Chapter 23 #2
Sylvia snorted, but it sounded half-hearted. She was obviously distracted. Maybe she was actually listening to the deacon — unlikely. You’d have to wrap Sylvia in a straight jacket to get her to listen to a priest. Religion had never been kind to her, nor Aster. It didn’t tend to smile on…
Aster frowned.
Smile on what?
Her skull pulsed again.
Smile on what?
Vampires? That didn’t feel right. It was like her brain had surgically removed the rest of the sentence. All that was left was a gaping hole.
“Sylvia,” she whispered quickly, to the chagrin of the people next to them. “What does religion tend to… look down upon?”
Sylvia finally turned to her then — obviously so bewildered by Aster’s question that she couldn’t help it — and frowned at her. “Um, I don’t know. Everything?”
Sylvia’s eyes were so pretty. Green like the sky. Aster noted to herself to tell Sylvia that sometime. “More specific, please.”
“Well, let me see. Children out of wedlock?”
Aster licked her lips. “Not the one I’m looking for.”
“Lying, theft, greed, excess, gluttony — just about anything fun?”
A woman cleared her throat behind them. Aster glanced sideways at her with blazing red eyes, and she quickly went quiet.
“Doesn’t feel right,” Aster mumbled. “Feels more carnal than that.”
Sylvia stilled, and the back of her neck went faintly red.
“Well, religion isn’t very fond of homosexuals.”
Aster’s eyes widened. She felt something crack in the back of her mind. Like a rip in a tent. Only what blew in wasn’t air — but a feeling. That’s it. That’s it. That’s it.
She could see the faint silhouette of a memory in her head, crystallizing then. Only, as it was about to take shape, Sylvia’s hand wrapped around her wrist, and she tugged at it urgently.
“I see Wallace,” Sylvia breathed. “Go time.”
***
1494
It was nearly the turn of the century, and for the first time in her life, Sylvia Maroven did not feel like she was the mud being run over by the heavy carriage of time — she felt like the spoke that was turning the wheel. She felt like the driver, the horses, and the whips.
Which is to say she felt free. She felt in charge.
She felt important. Catrina Maroven was dead, and Aster Castelmar killed her.
Aster Castelmar killed her, and since then they had been glued to the hip, swerving through the middle ages on black steeds, trotting from town to town in search of good food and good trouble, and Sylvia had begun to nurse a bit of a crush.
Nay, worse than that.
Sylvia was terribly and torturously in love.
And because Sylvia was nothing if not direct, she planned on solving this issue in one simple conversation — a conversation which occurred in a tavern somewhere in the middle of Europe, under the dark cape of night.
The alcohol was hot, the lights were dim, the bar stools were uncomfortable and prickly, and Aster was sitting across from her looking like a fallen angel fresh out of Heaven’s gates.
“Aster,” Sylvia breathed, her breath smelling of cranberries and sharp liquor. She propped her chin on her hand, and stared openly at the other woman. “I have a question to ask you.”
Aster set down her drink and smiled lazily. “Is it if I will get us another round? Because you must know I’ve already run out of money. That nobleman’s pockets were unfortunately light.”
“No,” Sylvia chuckled. “Not that.”
“Then what, hm?”
“Do you entertain suitors?”
Aster blinked at her. She looked caught off guard, but not offended. She had that expression on her face that she got when Sylvia was trying to explain an elaborate social rule to her.
“Entertain… suitors?”
“I mean to ask if you court. Date. However you’d like to put it.” Sylvia tried to make it seem casual by shrugging, but the burn in her cheeks probably ruined her appearance of apathy. “We’ve been traveling for some time now, but I’ve never seen you… take a lover.”
Sylvia had taken one or two or three, here and there.
But she had always done it in secret, away from Aster.
Sylvia’s mother had always insisted that women like her — who preferred the fairer sex — did not exist, so she felt a need to prove her incorrect.
And incorrect she had proved her, several times over, to the tune of many happy, loud women in various inns and farmhouses.
But Aster had never shown an inclination toward, well, anyone.
Even when Sylvia would test the waters — remark about a beautiful woman, or (reluctantly) about a handsome man — Aster would just shrug and reply something to the effect of, “If you say so,” and then they would move on with their day.
Which both made Sylvia feel better and worse.
“I had a lover, once. If you can even call it that,” Aster said, blushing as she took a long sip of her mead.
“A boy in my town. In Galicia. He stole a kiss from me. It was not long. Quite wet. Slobbery, like a dog. I would have rather kissed a dog, in all honesty. I pushed him into the river. It did not inspire an interest in romance for me.”
Sylvia laughed at the image of Aster pushing a slobbering boy into a stream. “Really? No interest at all, in hundreds of years? I assure you there are better experiences than that out there.”
Aster’s eyebrows rose. “You can assure me? Have you entertained suitors, Sylvia?”
Sylvia went beet red. Damn it. This woman, and her keen ear.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Although none of consequence.”
Aster seemed suddenly much more interested in this discussion. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell me about the inconsequential ones, then.”
Sylvia’s heart beat rabidly in her chest. Aster’s big brown eyes were looking at her with such warmth, such interest, Sylvia could imagine for a mere second that she actually wanted to become one of the names on Sylvia’s list. That she wanted to become the name.
The person of consequence.
Stop dreaming, you scoundrel.
Sylvia pursed her lips, then said brusquely, “I fear you might judge me and cast me aside.”
Aster looked taken aback, startled. “Cast you aside?”
Sylvia shrugged, looking askance. On the stage there was a band playing, a little man with a string instrument, and a handsome woman with a percussive drum.
They played loud enough that Sylvia could drown out the worries that were spinning around her head.
But she could not drown out Aster, who had grabbed her wrist, and pulled it lightly.
“I would not cast you aside, Sylvia,” she said quietly.
And because Sylvia was drunk, she replied, “Even if I were to steal a kiss from you?”
Aster’s pupils went as wide as saucers.
“Do you intend to?” she whispered, as if something fascinating was happening in front of her.
Sylvia’s heart clenched.
“Steal one? No.” But I’d take one if it came willingly.
“Hm,” was all Aster said, blinking several times. After a moment, she squeezed Sylvia’s hand. “So, what is it? You were going to tell me about your affairs.”
Sylvia deflated. For a flicker of a moment she had fooled herself again.
But Aster had said it herself. She was uninterested in romance, and Sylvia would have to respect that. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be honest with her. They were still friends after all.
“Well,” Sylvia clicked her tongue, “As long as you promise not to tell the church…”
She looked back and forth conspiratorially — half an act, half serious — before lowering her voice, and looking at Aster with a sly grin.
“If you must know,” she said. “I have come to enjoy the company of women.”
***
1544
They were riding on horses away from a very mysterious fire — one that happened to kill seventeen wealthy noblemen and twelve wealthy noblewomen — when Aster said to her, as if only one month had passed, and not sixty years, “I have been thinking about your question.”
“What question?” Sylvia replied.
She was disoriented, her pockets full of valuables they had pocketed from the raid.
“About suitors. About my… proclivities. Romantically.”
Sylvia nearly stumbled off her steed.
In sixty years they had not addressed that night once. Well, not explicitly. Sylvia had gotten more comfortable taking women into bed in their shared quarters, and Aster had begun to make comments about them. Innocent comments, niceties. But nothing more than that.
“I think I might, too, enjoy the company of women,” Aster said, casually, as if it was nothing.
Sylvia’s jaw went slack. She was happy that it was night, and the only thing illuminating their way was the torch Aster was holding, because if Aster could see her clearly, the entire jig would be up then and there. The confession was written on her face.
And then, just as fast, pure jealousy piled into her gut.
“Oh?” Sylvia huffed. “And that realization occurred to you when? Before, after, or during our little killing spree?” Had there been a woman there she’d found charming?
“None of the above.” Aster paused. “You sound upset.”
“I am not upset. I am merely… bewildered by your timing.”
“I did not know there was a good time to realize these things.”
Sylvia reeled back her misplaced fury, and sighed. “No, there is not. I’m sorry. Let’s start this again. You want to sleep with a woman?”
Even in the dark Sylvia could see just how red that comment made Aster.
“Sleep with… I am not sure. I merely… I do not think I like men.”
That, at least, made Sylvia laugh. “I always knew you were a woman of fine taste.”
Aster smiled at her. They came upon a hunter’s shack soon enough, dealt with the hunter occupying it, and settled in for the night, raiding his pantry for alcohol and grains.
Unfortunately the hunter’s bed was quite small, only big enough for one and a half bodies, so they were pressed together that night, forced into a proximity that made Sylvia delirious.
They were at the edge of sleep, looking at each other, illuminated only by the moonlight, discussing the events of the day, when Sylvia’s deliriousness caught up with her. “I think,” she said, emboldened by the drink and Aster’s confession. “You should kiss me. To see if you’d like it.”
Aster’s eyes went wide, and Sylvia immediately felt a surge of panic in her gut.
“To see if you’d like… being with a woman,” she corrected. Then Aster’s eyes went larger, and Sylvia realized her error. “I meant only a kiss. Chaste. Nothing more. I won’t — I wouldn’t try anything beyond that of course. I just thought it could be helpful. In your… exploration.”
And to Sylvia’s great dismay, Aster did not just nod her head yes, or even say an acceptable, but crushing, No, thank you. She instead laughed, and gave Sylvia a sly smile, repeating her sentiment from years ago, “Are you aiming to steal a kiss from me, Sylvia Maroven?”
“No,” Sylvia breathed, her heart clenching. “Not steal.”
I want you to want it. I need you to want it.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Aster’s smile slowly faltered at Sylvia’s earnestness. Her face was overtaken with a foreign expression that Sylvia had never seen before.
One that looked truly startled — scared. Frightened.
And Sylvia promptly panicked.
Oh god.
I’ve frightened her.
Sylvia’s throat tightened. Her chest felt heavy, breathless.
She’s going to leave me.
She’s going to run and leave me and despise me.
I’m going to be alone again.
Aster opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Sylvia’s eyes burned bright red, and she did something she swore she’d never do to Aster, not on purpose.
Something she knew once she began to do, she would never really be able to undo — a pattern which could turn Aster into that thrall in Catrina’s basement, the one she’d been trying to forget for centuries afterward.
But because she was selfish and in love and afraid, Sylvia did it anyway, and told her it would just be this one time. Just once, then never again.
“You are asleep,” Sylvia said in a rush of words, pressing her hand to Aster’s forehead. “You are having a very strange dream about me. One that you won’t recollect in the morning.”
Aster’s eyelids began to get heavy. Sylvia blew out a warm, unsteady breath of relief.
It’s working. It’s working.
Aster slowly fell into the caress of sleep, and Sylvia watched her for half the night afterwards, wrapped up in a whirlpool of guilt and rejection.
A deadly cocktail that only waded away the next morning, when she awoke to Aster’s arm wrapped around her middle, and the other girl smiling this strange little grin, nudging her nose into her cheek.
“I had the most wonderful dream,” she hummed. “You were in it.”
“Oh?” Sylvia put on her mask, and schooled her face. It’s not what you want it to be. A woman has hundreds of dreams in a night. “Tell me about it?”
Aster laughed into her neck. Her breath was as cold as the air outside.
“I can’t remember what happened, exactly,” she said. “Only that it ended too soon.”