SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Eleven: Truths
No one paid heed to the cloaked woman standing on the bridge, watching the Seine rush past. Nobody saw the tears careening down her slightly flushed cheeks and adding to the bi-way below. Her body did not quiver nor did she make a sound. That morning had been a disaster. Instead of digging for information, she had made a mess of things. Her master didn't want to hear excuses or about insults. He wanted results. He wanted anything he could use against the musketeers should they stumble on her master's 'side operation.'
Sancia could feel the welts on her back, her arms and legs. If she had thought her body ached that morning, this evening's pain trumped it. He had yelled at first, ignoring her apologizes and pleas, but then he snapped. The slave had lifted her eyes just in time to see his fist flying forwarded. She felt the impact and remembered the rainbow of colors that clouded her vision. The rest was hazy, and Sancia wasn't even sure what he had been beating her with that left such thick, uniform welts. Her last memory was her back smashing into the wall. She had finally awakened only a few hours earlier, her neck sore from the awkward position she had been slumped in. Her master had left her where she had fallen. Sancia believed the only thing that had saved her was that Vesey never did anything to her that would leave scars. He didn't want his perfect prize damaged. She wouldn't be able to 'get close' to his adversaries if she were marred; scars would betray her station.
However, this time Vesey had done something he hadn't done since she was ten. She had hit him then after he threw Siroc across the room, and he had returned the weak little smacks with a closed-fist blow of his own across her face. There was a purple-blue bruise on her left cheek by her eye now. It was puffy and swelling. Common sense was telling her to put something on it before it swelled shut, but her stubbornness kept her feet planted. It would serve Vesey right not to be able to utilize her 'assets' and besides, she was waiting for the one person who made her complete.
She feared Siroc would not come. The last rays of daylight had slipped away an hour before, and he still hadn't arrived. He could be angry with her, although she always had to push him hard to provoke that emotion. His friends would have told him about that morning, about her appalling and unladylike behavior, and about 'Madam Vesey.' They did not like her; it was seemly obvious. But she did admire their dedication to her brother. She felt better knowing he had friends that would do anything for him, even if she didn't much like them.
'Jacques' was an exception. She had enjoyed his company. He had made her laugh until she thought she would cry. Tales of flying contraptions and of weapon detectors had filled their short time at the café. The stories Jacques had shared were priceless. Sancia could picture every expression from the tilt of his head to the exasperated look he had when he was speaking to someone who didn't understand. Her master's favorite henchman had rudely interrupted their delicious moments, and Sancia had sweet-talked 'Jacques' into staying his blade when the crude man had yanked her from her seat. But she would not exchange the short time she spent with Jacques Leponte for anything. Although, Sancia was more certain then ever that 'he' was actually a 'she', and perhaps 'she' would be the voice of reason if Siroc really was angry with her.
"Sancia?" Siroc stood just off the bridge. He could not see her face, but he recognized his cloak. He had several things on his mind that he desperately needed to say to her, but he was still bothered by what Ramon and d'Artagnan had revealed. Regardless of what they had heard, they were mistaken. The union is highly improbable. He kept repeating that in his head, but his hands still would not stop shaking. He had looked over his shoulder several times to make sure his noisy, although well-meaning brothers-in-arms weren't following him either. The last thing he needed was them interrupting an extremely private conversation. He was going to ask her about it, and try to understand whatever she had to say. After all, he had been the one person Sancia sought when she needed love and understanding. He was her rock. He inhaled, holding his breath for a moment before expelling it. Siroc stepped onto the bridge, moving forward until he could smell her lavender soap.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," she said wistfully. Sancia was a little afraid to look at him. She knew his protective instincts would immediately kick in.
Siroc sat down on the stone that lined the edges of the bridge, and looked up at his twin's shadowed face. He draped the cloak he had been carrying — the cloak she had left in his laboratory the night before — across his legs. "Why wouldn't I come, San?" he questioned, slightly puzzled. He reached for her right hand with his left, taking her fingers and squeezing gently.
"I thought you might be upset with me," she told him as she brought up her left hand and wiped her tear stained face.
Realizing she was crying, Siroc stood up, the cloak on his lap sliding off onto the road, and pulled her to him before she could protest. Her hood fell back as he wrapped his arms around her and inhaled her sweet scent. "Because you are now Madam Vesey?" he asked her. He hated to see her cry; it tore at his heart every time. "You know I am the last person that would judge you — even if the thought is appalling."
Sancia bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out as they embraced. Pain coursed her body from her fresh wounds. She brought her sore arms up and wrapped them around his warm torso. She leaned her head against his chest, inhaling the aroma of his freshly laundered shirt. "I'm not really married, 'Roc. I swear it," she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. "It's not what you think."
He pulled away slightly, and for the first time since he left the garrison, he stopped shaking. Relief flooded his body. He looked down at his sister, who stared at the ground, and ran his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, preparing to take her hands. When his slightly callused hands touched her skin, he stopped. His body stiffened as his fingers traced the thick welts crisscrossing her delicate limbs. "San," he said. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the part in her hair at the top of her head. "Look at me," he said, his voice pleading.
Sancia stiffened as his fingers gently caressed the puffy red and blue marks. She heard his words, but could not look up into his eyes. He always did uncharacteristic, irrational things when it came to her. She didn't want this to be one of those few occasions he lost his head.
"Sancia, look at me." This time his voice was commanding. His hand moved to her chin and lifted until he could see her weary face. Siroc inhaled sharply. Even in the dark, he could see the mark that scathed her beauty. "I'm going to kill him," he said breathlessly, shocked at the bruise. He turned her head from side to side, looking for additional marks.
"No," she shot back quickly but gently. "It was my own fault, Sirocco. I — I —" she looked back down. She did blame herself, for that was the effect abuse had on the abused. "I didn't do what I was told and on top of it, my behavior was completely appalling."
"Your fault," he sputtered in disbelief. "No man has the right to hit a woman, to strike anyone — slave or not!" He brought his hand up from her chin and placed it gently on her bruised check, stroking her face with his thumb.
She ignored his correction. He was right. He usually was, and deep down she knew she believed the same. But beliefs and reality are two very different things in the life of a slave. The master had all the rights, the slave none. Sancia changed the subject, thinking it better to draw his attention away from the dark reminder of the things she faced everyday. "Your friend Jacques is very nice," she stated, looking back down, relaxing her head against his hand, and enjoying his gentle, comforting touch. "He was the only one that was nice to me today."
Siroc dropped his arms back to his side. He picked up her cloak, throwing it over his right arm before gesturing for them to walk. She moved forward, her brother at her side. She didn't know where they were going, but a stroll was just what she needed to clear the cobwebs. Siroc, on the other hand, knew exactly where he was taking her, back to the garrison to treat the nasty welts and bruises that marred her. "What do you mean?" he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders. She wrapped her arm around his waist.
"Your friend, Ramon, insulted me," she told him, leaving out her own behavior. She was curious to see how much they had told him.
"That doesn't sound like him. He and d'Artagnan are usually the first to defend a lady." Siroc told her. He had a feeling she wasn't exaggerating though, especially after the confrontation in the laboratory.
"He called me 'tripe', Sirocco," she informed him, her tone a bit bitter. Her forehead wrinkled and she pursed her lips. Tripe wasn't really that bad of an insult, not in the grand scheme of things, but it was still an insult, one Sancia didn't care for. She felt worthless most of the time anyway, but she hid it behind smiles, sarcasm and a lot of finesse — not to mention behind her explosive personality when she was provoked.
He smiled although he still was having a hard time believing that Ramon would say such a thing to someone the inventor cared about so much. He also knew the woman beside him, and there was more to this story than she was letting on. "And how did you respond?" he asked, hoping her answer wouldn't make him regret his shortness with his friends.
"I pulled a blade on him," she said stoically and waited for him to chastise her for such behavior.
Siroc started laughing as he visualized the sight of his tiny sister holding a blade to his lanky friend. He shook his head. "Will you ever act like a lady?" he asked her. It was a rhetorical question because he knew that she would never be as ladylike as most. But he loved her the way she was.
"I'll act like a lady, 'Roc, if you do," she said, throwing him a grin as they rounded a corner.
The musketeer's cheeks flushed at her playful reminder of a very embarrassing moment. They scene replayed itself in his mind. They had been five at the time and Sancia was in her room, in trouble for what their mother called unsuitable behavior for a little girl. Siroc had sneaked into her quarters and promptly told his twin that she needed to act like a lady because he was bored; he wanted someone to play with. Her response was a plain and simple: 'I don't know how.' As serious as could be, Siroc did his best impression of how a lady should act. The inventor had missed the sarcasm in her declaration. Sancia had fallen off her bed she had been laughing so hard, tears streaming her face. She loved to privately tease him about his impersonation. "If you say a word, Sancia, so help me I'll…"
The slave's body rocked with laughter. "I wouldn't dream of embarrassing you," she said innocently, picturing his attempt at a feminine walk that had finally cracked the smile she had been trying to hide then. Sancia glanced at the buildings around her, still laughing until it dawned on her that she knew the buildings. The edges of her mouth dropped. "Where are we going?" she asked sharply. They were on the street that led to the garrison.
"Back to the musketeer garrison, to my laboratory," he told her as if the destination was logical and not unexpected.
Sancia stopped abruptly; her brother's arm released her as she did. "I don't think that's wise, Sirocco. Not after this morning. Your friends hate me!" Her eyes were wide. But there was more to her fear than just the men her sibling called friends. Much had happened that day.
He slipped his arm back around her and squeezed gently, afraid to hurt her with his touch. "And that is my fault, San. I…I wanted to keep my past from them. I've never told anyone about our parents, about our master," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry. I should have told them; it would have spared us both some arguments."
The pair resumed walking up the lantern-lit street. She did not argue because he would protect her from the cads he called friends and from anything else that might come. Sancia had an eerie feeling that she should not go. She had not told him about the other events of the day, and the fact that she was officially marked as a runaway. Her master's men were no doubt looking for her even now. Despite the looming anxiety, she relaxed into Siroc's warm side and reached up, pulling his left arm tighter around her. He kissed the top of her head, gingerly, thankful that they were together. The conversation about freeing her would hold for a while.
Jacqueline sat in the common room, pulling apart a roll before dipping it in the stew that sat on the table in front of her. She had just returned from patrol and was now enjoying something to eat. Her friends had already had their evening meal but the looks on their faces told her something happened while she was scouring the Parisian roads for criminals.
D'Artagnan sat next to her, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He appeared to be almost pouting. Ramon slouched across the table from her. His chin rested in his hands and he looked positively befuddled. "Has Siroc come back?" she asked, shoving a piece of the bread in her mouth.
The usually talkative Spaniard shook his head yes, growling and mumbling in his native tongue. D'Artagnan brought himself forward and laid his head across his folded arms on the table. "Oh, yes," he declared.
One corner of Jacqueline's mouth curved up. Serves you both right, she thought. She could guess the outcome of the conversation that they had been going on and on about having with Siroc. "I take it, it didn't go well," she said complacently.
"Well, you're rather smug about it, Jacques," d'Artagnan shot, irritated. He turned his head to look at her. He usually loved her face and the animated expressions that came across it, especially when they argued. But tonight, she looked almost satisfied that Siroc had brushed off his friends' concerns like he usually brushed off women for his inventions.
"I told you two to leave it alone. But you didn't want to hear it." She took another bite of her meal, chewing before continuing. "Did you ever stop to think that there actually are things that are none of your businesses?"
Ramon growled. "You're one to talk. You always stick your nose where it doesn't belong." He jabbed at her with his finger as he narrowed his dark eyes. "I'm actually surprised you stopped meddling." Ramon raised his eyebrows and let them fall again quickly, before bringing his hand back to support his chin.
She hadn't really stopped 'meddling', as Ramon put it. Jacqueline was just keeping her word. There was something going on that she hadn't quite put her finger on. Siroc's behavior at the café, his sister's strange behavior, the sandy-haired man treating Sancia so roughly, the slave auction, all of it was tied together; she just hadn't figured it out yet.
"I get the distinct impression you know something we don't," d'Artagnan accused. His face contorted to his 'knowing' look. The one he gave Jacqueline when he knew something was going on and she didn't want to share. It usually took some prodding and harassment, but he knew how to get it out of her if she was keeping something from him.
"And what would that be, d'Artagnan?" She grinned innocently, before spooning some of the stew into her mouth.
"If we knew, we wouldn't be asking, compadre," Ramon answered for d'Artagnan. He nabbed a roll off her plate, smiling innocently as her eyes flashed with disapproval.
"Why don't you ask Siroc, Ramon? After all, it's his life. He'll share what he wants when he wants," she chastised her friend even though she was the last person who should be chastising someone for butting in.
"Ah ha! So, he is hiding something!" Ramon almost jumped up. Jacqueline dropped her spoon mid-motion, splashing some of the contents onto the table. Some of it hit d'Artagnan in the face, but he quickly wiped it off while glaring at Ramon for such an exuberant outburst.
"Nothing that's really your business, Ramon," the inventor's somber voice interceded before Jacqueline could respond to his energetic outburst. He had planned on telling them, had they walked in on him 'fixing up' Sancia. However, he was rather annoyed with them again, having walked in on his friends having a conversation about him. All three friends stared at him sheepishly.
Sancia stood behind him, the hood of her twin's cloaked masked her face. Seeing her in his cloak was rather amusing to Jacqueline. She hadn't realized how small Sancia was until she saw her in the cloth that fit her brother perfectly but Sancia swam in. The serious man gestured toward the hall that led to his lab and followed Sancia to his sanctuary before they could respond.
Once inside, Siroc shut the door but did not latch it. The lamp in the middle of the room still burned brightly. He stood for a moment, watching Sancia wander the room and looking at the shelves and books. After a few moments, Siroc went straight for the containers that held his herb collection, tossing her cloak across the table as he passed it. He was looking for a specific herb, and coincidently, it was one that Jacques had purchased for him. He picked up a small package, opening it to make sure he had grabbed the right one. The leaves of the calendula plant (marigold) had a pungent scent, and would reduce the swelling of Sancia's bruises. "Have a seat, San. I need to get some water."
"What for?" she asked, a little curious as to what he was holding. "What are you up too, 'Roc?" She pulled the cloak off and draped it across the table before moving toward her brother and the hearth. She preferred to sit near the warmth.
"It's for making a poultice with the calendula. It'll help with the swelling," he informed her, setting the envelope on the rickety table before turning to face her.
"You don't need to do that, Sirocco," she said, rolling her eyes, but enjoying her brother's attention regardless.
"I know that but I…" Siroc didn't finish the sentence. The squeak of the door and the echoing sounds of several loud musketeers barreling in the room cut him off. He growled lowly, just quiet enough that only he heard it. But if they were going to intrude, he was going to put them to work. A mischievous smile spread across his face. He picked up the kettle that hung on a hook off to the side of the fireplace and tossed it underhanded at them. Ramon caught it just before it struck him. "If you three insist on intruding, you get to help," Siroc announced.
"And what am I suppose to do with this?" Ramon inquired, slightly angered by the fact he had almost been hit with the iron cookware.
"It's a kettle Ramon; what usually goes in it?" Siroc asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Ramon thrust the pot into Jacqueline's hands. She stood just behind him with d'Artagnan at her side. She shook her head, but got the gist of the gesture without him saying a word. She was going for the water. She hesitated for a moment, before slipping out the door. Jacqueline just hoped they behaved themselves.
Ramon and d'Artagnan fanned out, each going the opposite direction. They were attempting to flank Siroc, the way they always did when they wanted something and he was reluctant to give in. They had done it the first day and the inventor was positive this wouldn't be the last time. He glanced down at his sister. She stared intently in the fire, trying to hide her face, he guessed. Protectively, he positioned himself in front of her, blocking their view. She could hide her face the way she was sitting, but the bruises on her bare arms were still noticeable. He was very tempted to let them see what Vesey had done to her. At least then they would understand.
His friends rounded the backside of the table until they stood in front of him. Ramon narrowed his eyes, still angry about having the kettle chucked at him. The amused look on Siroc's face wasn't helping temper his mood either. He had a queer little half smirk with his head tilted slightly to the side and arms crossed in front of him, hands tucked. "And what exactly are we helping with?" Ramon asked, taking a stance that mirrored Siroc's. Only his eyes had fire in them instead of the twinkle of humor that radiated from the blonde's.
"I'm making a poultice," he stated, waving his hand for them to move. The pair split and he grabbed the package off the table, showing his friends the herbs.
D'Artagnan stepped back and situated himself on the table. "What for?" he asked curiously as he glanced back and forth between Siroc and the woman he seemed to be shielding. "You look fine to me."
Finding himself as curious as d'Artagnan, Ramon relaxed a little and leaned back against the table. Siroc stepped aside and looked down at his sister. "Sancia," he said. Torn between protecting his privacy, her privacy and his relationship with his friends, the quiet, serious man was about to find a happy medium.
"It's none of their business," she said quietly, without taking her eyes from the small dancing flames. She had been uncomfortable since they came in the room. As bruised and battered as she was, having the two men she had quarreled with recently so close to her made her feel vulnerable. She hated feeling that way.
"San." Siroc's voice dropped into a whisper. "Trust me. They are my friends after all." He stopped, taking a deep breath and biting the inside of his lower lip as he considered his next words. His eyes narrowed. "Besides, this misunderstanding between the three of you is going to end right now. It's giving me headache."
"Then drink some chamomile tea," she retorted. She shifted slightly, trying to hide a little better.
Jacqueline came back in just in time to hear Sancia's retort. "Being temperamental again?" she asked to no one in particular as she handed Siroc the full kettle. Sancia's eyes narrowed.
"Temperamental? I could think of another word," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.
Jacqueline and Siroc both glared at him as Sancia turned her head to add her own fiery look to the fray. Her blonde curls whipped through the air as she moved. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but before the words could cross her lips, she heard the Spaniard swear.
"Dios mio!"
Captain Duval sat hunched over his desk, going over the next day's assignments. He muttered under his breath. He had waited to give out the 'duty' assignments for the morning. Something didn't seem right about the Cardinal asking specifically for d'Artagnan, Ramon, Siroc and Jacques. They always thwarted his schemes. The aging musketeer couldn't help but feel that guard duty was just a convenient way to keep them out of the way for the day. He had met with the young king earlier that evening, arguing that this type of duty was suitable for new recruits and that he needed them on other, more important assignments. But as usual, the young king had fussed and made it clear that musketeers were needed where the king said they were needed, and he wanted them keeping order.
In the last day, most available rooms around the Place des Vosges were occupied, and the streets were busier than Duval had seen in a long time. For the wealthy that came to sell and purchase, it was a festive atmosphere. For those that lived in Paris and valued the lives that these people were demeaning, it was chaos. Disdain didn't quite cover the feelings the captain had about the entire thing. What made the auction even more distasteful was that the grand place that once hosted the tournaments celebrating Louis the XIII's wedding to Anne of Austria was going to be marked forever. Duval would never be able to look at the square in the same way again.
"Captain Duval," a man's shrill voice said.
Duval looked up at the finely dressed man that stood in his doorway. If it wasn't for his placid face and hair too dark for his complexion, he would have been an attractive man. Of course, a woman would have to ignore his lack of compassion or regard for any other living thing. The musketeer couldn't fathom why someone as young and lovely as Sancia Vesey would marry this man, who now stood flanked by two equally overly dressed males with the same lack of humanity. "Monsieur Vesey, can I do something for you?" Duval barely hid his contempt.
"As your musketeers are charged with preventing theft, I require assistance," he said coldly. He had no more love for this man then Duval had for him.
"With what, sir? Speak plain for I am busy," Duval shot back as he resumed his work on the next day's assignments.
"Finding a runaway, Captain," he stated, stiffening himself.
"How is finding a runaway by any means a part of the duty the king has asked us to perform?"
"You are charged with protecting my property and the property of the other owners," he reminded, talking a breath and considering the man who was now looking back at him with a look that would have sent chills through any other person. "She is my property." Vesey enunciated each word, driving his point home.
Duval stood up abruptly, his chair falling over behind him. "As you wish, Monsieur," he said. His voice was cold but sarcastic. He wanted nothing more than to toss this pompous mule out into the street, but his duty forbade it. The three men in the door split as Duval's commanding form moved through.
The captain needed to round-up his musketeers for their 'duty', and he hoped they would be where they usually were — in Siroc's laboratory.
"That smells," Sancia protested as Siroc put the poultice on her cheek. She wrinkled her nose, repulsed.
"Stop complaining, San. It'll make the swelling go down," Siroc argued, slightly exasperated. "Now hold it; I'm not going to sit like this all night."
She replaced his hand with her own and watched him as he slowly rose from the squatting position he had been in. All four musketeers' eyes were on her. It was uncomfortable to have them watching her, but at least they had stopped asking questions after they saw her face. Their reaction was much the same as walking out of the darkness into the light, after spending a lifetime in the dark, and not being able to believe that the light really existed. She could tell they still had questions, but other than an occasional ramble in Spanish from Ramon, who now sat on the table next to d'Artagnan, they had been silent while Siroc worked. "Why couldn't you have used malva? It at least smells better. Besides, you decoct calendula — you make a poultice with malva."
Siroc closed his eyes and growled lowly. He shook his head before opening his eyes again. She was exasperating sometimes. "Because I don't have malva, and my laboratory is a little—" he paused, trying to find the right word "—lacking lately."
She eyed her brother, curiously, and said the first sarcastic thing she could think of. "What did you do? Blow the place up!" She laughed lightly, but the grin slipped from her face when she saw her brother stiffen, and Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline snorted with laughter around her. Her face was as serious as Siroc's was. Sancia gasped. "Oh heavens! You did!" But her humorless expression lasted mere seconds after she breathed her last word.
The sound that followed her decree was perfectly musical. It wasn't the coy, light giggle or the tittered sound of a woman bound in slavery. It was the sweet sound that Siroc remembered from their youth. The one that caused images of the little girl in a light green dress standing over him with her arms wrapped around her chest and tears streaming down her face to flash in his mind. It was the one that rang out when they had shared a private joke. Siroc joined the choric sound with his own quiet laugh, feeling more relaxed then he had in days.
Their amusement would end there. D'Artagnan and Ramon sat shaking the repaired furniture with their equally loud, full-bodied laughs. The sound of the quintet drowned out its warning creek. In the next second, the make-shift supports gave and their bodies flailed as they crashed to the floor with the table. The noise could be heard throughout the entire garrison. A new wave of laughter overtook the other three, as they watched the sprawled out figures struggling to get up.
Both musketeers felt absolutely stupid. Siroc had warned them, and they hadn't listened. Ramon and d'Artagnan managed to get to their feet, rubbing various parts of their bodies that had impacted with the floor and each other. They were never going to live this down, and neither could speak from the shock.
The happiness from their comedic moment was short-lived.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Before Duval could even announce their presence to the roaring musketeers, Vesey's glacial voice rang out. The slave owner hadn't expected to find his property in the very place he sought assistance. What made it all that more sweet, the search ending before it began, was seeing another piece of property that he had given up hope of ever finding. His face showed a countenance of delight. Duval glanced over his shoulder at the three men, who were all wearing sinister grins.
The four figures jumped at the sound, their laughter immediately silenced. Every muscle in the inventor's body stiffened; his face turned a deathly white. Sancia's hand slipped into his as she stood, but he could not grasp hers; his arms hung limply by his side. The only movement he managed was to glance over to the smaller table in the corner, where his blade sat.
Ramon and d'Artagnan took a protective stance in front of Sancia. Although they hadn't been told who had caused the damage to the lady's face, they had no doubt that this oil-slick of a man had been the dealer. "Captain," d'Artagnan greeted, trying to pretend that everything was as it should be, despite the air of tension that was almost tangible.
"Monsieur Vesey has asked for assistance in reclaiming some property," Duval said. He narrowed his eyes at Sancia's master, realizing who the property was that Vesey was seeking. "Madam Vesey, I believe your husband is looking for you." Duval turned back around, noting the death-vice grip she now had on Siroc's arm. He felt a wave of anger when he saw her face, but quickly suppressed it. Although he despised Vesey and any man who would hurt a lady, the reaction was more personal than protective. A long forgotten memory of Raissa Marcellus dancing resurfaced, and for the second time that day he felt a pang of loss. There was something more to Madam Vesey. It could be the only reason the sight of her brought up the memories he kept locked away.
Vesey shoved past Duval, glaring at the frightened man Sancia clung to. "Come looking for one and find another." His henchman shadowed their boss.
Captain Duval poked his cane into Vesey's back, not hard enough to hurt the despicable man but enough to get his attention. "And what, sir, do you mean by that?" He moved forward, standing between Vesey and the two figures clinging together. Siroc's companions glanced from the two blondes to the older men sizing each other up.
"That man," Vesey half-yelled, slightly fuming that the musketeer would dare get in his way. His arm shot out, pointing at the inventor. "He is my property and I demand he be returned to me as well!"
Had Siroc eaten that day, he would have vomited right then. The welted scars on his back burned and the walls seemed to close in. He looked to his blade again, preparing to go for his weapon if they came anywhere near him or his sister. "That man is a musketeer!" Duval's voice boomed, bringing the genius' attention from his blade to his captain. "Whatever claim you have on him was forfeited the day he put on that uniform!" he said an octave below his powerful yell.
Vesey stepped up, putting his face in Duval's, eyes narrowed, fist balled tightly. "I will have my property," he insisted, attempting to size up the captain.
Duval did not shrink back. In fact, Vesey's attempt only added to the fire coursing through his own veins. "The lady, yes. My musketeer, no!" At the captain's words, Vesey's men began to move forward, closing in on the five people. The sound of sliding metal started. "Musketeers, hold!"
"But, Capitanee!" Ramon protested, his blade half-drawn. Although still in the dark about the fair woman's relationship with Siroc, the dark musketeer wasn't about to abandon any female to these men.
"I said hold. I will personally throw the first of you to draw in the Bastille," he said, although he wouldn't really. He wanted to pull his own blade on the arrogant man in front of him.
Vesey's men flanked Sancia and Siroc. The musketeers had moved aside, obeying their captain, but not one of them was happy about it. Sancia let go of Siroc's arm. She didn't want to go back, but she wasn't going to let her brother fight it out either. He was safe as a musketeer, protected from ever returning to the horrible life of a slave. It satisfied her that Vesey could never claim him.
The one closest to them yanked on the shorter twin's arm as she stepped forward, accepting her fate for the second time in her life. Sancia yelled as the man tugged on her arm. It was the last straw Siroc could take in the extremely intense situation. He went for his blade, drew it out completely and placed it to the man's throat before anyone could take a breath.
"I said hold!" Duval spun around when he heard the unmistakable sound. "Siroc, lower the blade," he ordered.
The sandy-haired goon let go of Sancia as the blade pressed against his throat, scratching him. Her heart skipped over the thought of her brother taking her freedom by force, but it was quickly replaced by an overwhelming fear that Captain Duval would keep his threat. She couldn't let that happen. "Sirocco! Stop it!" she pleaded. All eyes in the room darted back and forth between the pair.
"What?" he breathed. Tears were forming in her eyes and he could see her body shaking with fear. He couldn't understand why she was telling him to let these men take her. Did she want to go back?
"I said, stop it!" Her voice cracked. She licked her lips, feeling the tears forming in her eyes. She couldn't let him do this, not after all she had given up for him. "I didn't give up my freedom for you so that you could throw yours away!" She could barely force the words out.
His arm relaxed slightly. His placid face scrunching with confusion. "San?" he choked out. An eerie feeling crept over him that he knew exactly what she meant. But it couldn't be. She wouldn't have done it.
She could see the agony on his face and his friends' shocked expression at his rash behavior as they looked between the siblings. She never thought she'd see him again, let alone tell him that she had given up herself so that he could get away. He would have never left the hillside if she hadn't let herself slide back down. "I didn't slip, Sirocco; I let go," she whispered, moving herself within an inch of her brother and placing her hand on his now shaking sword arm.
He lowered the blade, fighting back tears. His hazel eyes bore into hers, searching for the truth. He couldn't have heard her correctly. Why would she do such a thing? They had promised. She had sworn. The world seemed to spin around him. There was no mistaking the truth he found on her pained face. For the first time in his life, he was truly angry with her because she had given up after they both swore the night they escaped that they would both make it or neither would. "Why?" he demanded through clenched teeth. She had lied to him, broken her word, and left him alone.
At the same time, two tears rolled down both of her cheeks. She swallowed hard. There was only one reason she did anything regarding him. "You're my brother. I would give you the stars if I could." Her chin started to quiver and she backed away. It was best if the scene didn't continue. She moved quickly to her master, stopping briefly and lowering her eyes submissively. His men flanked her, each taking her by an arm.
"This isn't over, Duval," Vesey spat before storming from the room with his henchman and slave at his heels.
As the quartet left Sirocco Marcellus' sanctuary, they took with them a piece of his soul.