugging his hood forward, but I stay his hand. “Wait.” What, exactly, is there to fear in asking? Eurus is not Lady Clarisse. He will not lay a hand on me for speaking out of turn. “Have you considered attending tonight’s event just as you are—without the cloak?”
He regards me in thinly veiled surprise. I swallow, wondering if I have overstepped, if I even have the right to ask this of him.
He says, in a rare display of vulnerability, “You have seen the divine, bird: flawless miens, unblemished skin. I don’t wish to draw attention to myself. I know how unsightly my features are.”
“They’re not unsightly,” I argue.
“They will stare.”
“Only for a time. Eventually, they will get used to it, grow bored, and shift their focus elsewhere.”
Eurus tugs at his hood self-consciously. “I would rather not.”
Today, I am bold.
I step further into the East Wind’s space until we are chest to chest and I am peering up at him. You are nothing, he wrote to himself. I have never read something so untrue.
“Our suffering does not make us ugly,” I whisper. “The people that hurt us—they are the ones with ugly hearts. You were hurt, yes, but you endured and will continue to endure. That is a beautiful thing.”
“And you,” he says lowly, his eyes singeing me from soles to scalp. “You, too, have endured.”
I have. I’m still here, still breathing. I may only be a mortal woman from Marles, but I try my best to do what’s right. I was not broken then, and I’m not broken now.
“I like that your features are n-not perfect,” I murmur.
“I like that your face shows me of your life and helps me understand what kind of person you are and why.” The longer I am caught within the intensity of his gaze, the more I am convinced I will burn and burn and burn.
“The ridge on your cheek reminds me of the earth, which is beautiful despite its cracks. The color of y-your eyes reminds me of black opals.” Rare in Marles, incredibly rare.
“And I like your smile,” I add teasingly.
Eurus stares at my mouth. “I never smile.”
“I know.” Naught but a whisper. My stomach is doing strange acrobatics without my consent.
“But your smile… yours is one I would definitely remember,” he murmurs.
I lose my train of thought at the curving of his mouth. “I should… Um. I should w-wash…” Snagging the gift box, I slip into the washroom and shut the door.
The bathing chamber is quite roomy, with a carved bench to place one’s clothing, a sink and toilet, shelves of soaps and plush towels, a wall mirror, and an enormous marble tub sunken into the jade-tiled floor.
After running myself a bath, I shed my clothes and submerge myself into the scalding water with a gratified sigh, enjoying how the heat scratches at my skin.
Arms, legs, chest, face—all scrubbed until they glow pink. When I am done, I climb from the tub, pull a comb through the long strands of my hair, dab powder and lip rouge onto my face, then slip on my new gown. It slithers over my skin like falling rain, bathing me in the most beautiful blue hue.
The back gapes open, in need of buttoning, but I struggle to secure the fabric. A sigh of frustration leaves me. If only my arms were longer.
“Everything all right, bird?” Eurus sounds as if he stands just outside the door.
Again, I reach for the fastening to no avail. “I can’t get my dress buttoned.”
“Can I come in?”
I suppose there is nothing indecent about it. I am dressed, as is he. And Eurus has very long… arms. “Yes.”
He opens the door.
I startle. “Your cloak.” He has done away with it.
In its place is a body that is even more impressive in fitted clothing.
His long-sleeved gray shirt is tucked into the waistband of his trousers, a brown leather belt emphasizing the cut of his hips, and those boots he is never without. “You look n-nice.”
Eurus rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Thank you.” Our eyes catch and hold.
Head ducked, I turn, presenting him my back.
His touch, when it alights, sends a shivering cascade of sensation along my bones.
The roughened tips of his fingers brush the vertebrae of my spine, each risen hill, and I tense, breath held as the warmth of his exhalation stirs the crown of my head.
I expect Eurus to button the fabric. Instead, he grazes the lines of welts marking my back, all kissed by the cold leather of Lady Clarisse’s lash.
I shudder, fighting the urge to lean back into his solidity.
“Your wounds have healed well,” he comments.
I nod. Too enthusiastically, perhaps. “The manor left me a strong healing salve. It helped with the pain.”
Down, down his hand drags, halting at the base of my spine, the rise of my backside. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
His hand falls away, and Eurus begins securing the buttons from my lower back to the stem of my neck. My heart beats with new awareness. The salve, and my wounds, and his observation of them. His knowledge of her ladyship hurting me. “The manor left me the salve,” I whisper, “right?”
Still, the East Wind elects for a non-response.
“Eurus—”
“You were in pain,” he explains. “It was the only thing I could offer you at the time.”
I turn to face him. How can I not? Gazing into his eyes, I wonder how it is possible to judge someone so wrongly. The East Wind noticed my suffering when I’d believed him to be immune. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He searches my face as I search his, likely for the simple pleasure of exploring its terrain. Then his attention slides lower, across the gown draping my body. The design does the impossible and grants me hips, even a small bust.
The East Wind’s mouth curves in what is almost a smile. I dearly hope it is not the last. “You look lovely, bird.”
The affection in his tone sets fire to my cheeks. “As do you.”
He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
Together, we depart the palace and wander the streets as eve bruises the eastern horizon. A winter-kissed breeze coaxes out heavy coats, including my own, but I revel in the sting on my skin, the tip of my nose, all reminders that I am alive.
The divine purchase hot chocolate, mulled wine, roasted nuts. A few strangers glance curiously at Eurus in passing, unable to recognize him without his hood, his cloak open at the front. Most, I’m pleased to note, do not spare his scars significant attention.
Eventually, we reach a tavern called A Thousand Ships, its porch illuminated by the glow of oil lamps. From inside, a percussive drumbeat accompanies a string ensemble, and the lively jig calls for a toe-tapping good time.
The door swings open. Out stumbles a three-eyed god, who narrowly avoids crashing into Eurus. Catching the porch railing, the man straightens, squinting at this newcomer for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Something you want to say?” the East Wind growls.
The man opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, perhaps having come to the conclusion that speaking would not bode well for him. He shakes his head and shoves past us, staggering down the street.
I look to Eurus. “Ready?”
But he is not looking at me. He is peering through the front windows of the tavern, its every chair and booth occupied, its tables packed, few places to hide.
“Do you want to turn back?” I venture.
He brushes a finger across the scarring puckering his left eye, his grimace all the more frightening in the dim. “I don’t know, bird.” Inside, a glass shatters. The barkeep releases a string of expletives while the ensemble churns out its melodious merriment. “They will see.”
“We all have our scars,” I say softly. “There is no shame in them. Some just happen to be more prominently displayed.”
“It is not so easy, bird.”
“Isn’t it?”
I see you, I think. I am not afraid. “Will you hide away in the shadows?” I challenge him. “Or will you finally face the light?”
A low rumble of frustration emanates from his chest. But when I say, “You are not alone,” some of the tension leaves him, and the skin around his eyes smooths. With a deep breath, Eurus reaches for the door handle and pushes inside.