Chapter 32
Bella sat curled atop the window seat, her feet tucked up against her thighs as she gazed through the open window, her face upturned towards the towering mountain range in the West. The room was as quiet as a grave. Her idle fingers traced patterns on the etched lead glass of the window, tracing up and down the crystalline facets as she watched the passage of the moon in the night, waiting for the moment when it would dip down and kiss the summit of the tallest peak.
Stars shone like glitter strewn in great piles and swirls on the inky canvas of the sky. The band of the milky way was bright, tracing a long, white trail like a belt across the heavens, stretching from the invisible sea in the south to the edge of the rocks in the north. Its stars flashed like diamonds suspended in the air and she breathed a great sigh of wonder, her gaze fixed on its brilliant stillness. The night was as wondrous as it had been in Esme's garden the night before the Cleansing, and it marvelled her now, just as it had then.
The heavens made her feel small and she revelled in it. The stars did not care about her insignificant worries. They did not concern themselves with the business of Earth. They were not caught up in the fishbowls of men, nor did they move when a small mortal on a distant, tiny planet sent out a silent prayer of love and thanks. Bella's missives ran a loop in her brain, her thoughts vanishing like smoke into the great span of the cosmos in the same instant they'd arrived, but they continued nonetheless, leaching out like water from an overfilled tub.
She felt bathed by the starlight that glowed upon her face in pale, eerie blue. The open sky was cleansing, as if by the sheer force of its light she was purged of all her worries and fears. She sat in quiet contemplation, taking a moment to return herself to a state of rest where her mind was free and her conscience, clear. Though the air was warm and balmy with a gentle breeze from the south, Bella thought that if she was still and calm enough, that she could feel the starlight's icy cold on the apples of her cheeks, dusting like snowflakes across her nose and her chin. Bella loved the sky, especially at night, and its silence and mystery was like a salve, soothing her and lulling her into placid, easy rest.
She raked her eyes over the multitude of stars to seek out the Big Dipper, which hung just above the mountains in the skies to the north, its great ladle hovering as if to steal a scoop of stone. It was fixed in her mind's eye, as familiar as her own self, and she let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling for the first time in a long while like the world was finally still. She could breathe here, strange though it was, and she was struck by a sudden appreciation for the restoration of peace in her little world. The day would bring chaos—she knew it as well as anything—but for a moment suspended in time, with neither fear nor fancy to disturb her, Bella felt a serenity that she had not felt at all since her arrival on the island.
How wonderful it was to find herself in such a place as this, warm and safe in a King's room, surrounded only by kindness and care.
The stars twinkled lovingly from their great, black seats and she felt her muscles ease, her head resting on the very edge of the long, steely window frame. Her fingers reached out into the night, feeling the rising mist that would bring the morning dew, and she held it there until it cramped.
The great spoon remained suspended in the sky like a memory, and she recalled with a nostalgic fondness how often she had gazed upon it in her early days.
Bella had always been an avid astronomer. From the time she was very small—just a girl at her mother's knee—Bella had admired the stars in all their celestial glory, feeling undiminished wonder at their purpose and the magnitude of their imposing presence in the sky. She'd studied them closely—had read shelves of books and spent countless nights sprawled on the lawn in the tiny back garden of the tenement house where she and her mother had stayed. A clear sky had been a treat and Renee had often been so distracted that she hadn't noticed when Bella spent the night outside, falling asleep beneath the towering spruce in the yard and waking with the sun when it shone beyond the fence.
Bella wondered if her mother could see her now, wherever she was, and whether she had any care at all for what had become of her child.
Bella's mother had always been a sensitive subject and even here, in the solitude and silence of the dark bedchamber, she was not immune to its sting. Bella had loved her mother. She had cared for her, fought for her, and prayed so hard for her safe passage through the perils of her own mind that her efforts had come to nothing, and she had lost all respect for the God her mother had loved. Renee had spent her final days in an agony of supplication, begging on her knees for mercy and forgiveness from an obstinate deity who would not answer, and when the end had finally come, Bella knew that it had all been for naught.
She remembered her mother like a child remembers its ghosts. She remembered the softness of her face, the gentle way her eyes lit up when she laughed and smiled. She remembered her hands, soft and gentle when they combed through her hair before bed, and the way her lips had felt when she kissed her, always on the cheek, and tucked her tight beneath her covers, whispering blessings and wishes to her daughter's tender ears.
She wondered if her mother was there, a twinkling pinprick in that band of glittering stars. Bella hoped she was… she hoped that wherever Renee had gone, whatever she knew and saw, that she had finally found her rest. She hoped that her mother knew that she loved her, that she missed her fiercely, and that she had found peace, or some semblance of it, in this strange and otherworldly place where she was surrounded by people who loved her.
Her uncle, too, liked to think of her mother that way. Charlie had told her so in the morgue, when he'd seen the bloodied face beneath a stained, white sheet. He'd told her when he'd picked her up from the police station, collecting his trembling, terrified little niece from the clutches of the social worker, the image of her dead mother etched forever in the forefront of her memory. She was not a corpse, Charlie had told her. She was not that body, which would rot, and fester, and decay. She was light, he'd said… she was a star. She had transcended life to find better and higher things, just as Bella's daddy had, and just as they all would, in the end, when that specter came to claim them.
The thought of Charlie brought Bella crashing back to the world in a cloud of fire and smoke, and she felt a stitch in her chest that had nothing to do with the healing bruises on her ribs.
She missed her uncle with an unspeakable ferocity that made her cheeks run hot and her throat feel tight. She thought of his smile—of his excitement and his joy when he'd seen her off at the airport in Seattle, his face pressed against the glass with a splitting smile. He was proud of her, he'd said. He was awed by the woman she'd become.
"You're so like your mama, Bells, you don't even know." The words rang so clearly in her memory that he might as well have been standing there before her, smelling of coffee and toast. "She would be so proud of you, kid. I know I am."
She hadn't even cried when she'd waved him goodbye.
What would he be doing now, she wondered, while the night grew long and dark? Would he be at rest, snoring on his pillow in the early grips of sleep? Would he be awake, perhaps, at the dining table with a book, or seated before the television watching baseball on the screen? The nights would have grown cold by now. Winter was fast approaching. There would be Thanksgiving to prepare, and Christmas after that. Who would cook for him, she wondered, and who would join his table? She thought of him alone and it made her tender heart ache, and she hung her head, drawing in deep, careful breaths to stave off her tears.
She wondered if he, too, looked up at those same stars and thought of her, just as she did of him. Did he see her there, alongside her mother in an imagined death she couldn't know? Did he speak to her, his words lost in the great chasm of time and space between them? Somehow, she hoped he did. She hoped that he'd hold on, that he'd feel her living in the wind and the rain, and that it gave him peace to think that she was well, even if he would never lay eyes on her again.
His face materialized in an instant and she smiled despite her sorrow.
"I love you," she whispered, her words carried on the breeze. "I love you, and I miss you, and I hope that you'll be happy."
That part of her that held him melted into mist and she felt it seep into the marrow of her bones, settling like concrete to become one with the very fabric of her being. She would carry him with her always in a little facet of her heart, glowing fiercely knowing that she was safe, and cared for, and loved.
Sometime later, the door creaked open in the dead of night and Bella, lost to the world in a realm of dreams, remained curled by the window with her head against the glass. She did not hear the footsteps, slowly padding towards her resting place, and she did not see the smile—exhausted, yet triumphant—that spread across his face like a scarlet badge of victory. She did not know the hour—only that it was late and not yet light—and she succumbed most willingly to her tantalizing drowsiness, letting her head loll against his hand when he pressed it to her cheek.
"It is done, sweetheart." She felt his arms slip beneath her, pulling her up from her seat near the stars. "It is all done. Your friend is safe, and her home secured."
His shirt held a fragrant spice like sweet cinnamon and cloves and she breathed in the smell of him with relish. She did not hear him chuckle at her when she turned her face towards him, but she felt the gentle rumble beneath her cheek. He lifted her, his wounded arm trembling beneath her weight, but he did not falter as he turned towards the bed where the blankets were pulled down and the pillows soft and warm.
"Come to bed, Bella. Your legs are cold as ice."
He laid her on the sheets. She shivered when he left her, his warmth gone in an instant when he put her down and she stirred, feeble and weak, before he shushed her.
"Easy, sweetheart." The blankets rose to her chin and she felt the bed dip down next to her. "Don't fret… all is well."
He settled down beside her, his head upon her pillow, and she felt sleep rise up like fog, pulling her back to that elusive land of dreams.
In the moments before she drifted she rested her cheek upon his chest. Like a balm to her weary, tired soul, she felt the warmth of him in her heart, the icy chill of grief melting to a pool of molten honey.
In the center of a valley, down a narrow, winding slope, ran a quiet river that wound in lazy, sweeping curves. It flowed like a serpent, slithering through long, untamed grass, carving a great, watery wound in the very surface of the earth to expose the rocks and dirt beneath. Its current was as blue as the clear sky above—a wondrous and vibrant azure that looked like liquid turquoise as it bubbled, its foam and froth a mirror image of the great clouds that drifted lazily overhead. Dancing fish, slender and fleeting, dipped in and out of the rush, their flashing fins catching the bright sunlight like jewels beneath the ripples. Near the banks, where the current was at its weakest, ducks had made their quiet homes, mothers and fathers guiding their young on fledgling treks into the water.
In the east, the river ran calmly. It babbled merrily—a laughing gurgle that promised tranquility, merriment, and safety, and as Bella walked slowly across the wide, well-trodden road that led towards the Eastern walls of the city, she could plainly see how valuable it was.
They walked between a procession of guards. Emmett, high upon his steed at the head of the party, rode slowly out before them, his keen eye trained for any possible dangers, rare though they might be. He watched the little, painted houses, peered anxiously through their small, glassless windows, and was received with a warmth and charity that Bella found rather odd. The people knew him here, that much was evident, and they seemed to neither mind nor despise his apparent interference. They waved merrily at him through those windows, shouting greetings and blessings that he accepted with grace. Men stopped him with cheerful questions, bowing deeply to their King when they caught sight of him at the rear, and offered him such a bounty of carrots and apples for his haughty, head-tossing horse that Bella thought that on the whole, the mean creature was spoiled absolutely rotten. It was no wonder he was so stubborn and arrogant—celebrity, she knew, was a great precursor to pride, and Bella wondered if she would ever despise a beast as much as she did Emmett's chestnut horse.
"Do your feet ache, Bella?" Edward asked. Her arm was hooked politely about his elbow and he redoubled his grip on her. She shrugged her shoulders in vague response, glancing down at her feet, which had been wrapped in moleskin and laced into new leather boots. They were very fine, she knew, and very expensive, but she had not complained when she felt their sturdiness, and would not start now.
"Not so much." The blisters, which had been wrapped and salved for nigh on three days, had hardened into tough, unsightly callouses. They were still tender, especially when she took an awkward step or fumble, but on the whole, she thought them well.
"I'm glad," Edward replied. "The boots are comfortable?"
"Very." That, at least, she could say with honesty. "Thank you."
"Are you very hot?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No." She chuckled at his concern. "I'm quite well. Thank you."
He turned from her, his cheeks tinged pink, and they continued on.
Bella had never been in the eastern district of the capital before. Her travels in the city proper had been somewhat hasty, and though she had been possessed by a gnawing curiosity to explore the lands and grounds interred within their walls of red stone, the opportunity had never presented itself to her. She had been sick, at first—so sick after her arrival on the island and her convalescence in the blue rooms that she'd had neither the gumption nor the strength to venture far from her bed. That first journey with Jasper—the short excursion to the doghouse on the far edge of the castle grounds—had been almost enough to do her in. She'd seen the main thoroughfare through the center of town, called Market Street by the locals, and had been privy to the bustle and humdrum of a particularly active market day on her journey to the Healer's Hut. She'd seen the northeastern walls from her tower windows, the Western expanse from Edward's, and had laid her tired eyes upon the Western village proper only once, and under great duress, when Emmett had led her through the city streets in almost complete darkness, their path lit sporadically by lit sconces on high-walled homes and shops.
The East, Bella thought, was particularly striking.
Throughout her talks and discussions with Edward, Bella had discerned that the Eastern half of the city was among the poorest of the Maronese districts. Led by Lorenzo, the people who lived here were governed by a pervasive lack of opportunity and a population that was, by all accounts, growing beyond capacity. Bella saw evidence of this everywhere she looked. Homes, while bright and jolly, were crowded together in tight-packed rows with yards the size of postage stamps. There was no grass in those yards, which were instead covered by small fruit and vegetable gardens full to bursting, their ripened, bulbous bounty making stalks bow their heads beneath the weight. The façade of each dwelling was a different colour—splashes of yellow and green, or red and orange, and sometimes, standing out like a gem amongst the rocks, a vivid pink or violet, all of which were a stark contrast to the others. From the edges of each small house ran a low fence about knee-high, which Edward told her were there only to demarcate one's own garden from a neighbours, thus settling any disputes as to which fruits belonged to who.
The houses near the river seemed plentiful and lively. They were low to the ground with just one story, much as the buildings along Market Street were, and each seemed to hold a multitude of family members ranging from the very old to the newly born. As they moved along at their leisurely pace down the road, Bella was enraptured by the sight of them, peeking through windows and rushing out in droves to catch a glimpse of the King. Elderly matrons, as old as Bella's own great-grandmother, came limping from porches and doorways, leaning on walking sticks or the arms of sons and daughters. Mothers, with children settled on hips and clinging to hands and skirts, curtsied and bowed as they went. Children scampered to and fro—some almost grown, and others but newly walking—to bow to their sovereign before they took off at a frantic pace towards the muddy riverbanks, wading knee-deep in the current to look for stones. Fathers and husbands stopped at their work when the King passed—Bella saw a blacksmith at the forge, a cobbler hammering leather, a butcher, a baker, a herder, and a shopkeeper, all pause, and stare, and bow, peering out curiously from their windows when the King, unbothered and unmoved by their surprise and delight, moved steadily through the crowded streets.
The people here were friendly—Bella saw it plainly—and it gave her hope that Rosalie would find a good home here.
"Do we still have far to go?" asked Bella gently, jolting the King from his thoughtful silence. He glanced at her with mild surprise.
"Not far by horse," he began, "but some distance by foot. If you are tired, we can stop for a while."
"No." She shook her head. "I'm not tired."
She was eager.
It had been three days since Rosalie, with her son and bags in tow, had commenced her exodus from the castle proper to venture into the great unknown of the eastern district of the city. Bella had sent her off with happy tears and kisses, promising thrice over to visit just as soon as she was able, and she had felt a queer mix of gladness and sorrow as she watched her friend go, side-by-side with Emmett at the head of her party, to travel over roads and fields unknown to a new and foreign home.
"Emmett says she is very well." Edward interrupted her thoughts. "He's spent the better part of three days getting her settled, and he says she is fitting in well."
"Do they know?" asked Bella nervously. "Who she is?"
"Only Lorenzo and the castle guards," he soothed at once. "We thought it best to leave that part out of common knowledge."
"What do they say about her, then?" Bella wondered nervously. "Who do they think she is?"
"A nobody from nowhere," he replied. "Lorenzo has kindly and generously planted the seed of rumour in the local tavern. He let slip that she was a widow from the Hollow Lands—one of those unlucky people displaced by the violence of last summer—and that she has appealed to the King for sanctuary in the city, for the safety of her son and person cannot possibly be secured so close to the Western stronghold."
"A clever ruse," she admitted. "Do they believe it?"
"They've no reason not to," he reasoned. "She plays the part well enough."
"And Finn?"
"Is none the wiser," said Edward gently. "He will soon forget, I think, the horrors of the West. Children heal quickly, and he is still very young. This might be the only home he'll ever know, if all goes to plan."
That warmed her and she leaned in closer, squeezing her hand around his arm.
"And what of you?" she asked. "What excuse did Lorenzo give for your appearance here?"
"I am the King." He spoke with mock bravado and she scowled at him, earning her a chuckle. "I often patrol the city, to check my tenants and ensure their comfort."
"Yes…" The word drawled slowly. "But what will they say when you show up there, at Rosalie's house?"
"I've no intention of overstaying my leave," he said at once. "I serve only as My Lady's escort."
She flushed pink and Edward, grinning foolishly at the sight, showed her a small mercy.
"I will leave you at her gate," he said gently, soothing her embarrassment. "Emmett and I will travel to the Eastern walls to check the fortifications there. There has been some word of failing infrastructure, and it is my business to see if repairs are required."
"Oh." Her stomach eased at once. "That's…"
"We will collect you upon our return, if that would suit?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "I expect to be some hours at least. If you wish to return early, you may simply ask the guard outside to bring you home."
"I will stay," she said at once. "I want to make sure she is settled."
"Indeed you do," sighed Edward. "Indeed you do…"
They fell into a companionable silence once more for a long stretch, walking slowly and methodically down the wide, dirt road. Bella thought the East a lovely place—how merry and jovial it seemed to her, especially after the austerity and grandeur of the great, stone castle. To be sure, she found the castle pleasant and comfortable, but there was a light here, a kind of life that she did not find within the confines of the great, kingly palace. She heard laughter here, great, booming peals and high, tinkling giggles, and the sound of children at their games, shouting and hollering. She saw a crowd of boys, all younger than twelve, chasing a hoop made of wood with long, nimble sticks, tossing it to and fro in the dirt with yells like wild things. It made her glad to see it—to hear the laughter of children was, Bella thought, one of the highest pleasures one could find in life. It gave her hope to hear it—gave her a comfortable sense of normalcy and belonging that she had not found anywhere else, and it made her all the gladder when Edward smiled too, indulgent in their games.
"You like children?" he asked, watching her as her head craned around to see the boys, now just dust in the distance. She snapped around at once. "You look happy, Bella."
"I do, and I am," she returned at once. "I worked with children my whole life before I came here, and it cheers me to see them at play."
"Did you, now?" Edward peered interestedly at her, his face alight with a new curiosity. "I did not know that."
She blushed, glancing at the ground.
"I did a great many things before I came here," she murmured. "Most of which I've told no one."
"Will you tell me?" He tugged her closer, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "I'd like to know about you, Bella. You've been so overwhelmed by our lifestyle and our ways that I wonder where it is you might have come from, and how we can be so very different from your own people."
She blinked up at him, surprised.
"If you want to know," she said, "I'd be happy to tell you."
"I do," he insisted. "Is it a very long tale?"
"Not particularly," she shrugged. "Ordinary enough, I suppose."
"I doubt it greatly." He shook his head. "I doubt it very greatly…"
"Well, then let us have it," she challenged. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me of your people," he said. "Tell me of your parents."
"I never knew my father," said Bella softly, "so I cannot tell you much of him. He was a good man, or so my mother said, though he had his demons."
"Demons?" Edward looked astonished. "What…?"
Bella, suddenly jolted, giggled when his confusion settled over him like a quilt, the figure of speech evidently lost in translation.
"He struggled with himself," she clarified. "He struggled with… abuse."
"He struck you?" demanded Edward in a sudden temper. "Did he hurt you?"
"No, no." She shook her head vehemently. "No, he never struck anyone."
Edward waited in confused and anxious silence.
"He abused… things," she hedged. "Substances."
"Drink?" guessed Edward sagely, and the fury melted from him like frost on a glass. "He drank, then?"
"Among other things," Bella said. "I've never been told the full story, though I've pieced together bits of it over the years. He was dead before I was born, so I never knew or saw him."
"I'm sorry," Edward said contritely. "You need not tell me, if it is painful for you…"
"It's not," Bella sighed. "It's just an old story now. It's been almost twenty five years, and its hurts were never mine."
"Whose were they, then?" he asked softly. "The pain of loss for any parent belongs to the children, I should think…"
"My mother," Bella said at once. She felt her face go hard and she knew the King had seen it, too, for he asked no questions and offered only silence, looking both morbidly curious and terribly, achingly sad.
"Is she gone, too?" he hedged. "Your mother?"
"Yes." Bella nodded curtly. "But I did know her…"
"There is a story here that I dare not ask," said Edward softly. "So do not tell it now. Tell me what happened after."
Bella swallowed back her sudden sadness and breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of wild mint and honeysuckle from the banks of the gurgling river.
"I was eight," she continued, "when I lost my mother. I went to live with my Uncle instead."
"A kind man?"
"Very." Bella smiled wistfully. "A good man. He's my mother's brother."
"What did you call him?"
"Charlie," said Bella at once. "He's a… police officer."
He frowned at the English, looking askance.
"A kind of… protector," she said. "He serves the people."
"Serves in what way?"
"If there is danger or crime, he responds," said Bella. "They call for him and he comes, and sometimes subdues the threat. We lived in a very small town, however, and so there was very little danger to be had."
"I see." Edward glanced at the soldiers ahead of them with speculation. "Is he armed?"
"Yes," she chuckled, "but not with swords or arrows. We have… other weapons."
"Others?"
"A gun," she said softly. He repeated the word back to her in an atrocious accent that made her laugh. "It's a kind of… projectile."
"It is for throwing?" he queried. "Like a mace, perhaps?"
"No, not at all like a mace," Bella said. "You… shoot with it."
"Like an arrow."
"Sort of."
Still confused and slightly misgiving, Bella was grateful when the King moved on.
"How was life with your uncle?"
"Wonderful," she said honestly. "Charlie was always good to me, even when I was very little, and he has no children of his own. He treated me like his daughter, and we grew quite used to one another after a while."
"I am glad that he was kind," said Edward. "It makes me very angry to hear of children mistreated at the hands of those who are supposed to love them."
Bella thought at once of Finn, but drove the thought away as she continued her tale.
"I went to school," she continued, "and then to… college. Where we go to learn a trade."
"A trade?" He laughed outright, startled and amazed. "A woman, learning trades?"
Bella bristled at his astonishment but it was transformed in an instant, his face so abjectly surprised by this pronouncement that she was stricken with a kind of irritated pity.
"Don't look so shocked," she groused. "Where I'm from, there is not so much distinction between the sexes as there seems to be here."
"Evidently not." His laughter died away. "But tell me, Lady… what trade did you learn, if any at all?"
"Not a traditional trade as you might think it," she said. "I studied books, and the history of my people."
"Indeed?" He seemed fascinated. "And what things did you learn there?"
"Too much to relay to you now, and too little to do it any justice at all," she laughed at once. "My point is that after I did that, I went back to become a teacher."
"A teacher of what?" he glanced around at the shops and houses still lining the road.
"Children," she said gently. "I was trained to teach children their letters and sums, and science, and history, and books…"
"A Master, then," he finished quietly. "Or Mistress, in your case… It is rare to find such creatures here."
"Teachers?" Bella queried.
"Female teachers," he corrected. "There are plenty of men who teach, but women, by far, choose other paths."
Bella bristled again.
"Do you not trust a woman teacher?" she demanded, and the hint of anger that coloured her tone was picked up at once by those keen and well-tuned ears. He shook his head with confidence, patting her soothingly on the hand.
"I haven't said that and nor will I," he breezed. "I merely point out that it is not common in such a place as this. Especially not in the city."
"Why?"
"Women choose other paths," he repeated. "Many marry young and instead become mothers."
"A woman can do both…"
"Indeed she can," he agreed amiably. "Remember that I said as much about your friend Rosalie."
Bella held her tongue.
"I do not disparage you, Bella," he said finally, catching the drift of her displeasure. "I merely wonder at the thought of it. I applaud you for your aptitudes, as I would applaud any woman in the realm should she choose a similar path."
"Do girls go to school here?" she asked quietly, a sudden flash of remembrance hitting her like a brick. She recalled little Alice—the maid who had been hired to tend her in those early days of her recovery—sitting from sunrise to sunset by Bella's bedside. She had wondered then, too, why the child was not in school, and what kind of a place this was to allow such a child to work, without ever being taught.
"If their parents think it best, then yes," said Edward honestly. "Girls and boys alike are welcome in all establishments, so long as their parents consent."
"And do their parents consent?" she challenged with a bright eye. "Because when I was first arrived here…"
He waited patiently, saying nothing.
"The girl, Alice," Bella insisted. "She was not in school."
"No, she wasn't," said Edward. "The orphanage employs tutors for the smaller children, so that they may learn to read and write and count. But their services are limited for the older fry, whose needs far surpass what those Masters can give them."
"That's not right." Bella shook her head, her lips pursed. "They need more than simple literacy…"
"I'm sorry, Bella." Edward shook his head. "Do not agitate yourself so. As I've told you before, there are many things in my Kingdom that are far from ideal, but we do our best to rectify what we can."
"This seems something easily remedied," she countered. "Why can another master not be sought?"
"There are none to be had," said Edward simply. "Those whose skills are specialized for older children are employed by private families with children of their own. Those masters are given room and board, as well as a handsome salary to teach such a group. The orphanage, while satisfactory, is poor, and all the money we send goes directly to clothing and feeding the growing group. Before, perhaps, it might have been possible to hire another master, but after the violence of last summer's raids they have become overcrowded, and their priorities have changed."
Bella fell humbly silent, working over these facts in her head. Edward seemed bothered by her silence, eying her nervously before he spoke again, asking another hedging question.
"Did you teach much, before you arrived here?" he queried. "Did you have many pupils?"
"Not at all." She shook herself from her daydreams. "Not even one."
He frowned at her.
"I was in-route, as you might say, to my teaching post when that plane crashed in the sea." He stared at her, unspeaking. "I had been hired in a place far from my home, and was travelling there to take up my work when we fell."
"I am sorry."
"No need." She tossed her head back and sighed. "It's all been done now, and there's nothing else for it."
"Are you still sad, Bella?" he asked after a pause. "Do you miss what you've left behind?"
She snapped around to him with a quiet surveillance, the question settling deep in her heart.
"I miss my family," she said slowly, "most especially my Uncle."
"As you should…"
"He doesn't know I'm here," she continued. "He has no idea that I'm even alive. I'm sure the officials have determined that the entire plane was lost, and so he mourns me as if I were dead."
This fact seemed to trouble him, though he said nothing.
"I miss my dog." Boomer's gray muzzle flashed in her mind's eye with poignant yearning. "And I miss my friends." She thought of Jake on that damned roller coaster at Six Flags, and his taunting, teasing jeers when she'd screamed before the drop.
"I'm sorry…"
She flashed up to him, her eyes brimming with a quiet solemnity that gave him pause. He watched her for a moment, halting in his walk down the road before he sighed, seeming to cave in on himself as if she'd dealt him a blow.
"What is it?" he asked sadly. "Don't be afraid to tell me…"
"I'm not afraid," she said gently, with a quiet courage that made her feel strong. "I'm not afraid, and that's just the thing."
"What thing is that?"
"I was afraid," she said quietly. "I was terrified, Edward, when I first arrived here. I knew no one. I understood nothing. I had no friends, no home, no family, and I was completely and utterly lost."
"I see…"
"Do you?" She squeezed his hands with renewed vigour. "Do you, really? Because what I see is not a sadness, Edward, but hope."
"Hope?"
"Yes." She pulled him forward, and they continued down the lane. "Hope, and promise, and freedom."
"Freedom," Edward repeated. "Freedom from what?"
"Freedom is what you do with what has been done to you," she quoted. "A wise man from my world said that long ago, and it strikes me now as true. Though I miss my home, I do not pine for it as I once did. I will always miss it and it will always be a part of me, but I think," she felt her cheeks grow hot once more, "that I have begun to find my peace here, among people I've come to think of as true friends."
The smile that lit his face was sad, but fuelled by a radiant, glowing pride that seemed to emanate from every pore and line of his face. He watched her with a rapturous fulfillment that made her heart stutter and race, but before he could so much as utter a reply to this sudden and truthful speech, she was pulling him along down the road, his hand clasped tightly between her fingers.
Rosalie's house was brilliant—a sparkling coral gem among a bower of leafy garden vegetables, a towering, laden fruit tree, and a flower bed, all abundant with a wild array of violets and honeysuckle, growing tall and disorderly beyond the low borders of the small garden fence. It stood at the very end of a long and winding lane—a branch off of the main road that led straight to the eastern walls—and it lay low along the landscape, silhouetted against a great and towering palm tree that rose like a pillar from the earth in the small back yard. On account of this tree, which waved merrily in the breeze, the locals called the place Coconut Cottage, and a sign bearing this moniker was pounded crookedly into the dirt along the path to the door, black lettering stamped clearly on smooth, white wood.
Bella found herself amazed at the tranquil cheerfulness of this little space. The pink exterior, framed by white trim and sills, was the very image of gaiety and womanhood. The narrow path to the door, paved in large, uneven stones of varying colours and sizes, was inviting. The door was solid wood, deeply set into stuccoed walls, and the roof, where thatch once rested, had been shingled with white-painted tile, sculpted and formed from the clay beds along the river. They glistened in the sun, reflecting back the blazing heat of the early afternoon, and though Bella stood with wonder, staring up at the quaint, friendly abode, her friend came out in a flurry to meet her at the gate.
"Bella!" Rosalie flew from the house in a flutter of skirts and yellow hair. She rushed down the path in a hurry. "Bella, you've come!"
"Rose!"
The two women embraced, each squeezing the other with equal vim and vigour. The joy of reunion was sweet as sugar—Bella relished the feel of her friend, so strong and so happy, and the swell of her belly pressed against Bella's was a balm to the worry that had been brewing so thickly in her heart. They laughed together, each kissing the other's cheek with vehement pleasure, and when Rose took Bella by the hand to pull her towards the door, they each wore smiles from ear to ear.
"The journey is not so long as I feared," said Rose with a laugh. She ushered Bella inside. "When Emmett brought me here, I feared I might be hours and hours from the castle."
"Not so far indeed," Bella laughed. She stepped into the small entrance with great curiosity. "And what a fine little place they've gifted you."
"You've no idea." Rose's seriousness was sudden and clear, and though she skillfully unburdened Bella of her hat and her scarf, her eyes were bright with sudden emotion. "You've no idea, Bella, how much this means to me."
"I think I might have an inkling," she said kindly. "But come. Show me what you've done with it!"
Rosalie smiled swiftly and nodded, taking Bella by the hand to lead her further into the house.
As Bella had suspected, the place was small, though not mean or scanty. There was a sitting room, small and cozy enough for a small party to gather, with a stone hearth at the rear and a wide, shuttered window at the front. Seats had been set out—a plush and cushioned sofa with a knitted afghan folded at one end, and two cushioned armchairs, both angled towards the fire with a table in between. The floors were made of cool, grey stone, sanded and buffed smooth and seamless, and Rosalie had placed a rug before the couch to soften the chill on bare feet—a plump and crimson thing with a design of white doves sewn throughout. The walls—the same clay as Bella had seen outside, had been painted white, making the space seem almost glowing when the sun reflected in, though the effect was lovely rather than bothersome.
"A parlour," said Rosalie proudly, gesturing about herself with her free hand. "The hearth is warm, especially in the evenings, and the shutters are easily bolted. You can see the garden if you sit near the window, and if I can manage to find myself some parchment or a board, I will paint a picture to accompany that strange and rather gaudy rug."
Bella laughed when Rose frowned at it, though she said nothing more in complaint.
The kitchen, too, was small. A stove at the rear was fuelled by wood—a stack of which Bella could see in the small back yard beneath an awning of grey-brown canvas propped on sticks. There were three cupboards mounted on the wall—one for plates, as Rosalie showed her, and the others for preserves and linens, like cloths and towels. An old and sturdy washtub rested on the farthest wall, sandwiched between a line of hanging copper pots and a handy metal skillet, glinting like silver in the shining sun from the small window. In here, unlike the painted parlour, the clay walls had been left in their natural orange-brown and a smoke stain, black and sooty, blemished the wall behind the stove.
The three bedrooms were less marvellous than the rest. The largest, which Rosalie had claimed for her own, held a clean, wide bed, a dressing table with a tiny, tarnished glass, a ewer of water for washing, and a chest, in which all of Rosalie's new dresses and skirts were folded. As a ward of the King, she had been granted all her basic necessities without cost or charge, and Bella had been with her when she'd chosen some of the more serviceable pieces from the King's great stores on the lower floors of the castle. There was only one adornment on Rosalie's bedroom wall—a small piece of embroidery, still in its hoop, that read Mia Koro, Mia Hejmo, or My Heart, My Home, in small, pink letters.
Finn's bedroom, which he'd chosen for himself, was smallest of the three. Bella peeked in with curiosity, eying the little cot in the corner and the trunk of clothes that matched his mother's. There was no dressing table here and no mirror glass to be found, but there was a crate along the far wall with a selection of small wooden toys that would suit any child of comparable age. Blocks, carved and smoothed by careful carpenters, were painted and stacked neatly in the box. A toy horse and soldier, both made from painted and hammered tin, lay forgotten at the bottom. There were animals, stitched and stuffed by kindly neighbour women, and a baby doll with button eyes and a sewn-on mouth. Lastly was a ball made of some thick, pliable leather, which had rolled into the corner of the room where it now sat untouched.
"Where is Finn?" Bella asked curiously and Rosalie beamed at her. "Is he home?"
"He is out in the back," said Rosalie, "playing at some kind of pretend. I kicked him out of the woodpile three times since breakfast—it's all I can do to stop him climbing it."
Bella frowned at her continued smile.
"Is he well?"
"He is perfect." She leaned back against the wall. "He is positively enamoured with the house, and he thinks the yard is just splendid."
"I'm glad…"
"You see," Rosalie pulled Bella from the child's room, closing the door quietly behind her. "He never had a place to play before. He was barely a child at all, but now…"
Bella peeked through the kitchen window, from which she could just see the tail of Finn's shirt darting back behind the woodpile. If she strained, she could hear his little voice talking nonsense, shouting orders at some invisible comrade, and replying in kind to these quiet, mental playmates.
"He is a boy again," Rosalie said with relish. "You don't know how wonderful it is to see him so. It's all any mother wants, really… for her child to be a child while he is still small and spry."
Bella said nothing in return but watched the boy through the window, observing how he caught his mother's eye before he rose to climb the woodpile, heeding her warning glance with disappointed gloom.
"But he will be the death of me, I think," Rosalie laughed, shaking her head. "Or perhaps of himself, if he's not careful. Do you know… I almost died of fright when I caught him up there this morning. He was never so mischievous before."
"It is his duty and his right," replied Bella with mirth, "to test you and try you to the very end of life. He is your son, after all, and if there is any truth at all in what I've heard, sons rarely grow out of such tendencies."
"I'll drink to that," sighed Rose. She led Bella to the final bedchamber. "I'd drink a happy, hearty drink, if it weren't for this one in here."
She patted her stomach with tender joy.
"Here is where I'll put him," Rose continued softly. She pushed open the final door. "The neighbours were kind and generous when they came calling two nights prior. They have no idea who I am, of course, for the Councilman who oversees this district has set a splendid story to cover it up, but they know that I am rather destitute and poor, and could plainly see, when they brought me some new bread, that I was expecting another child."
She spoke with jovial unconcern, as if it did not bother her in the least to be called destitute or poor.
Bella saw why when the door was opened fully, and she was able to look upon the room which would, in due course, be home to a very small and tender mortal. She gasped in wonder when she saw it, sitting in the sunshine by the side window, gleaming brightly in the afternoon glow, and filled with happy, generous gifts.
"It's beautiful," said Bella at once. "Who made such a thing?"
"The man across the road is a carpenter," said Rosalie. "And a fine one, at that. That particular piece was made for his youngest grandchild, and she has since outgrown it."
It was a cradle of dark and shining wood. Carved and pieced by a master craftsman, it swayed in the slight breeze, neither creaking nor groaning beneath the weight of its bounty. The rungs were uniform and high—just the right width for a baby's tender limbs—and there was a thick, padded mattress at the bottom. When Bella touched it, she felt the varnish hardened like crystal beneath her fingers and the mattress stuffed with the softest goose feathers from some choice bird. It swayed from side to side, set as it was on wide, swooping rockers, though it did not disturb the piles of cloth that lay within.
There were little tiny baby clothes, and soft and gentle blankets. Knitted sweaters, caps of wool and felt, and piles upon piles of green and red, and yellow and purple. Jaunty red baby trousers—fit for any boy in the Kingdom—with little ties of gold and black. Green dresses with tucks and pleats, as grand as if from a princess' boudoir, lay in various lengths and girths for different stages of growth. Red, Bella knew, was the customary colour of small boys in the realm of Maronese children, and green, its utter counterpart, the more feminine hue. Red was the colour of strength—of love, and passion, and warmth—and represented all that was good and wholesome in a man of humble character. Green was its antithesis in every way—it was natural, and soft, and plentiful—and, according to Maronese tradition, so suited the feminine beyond any other hue, natural or fabricated. Excepting blue, which was such an expensive rarity among dyes and fabrics, a green dress was thought the absolute pinnacle of fashionable beauty.
"I have never met kinder people than these," said Rosalie, and Bella caught the hint of a tear in her eye. "Never in my life. I can tell you plainly, Bella, that when I came here, I did not expect the likes of this. I did not expect to be given a house—a home, really—for myself or my son, and I certainly didn't expect an outpouring of love for an outsider's baby. This child will, I think, be the most spoiled creature this side of the river. Did you see the fine handiwork on those little dresses and quilts?"
Indeed she had, and Bella ran her fingers over the delicate lace, the soft, downy wool, and the countless tiny stitches and tucks, all of which had been lovingly used by the babies of the past, and even more lovingly given to one especial baby of the future.
Her tea was hot and her plate was generous, and by the time the sun began to set and the skies had grown pink in the west, Bella felt that her heart was full.
"There is much yet to do," said Rosalie with relish. She and Bella were laid out on the sofa in the parlour, their feet resting on ottomans from the fireside. "The garden is overladen. I must begin to harvest, lest I let it go to waste. I will have an oversupply of beans—I know that just by looking—but perhaps I can offer some in return to the neighbours who have been so unreservedly kind."
"There is the market, too," said Bella quickly. "Perhaps someone there will buy?"
"I think not," said Rosalie. "Beans are commonplace, I hear. I merely offer mine as a gift of thanks."
"Well, maybe," sighed Bella. "Perhaps I can come and help, if I can get away again."
"Oh you must get away again!" said Rosalie indulgently. "It's been such a relief, having you near."
"I wholly agree." Bella breathed a sigh of contentment. "There is something wonderful about being among friends, especially now that you've got your own space."
"I love my own space," she said with relish. "I cannot wait until it becomes truly mine."
"Truly yours?" she queried. "Is it not given freely already?"
"Oh yes." She nodded sagely. "Lorenzo told me as much without my asking. The house belonged to the Crown, as the last owners died without an heir, and your good and kindly King gave it without a qualm or condition. I shudder to think of how much a house such as this might have cost had I been asked to buy it outright. I could work every day for ten years and still not afford such a luxury, I think."
"The King is very good," said Bella loyally. "I know he's given many such houses."
"Only in the east," quipped Rosalie. "The Western dwellers, they say, will not abide it."
"No," agreed Bella with a frown. "I've heard rumours of snobbery and poor tempers from that end of town."
"But I could not ask for more." She gazed about her parlour with relish. "It is perhaps not so grand as the castle, but…"
"It is every bit as beautiful," said Bella at once. "The castle is lovely, of course, and very bit as homely, but there is something quaint about this place that the castle cannot match."
"Don't be a fool," laughed Rosalie. "This humble house is nothing compared to a castle. But it is mine," she sighed, "and so I must love it more."
Bella laughed.
"The night grows closer," said Rosalie after a moment's pause. "I expect you'll be off soon, before darkness falls?"
"Probably," she agreed. "Edward is coming back from the Eastern gates. He promised me some hours to visit, and he's now been more than three."
Rosalie cocked her head, curious.
"I wonder at your familiarity," she said softly. "When you said it in the jungle, I thought you might be bluffing."
Bella's cheeks went red at once and she turned with veiled curiosity, cocking her head to the side.
"Bluffing?"
"About your connection to the King," she said quickly. "About your… closeness with him."
"We are friends," said Bella carefully, though her pulse had begun to throb. "We are friends, that's all."
"What does he call you?" she asked. "My Lady?"
"Not if I can help it," Bella grimaced. "I prefer my given name, and so he gave me his, too."
"And you are just friends?" she asked, glancing quietly through the window. Down the lane, approaching the house, Bella could see the outline of the approaching party from the East, with Emmett mounted atop his great, chestnut stallion and Edward, on foot, trailing idly beside two armed soldiers. They walked slowly, picking a careful trail through the rocks and dirt, and if she strained, Bella could hear them chattering, their words indistinguishable in the quiet, soft evening.
"Just friends," she said at once. "Only friends…"
Rosalie shot her a look of curious scrutiny, beneath which Bella felt her face dissolve into an embarrassed mess of flushed cheeks and bitten lips. She looked away from Rose, glancing instead into the glowing embers of the hearth, and neither woman said a thing until they heard a knock on the door, and the gentle creak of the hinges being thrown back.
"Rosalie?" Emmett's voice rang clear through the entrance and that good woman, spurred into action, rose like a shot. "Rosalie, are you in?"
"In the parlour," she said softly. "Come on through."
Emmett's large and jovial face peered around the corner with a soft and easy smile. He bowed to Bella, dipping his head down in formal acknowledgement of her, and then again to Rosalie, who curtseyed back.
Bella could not see her face, but she caught the look of softened appreciation on Emmett's and felt her eyes go wide.
Rosalie had not believed Bella when she'd said that she and Edward were only friends—Bella knew it from her gaze, which had been sharp and discerning, and from her prodding, which had been pointed and purposeful. Bella herself did not know if it was true—she did not know if she was onlyfriends with the good and kind King who had taken such an interest in her wellbeing and her safety, or if there was something morebrewing beneath their gentle conversation and the tender, fledgling fissures threatening the walls they'd both built up over years of hurt and struggle. She could not be sure, one way or the other, whether what she felt for Edward was only friendship, or if he was destined to be a comrade in the great walk of life, but as she stared at Emmett now, her eyes discerning and dark, she saw something else entirely from what she had expected.
He took Rose's hand when he spoke to her, and Bella saw that Rose did not shy away. Emmett had been with her since she'd left—had escorted her to this new home, had helped her set up her furniture and belongings, and had even, Bella had heard, tidied her yard and her pathway. She'd fed him, and housed him, and let him sleep upon the sofa that they'd only just vacated, and Bella saw, with a surprise and wonder that was not entirely shocking, that there was definitely something more than friendship brewing between the two of them.
Her suspicions—for suspicions they remained until that very moment in time—were confirmed with the re-entrance of Finn from his happy garden jaunt. When he came in, rosy and pink from his outdoor play, his gaze fell upon the standing pair with a gleeful relish in his wide, blue eyes. Bella knew with instinct that the terror had gone. This was not an enemy that clutched his mother's hand but a friend, a companion. Emmett was not a bane to the child—not as he had been just four days prior in the high, unfamiliar chamber in the King's castle—but a playmate, a familiar face that promised not hurt, but joy, and not sternness, but mirth. The boy's eyes widened with abject and frantic pleasure and without so much as a word or sound for his mother or her guest, he threw himself at Emmett like a dog upon its master, letting Emmett tickle and swing him high atop his shoulders with a booming laugh like thunder and he giggled, high and gleeful, as if there was nothing else so wonderful in all the world.
They arrived back at the castle just before nightfall, when the sky had grown dark and purple and the first hints of stars, clear and bright in the east, had begun to twinkle and shine in the gloom.
"The King!" The soldier at the gates, high atop the watchtower beside the lowered portcullis, shouted noisily from the window. "Open the gates! The King is returned!"
They were swept into the yard in quick succession, Edward's hand never leaving her arm as he guided her, quiet and solemn towards the doors of the castle.
They were stopped, however, by a sudden and piercing shout.
"Hallo!" A soldier, rushing from the tower, came running on foot towards the party. Emmett swung his horse around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Bella saw with mild apprehension that he rested his fist on the hilt of his sword.
"Hush, Bella," Edward whispered in her ear. "A mere safeguard, that's all…"
"My King!"
The soldier dropped to his knees.
"Rise, man," said Edward at once. "What's the trouble?"
"There is… news, My King." The man bowed graciously to Bella as he spoke. "News from the dungeons."
"Dungeons?" Bella blurted, glancing astonished at Edward. "You've got dungeons here?"
The King spared her only a fleeting smile before he turned to the soldier.
"The prisoners?" he demanded. "What of them?"
Emmett joined them now, his face a mask of furious determination.
"There is a man," said the soldier. "A man determined to speak, at last."
"Praise be to the Gods above!" said Emmett loudly. "I'd begun to wonder if they'd ever say a word!"
"Prisoners?" Bella looked askance at Edward. "What prisoners?"
"From the raid at Terosankta," said Edward quickly. "We took six men back with us. They've been silent in the dungeons these long weeks."
"One man wants to speak," said the soldier. "He wants to talk…"
"And so what is the delay?" Emmett dismounted his horse and turned towards the castle, and Bella saw, for the first time, a row of small, barred windows at the farthest end of the castle walls. They were just at ground level, so narrow that scarcely a wink of sunlight could make its way through, but seemed bright now in the dull haze of evening, lit by a low, flickering light beyond. "Why weren't we sought at once?"
"Commander…" The man deferred politely to Emmett with a nod, "there is a… complication."
"What complication is this?" Emmett spoke impatiently. "What do you mean by it? Speak plainly, man!"
"What I mean is this. The man says he will speak, but beyond that, we know not what he says."
"What he says?"
"He speaks in tongues," said the soldier, and Bella, to her astonishment, felt Edward's fingers squeeze reflexively on her hand. "He speaks in some strange tongue that only they understand, and he insists that it is the only language he will speak, for reasons known only to himself!"
"He speaks in tongues?" demanded Emmett sharply. "What tongue is that?"
"I know not…"
"I do." Edward's eyes were dark now, and he glowered moodily at the grassy ground. "I know precisely what he speaks, and yet…"
He looked at Bella with careful consideration. Bella stared back at him with surprise, a curious anxiety growing in the pit of her belly, and saw a strange concentration etched there that was unfamiliar to her. It made her nervous and she recoiled from it, flinching back as if he'd reached out to strike her, and his gaze softened at once before he shook his head.
"And yet." The King laughed to himself, blowing out a breath. "We have a conundrum, Emmett."
"Indeed."
Edward, releasing Bella's hand, took her instead by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. She stared nervously, uncertain of what this sudden shift might mean, but when he spoke she little expected the comment and it took her some moments to make sense of it.
"I must ask a favour of you, my own, that I neither relish nor enjoy."
"What favour?" she asked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Edward sighed, "that the language they speak, the one that we cannot comprehend…"
Her eyes went wide with realization.
"They speak English?" she gasped, a sudden excitement flaring in the pit of her belly. "They know my language?"
"Indeed, I think they do." His shoulders slumped. "I think they do, Bella… and so I must ask you, though I deign to send a Lady into the bowels of the dungeon…"
"Yes." Bella spoke at once, and with vehement conviction. "Yes, Edward. Show me to him. I will tell you what he says. I will tell you exactly what he means by all of this, and just what secrets he might be willing to reveal."
"You will not be in a cell," said Edward firmly, and he looked at Emmett when he said it. Emmett nodded grimly back. "You will speak through the bars, and he will not touch a hair on your head."
She nodded at once.
"You will tell him this," Edward turned to the soldier. "You will tell that man below that I send him an emissary of the King. An emissary who, by all accounts, is as valuable to me as a Princess of royal blood."
"Yes, My King…"
"You will impress upon him," continued Edward, "that if he harms so much as a hair on her head, he will be treated to the finest of of my dungeon's hospitality."
The final word came out more like a growl and Bella, feeling suddenly frightened, shuddered.
"Yes, My King…"
"You will guide her," said Edward softly. "There will be two men by her at all times. If that fiend strikes out at her, or looks to do some other damage, you will strike him there where he stands."
"Understood, your grace…"
"When will he speak?" Edward pulled Bella near to him again, as if he feared she might be taken in a moment, and the guard hesitated.
"As soon as you are able, My Lady." The soldier bowed to her. "As soon as you are able, and as soon as you are ready."
"I'm ready now," said Bella at once. "I'm ready, Edward. Take me to him. I want to know what he has to say."
A/N: Much love and thanks goes out to all of you lovely readers who take time out of your busy days to read the things I've written. It's so cool knowing that so many people think it's worth it. This chapter was a little easier to write, and I'm infinitely grateful for your patience and dedication.
"Freedom is what you do with what has been done to you."
-Jean-Paul Sartre