Chapter 3
The visions began as the cold grasp of death ensnared me.
My splintered soul feebly cleaved itself from my listless, broken body.
It fought my willpower, desperate to make its way to whatever lay beyond this realm, while my lifeblood pooled and congealed beneath me.
While my body grew cold, violent tremors thundered in my bones.
I was as good as dead.
Until I wasn’t.
It’s been a year since that moment, and even now, I cannot get it out of my mind.
It doesn’t help that each night, pain comes flooding back into my body like clockwork if I don’t take my elixir.
Painting steadies my wayward mind; it gives me something other than the distress of this magical curse to focus on.
Since my arranged marriage, however, these moments of peace have become rare.
With the paintbrush firmly clenched between my teeth, I admire the passionate red, gentle pink, energetic yellow, and sharp white on my canvas.
A likeness to the sunset. Paint streaks my hands and the front of the apron I borrowed from the servants’ wardrobe.
I’ve had to stop myself from fidgeting with my hair or touching my face far too many times.
The painting is one I can certainly be proud of, but it doesn’t do the sunset justice.
Brush in hand again, I dip the bristles into the black paint to begin working on the silhouette of a tree.
The door flies open with a whoosh and Gruffud barges in like a cyclone. It startles me so badly that I jab the brush against the canvas and bite back an expletive. My hands shoot out to steady the tipping easel.
The tall and slender man whose sleek, dark hair compliments his flawless tan complexion gapes at me. Grey eyes flecked with brown shift from the canvas to my face. “Your father has been injured,” he says in his curt tenor.
My pulse scampers as I jump to my feet, dropping my paintbrush on the small tray table and closing the leather case that holds my paints.
“Your mother and sister await you outside.”
I scrub my hands as best as I can on a damp linen cloth before shoving my gold bracelets onto my wrists and tearing my apron off.
Flinging the apron onto my stool, I rush around my room and extinguish all the oil lamps.
As my husband stands aside to let me through the door, I mutter a word of thanks.
Shadows waver in the light of the sconces against the corridor walls, and my heels clack on the varnished dark wood floors.
I hike up my skirt, careful not to trip as I take the lengthy, winding staircase to the ground floor.
The sun has long since departed, and I’m fairly certain that the ninth bell has tolled, but I’ve been so absorbed in my painting that I forgot to take my elixir.
Arionna is waiting at the door in a dazzling green dress fit for a ball.
I make my way across the soft carpet of the sitting room, past indigo velvet chairs, and beneath a lyre-shaped chandelier with gilded bronze arms and glass prisms reflecting the candlelight.
As I draw closer to my sister, I take in her full lips, painted mauve.
Kohl subtly lines her dark eyes, giving them an even more sultry appearance than usual.
The rouge on her cheeks brings out the reddish undertone in her sepia complexion—as if she needed any augmentation to her beauty.
“Must you take an eternity?” she snaps at me. Arionna is nearly a year widowed, and it’s made her an odd combination of bitter and petty.
“Nice to see you too,” I mumble. I’d hoped that moving out of my childhood home a few months ago, when I was married off to Gruffud, would’ve strengthened our relationship, but it seems to have only made things worse.
Our family is renowned for owning the most successful book bindery and book trade in Erleya, so we’re already held to a high standard.
Having a father who is a revered Queen’s Guard had only increased the number of eyes on our family.
Naturally, Arionna gave in to the pressures of being the older daughter of Lord Eurig Davies, choosing to keep up appearances rather than be my confidante.
She began reporting all my misdeeds to Mother, only exacerbating Mother’s hostility for her younger wayward daughter.
After the tragic end to Arionna’s marriage, I naturally became the next tribute, so to speak, through my marriage to Gruffud Pendry.
For decades, the Pendrys have dominated the clock-making world, bringing customers from near and far, spearheading various trades, and burgeoning quite an eclectic collection.
My arranged nuptials to Gruffud was to join our two eminent households—to secure power and influence that most would only dream of.
Except I was never one to dream of power. I only desire freedom.
Arionna’s gaze snags on something over my shoulder, and I turn to find Gruffud standing against the sage green wall, between paintings in golden frames that match the details in the crown molding. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his expression unreadable.
“Be safe,” he says, clearly disinterested. He pushes himself off the wall and turns to walk away. I stifle a sigh and follow Arionna out of the grand house.
Summer will soon be upon us, but the cool air leaves me wishing I’d thrown on a cloak.
The paved walkway is bracketed by manicured hedges and rose bushes.
At the end, a carriage pulled by a beautiful horse with irregular brown and white patches and feathered heels awaits us.
The footman holds his hand out and Arionna takes it to climb into the carriage.
It’s ridiculously graceful compared to the way I clutch the footman’s hand and hoist my shorter body into the enclosure.
Dignified as always, my mother, Rhosyn, sits on the opposite bench to where I settle next to Arionna. Her caramel-colored eyes take in my appearance, and I self-consciously run my fingers through the indecisive waves and large spirals of hair resting against my shoulders.
“Good evening, Mother.” I conjure a wavering smile, hoping it makes it to my eyes.
“You have paint on your face,” she responds. Her words are impeccably enunciated, her tone flat.
Arionna shoves a handkerchief into my hand as I hide a wince. I grunt my thanks before wetting the tip of it with my tongue and aimlessly rubbing it over my face. Chewing on my lower lip, I dare to meet Mother’s hard gaze again. She shrugs.
We are drastically different people, but looking at her is like looking into a mirror.
We have the same ash brown hair and rich brown complexion.
Her fuller upper lip protrudes in a way that gives her a perpetual near-pout—an inherited trait that has led me to receive many unwarranted are you alright inquiries.
But while she is lithe, I am short with muscle definition that she constantly reminds me is too manly and requires covering up to protect the fragile male ego.
I should be used to it, as there was never a moment in my life when she wasn’t criticizing something about the core of my being.
I was too wild and free-spirited, too outspoken, too cheerful.
I very quickly learned to shrink myself down into what I was expected to be as Rhosyn and Eurig’s daughter—composed, quiet, and without an opinion of my own.
I’ve bitten my tongue so many times that it’s a wonder I can even speak at this point.
The carriage jostles us as it rushes over the cobblestones of the street, making my bones and joints ache.
I hold on to my seat as we race through city roads illuminated by oil lampposts, toward Paramount.
Across from me, my mother’s face is stony as always, but she worries at her lower lip, her hands opening and closing in her lap as if she’s trying to keep ahold of her facade.
“Mother,” I say quietly.
My sister’s dark eyes flick sidelong to me.
She’s a combination of our parents; her lighter complexion is closer to Father’s, and her pitch-black hair is as tightly coiled as Mother’s.
Unlike either of our parents, however, Arionna’s body is abundant with curves, and oh, how she loves to flaunt them with formfitting gowns and plunging necklines.
“How badly injured is Father? What happened?” Arionna asks.
At least I’m not the only ignorant one. I press my hand over the pocket of my dress, feeling the familiar shape of the pocket watch that Father once gifted me.
Mother levels us with a look, and we both shrink back slightly. “There was a colossal fire at Paramount last night. As far as I’m told, the Fortress on the Mount still stands, but …” Her voice grows hollow and then fades completely.
“But?” Arionna prods.
Mother looks through the hazy window of the carriage, at the dark storefronts and few pedestrians. After hours in Barr na Cahar is my favorite time. Everyone around here retires to their homes early, save for those looking for trouble.
Or for a ticket to a different life.
“Most of those affected by the fire suffered fatal wounds,” Mother says. She aims her words at the window, and shivers travel down my spine.
Fatal.
My mouth goes dry, my heart lurching. I lick my lips, trying to think of something to say. No words come.
The ride seems to last far longer than it should, but the closer we get to Paramount the more soldiers we see.
Some are in brown livery and others in charcoal.
Nagging aches thrum through my body, reminding me of my stupid lapse in memory.
I should’ve paused to take the damn elixir.
I stare at my hands, still stained, though faint, with a multitude of colors.
I clench my fists and hide them in the skirts of my dress.
Eventually, the carriage rolls alongside a loch toward the imposing iron gates that lead to the barracks and the brig below the plateau.