Chapter Three

Broken Toy

Soup. He smelled soup. An intoxicating blend of herbs, wine and cheese assailed him as he lied in bed, struggling awake. His stomach gurgled, complaining of its pangs and the neglect done to it. Jonathon forced his eyes, caked and dry, open. Whosever room this was had kindly enough thought to close the drapes over the windows, blocking out the growing light of morning.

The room itself could only be described as 'quaint' and clearly belonged to a woman. The curtains had frills, there was a bowl of flowers on the dresser just beside the armoire; a quilt, folded and bright, sat happily on a rocking chair by the window. Directly beside the wooden-framed twin he had slept on (complete with matching quilt), was a nightstand of matching light wood. Sitting atop this nightstand was a steaming bowl of soup and mug of what Jonathon guessed to be tea. He didn't wait to be invited. He scooped up the bowl with his left hand and, balancing the bowl between his knees, dug in.

It burned his tongue, but he was too hungry to care. He ignored the pain and continued shoveling the food into his mouth, swallowing large hunks of potato whole, registering only a vaguely pleasant taste in his haste to eat. He picked the bowl up again and tilted it back, spoon abandoned, swallowing the remains eagerly, his throat working hard. There was a piece of rough bread on a plate beside the tea he had somehow missed. In a few bites, he too had taken care that morsel. He was, however, more cautious with the tea as steam swirled around the mugs lip. He drank enough to realize it was herbal (chamomile mixed with mint and rose hips with a splash of honey and lemon) and to satisfy his thirst, then set the mug aside.

It was all coming back to him—how that bastard Jace with that raging whore Isabella had bested him—no! Sabotaged him in his moment of victory, stolen it and left him for dead beside the river. He snarled, cursing heartily as he stared blackly at his missing hand. There was a fresh bandage, more carefully wrapped than his previous one, and it was dry, free of blood. Those little shits would pay—and pay dearly. He had plans for them. If his father had not taken care of them yet, he would. He would make sure they suffered; lost everything they loved, and then died themselves. He smiled wickedly, a feral grimace. Such thoughts brought him intense pleasure.

Jonathon leaned back against the down pillows, eyes brooding, smirk tightly in place as he glowered at the wall. He imagined all the ways he would torture them—starting with Isabelle. He relished in the things he planned to do to that bitch's pristine white flesh. Just as he was getting lost in the daydream, he heart a creak from just beyond the door.

He was out of bed in a flash, noting that along with his shirt, his shoes were gone. More runes, he saw, had been burned onto his skin—runes for accelerated healing. He traced one with a fingertip, then looked for a weapon. He went through the drawers and found naught but clothing—some for a child, some for a woman—and a few broken wooden figures, lying limp and alone beside an open bag of crushed potpourri. He cursed again under his breath and made for the door anyway. He could kill one-handed; he'd done it before, on that Sebastian brat.

The door opened without a creak, revealing a long and narrow staircase down. Through the dim space, he could make out another door there, at the bottom. He was weak still, and breathing too deeply hurt, but what choice did he have? He couldn't let himself be unprepared—he had to know with whom he was dealing.

He lighted down the steps on bare and silent feet. This door too was open. When it pushed it ajar, he quickly took in his surroundings.

It all seemed to be one room, a large one, nevertheless. There was a large fireplace with a bed beside, partitioned by a sheer curtain from the rest of the room; an old breakfast table, light wood with two mismatched, overstuffed chairs. There was even a small kitchen complete with gas stove, oven and, what seemed, an antique sink. But it was what was standing before the sink that drew his attention.

A young woman, perhaps sixteen, stood, staring at him, expressionless. Her hair, long and golden, hung in loose waves to her waist; her skin was alabaster and she had the largest blue eyes he had ever seen.

When he continued to stare at her, unmoving, she decided he was waiting for her to speak.

"You're up, I see," she said in a clear voice. "Which you shouldn't be. Your wounds were extensive and haven't had adequate time to heal. Go back to bed. I'll be with you shortly, to see if you need anything."

That being said, she turned her back to him—like an idiot, who knew if he would attack?—expecting him to do as he was bid. He did not. Instead he sat down at the table, in the chair positioned in such a way as to have vantage to see the girl and all the potential entrance points. She glanced at him sideways and her already muted expression hardened, her lips growing tight and pale.

"That's Mother's chair."

Jonathon looked about, then raised a brow. "Well, clearly she's not using it at the—"

"She's dead. But it's still her chair."

They stared at each other, Jonathon smugly at ease, the girl taut and tense. Her jaw clenched and she turned her back on him again. She began clattering about in the sink, her movements as she did the dishes sharp and jerking. She continued this way for longer than Jonathon thought she would. He had assumed her need to break the silence that had settled over them like frost would prevail, and she would, like a weakling, speak to him. She did not, but continued as if the silence and his very presence meant nothing to her.

"You live alone?" he asked, wanting as much information from her as he could worm out. The more he knew, the better prepared he would be. Though she wore long sleeves and a long skirt, he could tell from small bits of her exposed skin that she was not a Mundie. She had fine webs across her skin, telltale signs of old marks.

"Clearly," was her stark reply.

"How long ago did you find me?" Sooner or later she would discover who he was, what he had done. He had to leave before then.

"Three days," she finally turned, frowning lightly as she gazed at him, dish towel draped over her arm. "It was difficult to move you." She then motioned at the fireplace. "Your shirt is there. I also made you a pair of pants, so I can was those filthy ones." She folded the towel neatly and put her hands on her hips. "Since you won't go back to bed, you can change now and bring me the pants and your sheets. I'll be out back, getting the water ready."

On silent feet she exited the little cabin, through the back door. Jonathon sat a moment, thinking. How could he use the situation to best benefit himself? If he made this mysterious woman his friend, then he could use her later—or at least give himself enough time to recover safely before slipping away.

That decided, he stood on nimble legs and, holding in a wince of pain as his ribs twinged, made his way back upstairs to get the sheets.

He nearly dropped them, once he stepped outside, now wearing the pants she had made for him so quickly. He knew where he was—knew it precisely, though he had but been there once, and a few years ago, when he was thirteen. The girl turned towards him and gave him mildly surprised eyes.

"Are you well?"

Jonathon swallowed, regaining his composure. "Who are you?"

The girl frowned at him. "That's a polite way to ask. My name is Arella. You never told me your name, you know, so there's no reason to be snippy."

"Jonathon," he said, seeing no need to lie to her, not when she lived in his father's cabin. "Jonathon Morgenstern."

Something in her expression hardened and she took his clothes and sheets silently from him. She gave him her back again, dumping the load into the wash bin. She began to scrub it all with unnecessary force.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm Jonathon Morgenstern," he said testily, grabbing her arm to force her to turn.

She jerked, deftly twisting from his grasp. "Don't touch me! You've no right to touch me!" Her breathing was chaotic, her cheeks flushed with color. Jonathon advanced on her menacingly.

"What are you doing here? What did my father want with you and your mother? What are you hiding here?" He itched to touch her, to pray the secrets out of that ivory skin, past her rosebud lips. He grew excited, thinking about blood welling up on that porcelain flesh, the soft cries of pain she would make. His muscles tightened in anticipation, and his pulse jumped in his throat.

"I've lived here my entire life," she spat, holding her ground. Her eyes flashed blue flame at him. "You've no right to be here," she hissed at him, hands curling into tight fists. "I've never wanted you to come!"

Jonathon stared at her, confusion clouding his desire to hurt her. "What are you talking about?"

"Like you don't know," she said, bitterness choking her voice. "Like you don't know exactly why I'm here. Why you're here. I bet he sent you, didn't he? This was just a ploy! He knew I wouldn't be able to just leave you, broken and alone in the woods. What? Did he think my 'soft heart' would fawn at the very sight of you? That he'd brainwashed me so utterly that your very name would make me sigh?" She took a deep, shaking breath, tears, silver and pure, welling in her eyes. "I'm nobody's pawn! Nobody's! I don't belong to him and I certainly do not belong to you!"

Jonathon could do little but scowl at her. "I don't know what you're talking about, you stupid git."

"I wasn't born yesterday Morgenstern."

Jonathon raked his hand through his hair, tugging on the white strands in frustration. "I don't know," he said emphatically, eyes narrowed. "You're lying. My father would never have kept something from me. Not like this. He told me everything. Everything." Except…he hadnt' said what it was that was in the cabin, had he?

Arella sneered at him. "If you're telling the truth, then go ask him. Where is he anyway?"

Jonathon was silent a moment. "If he hasn't already come, after three days," he clenched his jaws as he stared at her, met her eye, "then he is dead."

The girl was stunned into silence, her eyes wide, pallor becoming pale. "Oh. Jonathon I…I grieve your loss. He was not a good man, but he always spoke of you with pride."

"Why?" Jonathon asked, as if to himself, "Why did he tell you of me, but not me of you? I don't understand. Tell me, Arella." Her name was like a bitter tonic, and he spat it out like he would poison.

Arella looked away, her eyes on the sky visible beyond the tops of the trees—grey as steel. "It doesn't matter now. Not if he's dead."

He watched her, chest tight with anger, seething. His appearance, however, remained calm and placid, and his tone was smooth, almost genteel. "Oh? Then tell me this—why shouldn't I kill you right now? If you're of no use to me?"

She looked down at her hands, the scars and veins that decorated her skin, raw from soap. A small smile quirked her lips. "Kill me?" she asked, almost rhetorically. "Kill me," she whispered, dumbfounded, as her hands fell uselessly to her sides. "That seems appropriate. I was, after all, made for you. It seems fitting then, that I die…by your hand."