Page 23 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“I’m alright, Mother. I have…” A coughing fit steals my ability to speak. She slaps my back, and I raise my hand to stop her. “I have good genes,” I tell her, clearing my throat. “Duskruns don’t give up that easily.” I force a smile, but all I can think of is Bryn. Is she home safe? Did she get caught? Did she actually listen to me and go back to the manor?

“You inherited your father’s idiocy, that’s for sure.” Her relief is evident in her tone, but she still guides me toward the house, away from the burning stables and the crowd that’s trying to save it.

“I need to help them.” I plant my feet firmly, refusing to abandon them. My mess.

“You’ve done enough.” If only she knew just how much I’ve done. If Bryn is home safe, without the risk of being punished, it will all be worth it.

“I’ll be back soon, Mother.” I turn and head back to the last stable on the right and the path leading to the manor behind it. Collecting a bucket, I aim for the stable door, but there aren’t flames here, only smoke. No one looks my way. They’re too busy. Tossing the bucket above the door, I look over my shoulder and slip into the shadows around the corner.

The closer I get to the manor, the quieter the darkness becomes. Wiping the tears from my burning eyes, I force them to focus. It’s impossible to open them wider than a sliver. My heart skips a beat, then lunges into such a ferocious pace it’s all I hear. There, against the door, I see two figures. One tall and male, bracing a hand against the door’s arch above his head. The second is much smaller, with a mustard-yellow cloak swaying at her feet. My Bryn.

My feet start moving before I have a plan mapped out in my mind. I’ll end whoever it is right here while everyone is too distracted to notice. Keeping my back to the wall, I use its shadows as cover. My hands clench into fists, my only weapons, but they’ll have to make do.

“The poor damsel can’t even manage to open a simple door,” he tells her, his voice deep and seductive. I freeze, every muscle locking into place. It’s not only the words, but the tone used to say them. There’s no threat to what he said. Their bodies are close enough they could be touching. They are touching. His hand covers hers, and she… she doesn’t pull away.

I duck into the narrow corridor on the right for a better view. Betrayal lances through my chest with an aching blow. Bryn, my Bryn, isn’t afraid of the man in front of her. I know her every expression, even the one she reserves for him, the one with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Unable to watch, I retreat into the shadows. I’m not good enough for her. I stay until her door closes, until his retreating footsteps, even and proud, grate against the gravel path, and the arrogant melody he whistles is consumed by the roaring fire as he walks past me, as if I don’t even exist.

THIRTEEN

MHAGDU HUE

At first glance, faeries appear human, but upon closer inspection, one will find pointed ears, and if angered, sharp darkened fingertips.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

A thin line of blood stains the cuticles on my right hand. I can still feel my belt in my hands, the way it vibrates up to my palm with every lash dealt. There’s no need to investigate the source of the blood. It doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to that incessant bother of a girl.

A headache blooms afresh at my temples, and I suck in a deep breath between my teeth, pinching the bridge of my nose. It’s been a long day. I reach for a nearby cloth, forcefully tugging it off its small wooden rail. The material is soft on my skin as I wipe my fingers clean. Pink blotches form on my crisp, white embroidered cloth, and my lip curls with disgust.

The punishment we dealt her today was more severe than the last, but it was with reason. She serves to cause disruption, to destroy plans that took considerable effort to put into motion. I rub harder, reopening a minor cut on my index finger.

I swear Bryndis acts out on purpose, gaining some sort of unexplainable satisfaction from her activities. Stupid girl. Next time, she’ll truly regret her selfishness. My mother beat me, like her mother did her, and I’m better for it.

Three knocks on my door, hard and short in succession, catch me by surprise, and the cloth slips through my fingers. My eyes narrow as I watch it drift to the floor.

“Who is it?” I pull my nightgown together at my chest, eyeing the door while collecting the fallen cloth at my feet.

“Who else vis-visits ye room at night?” His voice is grating and guttural, and my tension eases, replaced by a soft smile.

“Come on in, you stammering fool.” I walk straight toward the door, unhooking the lock that secures it against its sturdy frame. Hearing Douglas’ voice is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. “The mistress won’t like seeing the gardener with her daughter’s governess,” I tease, keeping my tone quiet as I pull him in by the collar. Glancing out behind him, I see only darkness.

“Ye-you are in a grand mood, aren’t ye.” He chuckles, evaluating me before closing the door behind him as he steps in. Douglas is a fit man, as tall as the door itself.

“You smell good,” I say, leaning into him and filling my lungs with his rich herbal scent. He usually smells of grass, soil, and sweat, but tonight brings something else. “Have you been thinning out the peppermint patch in the herb garden?” I frown, studying him as he removes his cap and hangs it on the brass hook beside the door.

“Aye.” He nods, shrugging out of his thick woollen coat.

“Did you bring me some?” I ask hopefully, but I already suspect the answer will disappoint. It’s a request I once left with him that he has yet to fulfil. If only he knew there’s nothing as degrading for a governess as picking her own herbs. It’s second to begging for favours. I turn to my kitchenette and the small porcelain teapot waiting for me atop it, steam curling from its spout.

“Bollocks! I’m sorry, darlin’. I forgot. I’ve been up to the ninety with work.” One of my dining chairs scrapes across the floor behind me and creaks under his weight. My heart warms with his presence. After all these years alone, I’d found my companion, and he couldn’t have been more handsome if he were noble.

“Can I pour you a cup?” I call over my shoulder.

“Tha wud be terribly kind of ye. I wan mine black—”

“I know how you like your tea, Douglas,” I interrupt him, laughing softly to myself. He may have rough hands and even rougher manners, but he’s only ever been good to me. I thank the gods for this man.

“And an extra helpin’ of honey.” His voice deepens.