Chapter 7

By the time we reach home, as I still can't get out of the habit of thinking of the solitary house on the small island surrounded by cliffs and the crash of waves and connected to the rest of Truce only by a bridge, Ariana is leaning weakly against my shoulder, and I'm doing all I can to keep a tight enough hold around her waist that I don't lose her.

The conversation, as one might expect, has been rather stilted, but I have found out a few things. She was born in a large city several hundred miles away, and has recently moved to the small town of Cowan, about a half-hour drive from here.

I think I've been to Cowan. It's nice. Of course, I'll never be able to visit again without wondering bitterly why it can't keep its gorgeous blondes to itself.

Not that she's looking her best right now. She's pale – I wonder briefly if maybe she hasn't had enough time to go buy more makeup, after hers got eaten by the neighbour's cat – she has a dark circle under the eye that isn't bruised (well, presumably under the one that is bruised, as well), and she's dressed in grey from head to toe. Red obviously suits her much better.

All in all, I'm beginning to wonder if my imagination exaggerated her looks a little, and can't help gloating to myself, wondering what Isaac would think if he saw his golden haired goddess looking so drab and pale.

Also, I'm beginning to develop suspicions of my own as to who did this to her, as when I asked if she was married, she developed this expression like a little rabbit startled by a gunshot, and changed the subject.

As another pained whimper escapes her, I tighten my hold on her waist and steer her more quickly toward the front door.

Hopefully, Mom and Dad won't ask too many questions.

==================================================================

It appears that luck is for once on my side; when we enter the house, we find it empty, and I am free to steer Ariana, who is now heroically sniffling back tears, to the kitchen table while I hunt up the medical kit.

Now, where did Dad keep it?

Oh, right.

Five minutes later, I emerge from Dad's very messy workshop, triumphantly bearing the first aid kit.

After all, accidents can happen.

And to Dad, they do. A lot.

It must be in the blood. Ashtear = disastrous accidents of every description.

As I enter the kitchen, I cringe inwardly at the sight of the girl slumped over the table, now sobbing unabashedly.

I have no idea how to deal with her emotional breakdown.

I can't even deal with my own.

Social work is obviously the wrong field for me.

   "Hey, I found the first aid kit," I tell her with grating cheerfulness.

She lifts her head and smiles a watery smile as I pull out a chair, sit down next to her, and proceed to examine her wrist. Yup. Definitely broken.

   "This is probably gonna hurt," I warn her, taking her wrist carefully in my hands. "Do you want a spoon to bite down on?"

Ariana, who has been suppressing a shudder at my warning, now looks abruptly up at me.

   "A spoon?"

   "So you don't bite your tongue by accident," I clarify.

   "No, that's okay," she tells me weakly, cringing and looking pointedly away.

Several minutes later, I've succeeded in setting her wrist and bandaging it tightly. Yeah, I'm pretty amazing, all right. What normal girl could possibly find the time to research the wide variety of topics I've got on the go (although telling you what any of them are could be quite the feat), invent a wide variety of things that don't work anyway, fix every mechanical gizmo that goes haywire in Truce and the surrounding area, conspire against her cheating dung heap of a husband, tell off a moody arrogant bastard of a wizard, and still have time to master the proper way to set broken bones and take care of other medical issues?

Like I say, Ashtear = disastrous accidents. I learned in self-defence, for both my own good and my father's good.

As Ariana sits at the kitchen table, breathing harshly with the force of her pain, I hurry to a certain little cabinet that I remember from the New Year's parties we used to have with some uncles and aunts from out of town. Apparently, when my family gets together, drinking happens.

Geez, I'm beginning to think it's genetic. Of course, since two days ago was the last time I touched the stuff in four years (when the last time you got drunk resulted in your marriage, you're pretty careful about doing it again), I may be worrying about nothing.

Either way, when I set the small glass full of whiskey in front of Ariana, she gives me this limp little smile and shakes her head no.

I sigh, exasperated.

   "Look, your wrist obviously hurts, and you seem pretty hysterical to me. Would you just stop being stubborn and drink the stuff?"

   "I…I don't really like whiskey," she confesses. "Could you put it in a cup of tea?"

As the simple brilliance of this idea hits me, I wonder why I haven't been drinking whiskey-laced tea for the last two days.

   "No problem," I beam. "One Tea n' Whiskey Special comin' up. You hungry at all?"

After glancing down at her wrist and turning slightly green, Ariana shakes her head a more decisive no.

   "Oh, right," I say with a grimace, turning from the stove.

We're both silent for a moment. Then, lifting her head, she calls softly,

   "Lucy?"

   "Yeah?" I call back.

   "Why are you doing this?"
I think for a moment.

   "You mean, dragging a strange, bleeding woman home in the middle of the day?"

   "Yeah," she agrees with something that might pass for a laugh. "That."

I shrug.

   "Honestly, because no one else seemed to want to do it. I have a code about things like this."

   "That's really sweet of you," she says, shooting me a smile that makes me almost understand Isaac's motivation in sleeping with this girl.

   "After all," I continue, "as a citizen of Truce, I can't have people bleeding all over our freshly painted fences."

Unexpectedly, she laughs. A real laugh this time.

After filling her teacup to half-full, I pick up the shot of whiskey and dump it in.

   "You take milk or sugar?"

   "Not with whiskey," she giggles.

   "So," I say, suddenly sober as I sit down next to her, "are you going to tell me what happened to you?"

She gives me this look like a deer caught in the headlights, and I know that she won't. Thus, my astonishment can only be imagined when she sighs and starts talking.

   "My…my husband found out that I'm seeing someone."

To a lifetime of love and happiness suddenly flashes into my brain, and I am caught between sympathy for this unknown man who is currently suffering exactly what I am, and disgust that a man could do this to his wife, regardless of the provocation. Of course, I was thinking very hard about doing the same to my dear husband, but that's different. How? Don't ask me. Maybe it's not different at all. Maybe it's just a double standard. Maybe I'm just as much of a sack of shit as the unknown cuckolded. After all, it's the thought that counts.

As all these thoughts hit me in rapid succession, I feel the blood drain slowly from my face, and I wobble a little in my seat.

   "Lucy!"

Ariana's alarmed cry brings me back to the present, and I'm startled that her face is inches from mine. The idiot's gotten up out of her chair, after I told her about a zillion or so times to stay still, and is kneeling in front of me, shaking my shoulders.

   "Lucy, what is it? You've gone white! You look like you're going to be sick!"

   "No, no, I'm fine," I assure her, not exactly regaining composure, but seizing it by force. "I-I just…wouldn't have asked you if I'd known it was something like that. Sorry."

   "That's okay," she says, returning to her chair and flashing me another of her damned perfect, adorable smiles with the half of her mouth that isn't cut and swelling. "I don't know why, but I feel like…I don't mind you knowing. Can I tell you about him?"

   "Your husband?" I ask, knowing full well who 'him' is. And for the record, it is not her husband.

   "No," she says, flushing slightly as her eyes grow dreamy. "My…well, my boyfriend."

   "Go ahead. I like these kind of juicy stories."

She giggles, and then launches right in.

   "He's…amazing. He's got this dark hair, and these eyes that you could just drown in."

   "Sounds kind of dangerous."

   "Oh, I think Isaac could be very dangerous, if he wanted to," she admits with a grin, her blush growing brighter.

No kidding, I think behind the requisite understanding, patronizing "that's-so-cute-she's-in-love" smile. He's completely destroyed me.

She continues.

   "He's a philosopher, and an artist, and he's really sensitive and creative. He's got a real artistic temperament."

If you had to live with it, it might not look so great, I don't say out loud for obvious reasons. 

   "And he's so off-beat! He's always doing these crazy things, and he doesn't care who looks at him funny when we're out together."

When he's already got their attention by gallivanting to the one place in Truce he could go, with a woman who isn't his wife, he hasn't got a lot of credibility left to lose.

   "He's so passionate. No matter what he's talking about, he gets so excited."

That's because he never talks about anything that isn't one of his pet interests, I think, all the experience of four years behind me.

Apparently, my expression is as bitter as my thoughts, for Ariana's sunny expression disappears, and she sighs.

   "You think I'm horrible, don't you?"

   "Why?" I ask, honestly astonished.

   "Because I'm sleeping with a married man."

   "It happens all the time," I sigh. "I don't think you're horrible, Ariana."

And the funny thing is, I don't. Despite everything else, I don't think I could hate this girl if I wanted to.

We're both silent for a long moment. Then, suddenly, she speaks again.

   "She's a bitch, you know."

   "Who?"

   "His wife."

I conceal a wince with great difficulty, and I'm immensely proud that I'm able to speak normally.

   "Who told you that? Have you met her?"

   "No, but Isaac told me she is."

I smirk.

   "Ariana, the man you're sleeping with is hardly a reliable source when it comes to his wife."

   "Why do you say that? He knows her better than anyone!"

   "I think you'd be surprised," I mutter sourly.

   "What?"

   "Oh…nothing," I assure her. "Drink your tea. The colder it gets, the less it masks the whiskey."

Shooting me one final suspicious look, she lifts her cup and gulps down the contents so quickly, I'm worried she'll pass out once she's done.

   "She nags him all the time," Ariana continues. "Never gives him a moment of peace."

Nags…I don't do that, do I?

   "And she smothers him. He's brilliant, but she holds him down. She doesn't have any respect for his artistic temperament."

Now, this is true. But, as I say, it's only because I know what it's like to live with Isaac's "artistic temperament." It's kind of like living with my "scientific genius". In other words, hell on earth. It's really nice to have something to blame every glaring personality flaw on. It's just not so nice when you have to live with it.

Not only this, but I've never noticed Isaac having any "artistic" attached to the "temperament".

   "And I'll bet she's really ugly, too," Ariana continues with as much spite in her tone as she can muster. Which isn't much.

   "That would explain why her husband started playing the field again," I shrug before I can stop myself and think that maybe that wasn't the most tactful thing to say.

Ariana stares at me for a minute.

   "No, Lucy, it wasn't like that. Isaac's not like that. He said he fell for me when he was visiting Cowan one day for supplies."

Supplies. I'm sure. We do have supplies in Truce, after all. Suddenly, I wonder how many other women are in the picture, too. Hey, Ariana and I might end up comforting each other when Isaac runs off with a gorgeous redhead.

   "He came into the shop where I work, and he spent the entire afternoon talking to me! I think the customers were getting annoyed, and my boss was furious – he threatened to throw him out – but we met after my shift and had dinner."

   "And then?"

   "And then…he asked if he could see me again."

   "Oh, I thought you might have taken a visit to an inn after," I say, throwing just the right amount of mischief into my tone to take the sting out of the words.

Ariana blushes brightly.

   "Oh, no. We didn't make love until our fifth date. Isaac says he would never, ever make love right away with someone he really cared about."

A smash fills the kitchen. I stare, not really registering anything, at the shattered remains of my teacup on the floor. Horrifyingly, I feel a lump, which started gathering right after I found out how much my husband really hates me, dissolving rapidly in my throat.

I will not cry in front of her!

So, I cover up with a feigned coughing fit of epic proportions…whoever would be sad enough to write an epic about a coughing fit.

   "Excuse me," I choke out before bolting from the kitchen.

Once away, I rush, on impulse, up the stairs to my right, into my old room – for some reason, Mom and Dad kept it exactly as it was – and fling myself down on my old bed, cuddling my pillow. It still smells as much like motor oil as ever.

It's good to be home.

After heroically swallowing back the crazy urge to sob into my pillow for the remainder of the afternoon, I climb shakily to my feet and start towards the door.

Of course, my good luck chooses to give out at just this point, and I nearly collide with my mother on my way out.

   "I thought you might be in here," Mom says with an expression that manages to be exasperated, amused, sympathetic, and tender, all at once.

I nearly lose it then and there.

   "The girl in the kitchen told me that my daughter, Lucy, had gone upstairs," she finishes, eyeing me suspiciously.

   "Um…"

   "Lucca, what's going on?"

   "Well…"

   "Your friend told me that you started choking, and ran away. The girl isn't stupid, you know. I think she realized you were faking it."

   "Um…"

   "You've said that one, dear," she says tranquilly. "Well, come on. You can't leave your friend alone, in my kitchen, for too long. I'll see if we have any cookies in the freezer, and you make another pot of tea. Then we can all get to know each other."

I try to make another one of my current brilliant speeches, but Mom just turns around and sweeps down the stairs so grandly, I'm ashamed that her daughter is letting herself fall apart like this.

With a concentrated effort, I straighten up and start downstairs.

It seems I've gotten there too late, as Ariana is nowhere in sight. The teacups and saucers, as well as the shot glass I used for the whiskey, are carefully piled at the edge of the sink, and a little slip of paper, faintly pink with a border of green vines and leaves and a red rose in each corner, rests on the table.

Blinking in surprise, I pick it up.

            Dear Lucy, it begins.

Your mom told me you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd better leave. I'm sorry we didn't get to talk longer. You're a really nice person, and I could use a friend right now. Do you think you'd like to meet me for coffee sometime? I work at the little medicine shop on Cowan's main street. Come by and see me when you can.

                                                                                                Ariana

Damn it. Why the hell does she have to be so sweet?

And why the hell does my mother have to be so smart?
   "Sit down, Lucca," she commands from behind me, in a tone that brooks no argument.

   "But Ariana left," I inform her, all innocence.

   "I noticed," she says dryly. "But to be totally honest, it wasn't your new friend I wanted to talk to. So, be a good girl and sit down."

I drop obediently into a chair.

Lavos, I could face again without blinking.

My mother's wrath, on the other hand, I cannot.

Remember when I told you about the impressiveness of the full wrath of Lucca Ashtear-Lesley?

Who do you think I got it from?

I aspire to be as scary someday as my mother is.

She's not as stubborn as Grandma or me, but that's only because she doesn't have to be. She can scare people into submission with that "angry-eye" of hers, long before a battle of wills even comes into the question.

The terrifying motherly wrath vanishes as quickly as it came as she sets a cup of tea down in front of me, removes the bottle of whiskey with a disapproving cluck of her tongue, firmly ignores my disappointed whimper, and gives me a soothing, motherly pat on the head. Then she joins me at the table, sets a plate of butter cookies down between us, and eyes me sternly again.

   "So, start talking."

   "About what?"

   "For starters, you could tell me why your father found out from a shopkeeper today that Isaac told him that you hadn't gotten back into town until yesterday."

   "Um…"

   "Next, you could tell me why you were entertaining a battered up woman in my kitchen."

   "Well…"

   "And finally, you can tell me why you're pale as a ghost, you have dark smudges under your eyes, and you've lost weight."

   "Uh…"

   "Lucca, I'm your mother," she says softly, and so gently that I have to look away and fiercely blink back tears again. "If something's going on, I want to know about it. God knows I get to see little enough of you now that you're married. I miss being around to help you."

   "It's…it's nothing," I finally say, my voice trembling much more than I'd like. "Look, I've got to go."

And so, with this snap decision, I leap to my feet and bolt from the kitchen.

   "Lucca!" my mother shouts after me.

   "Sorry, Mom, I'm kind of in a hurry! I'll come back to visit more often, I promise."

I manage the hold back tears until I'm well out of the house.

However, I'm also noticing a timely reappearance of blinding rage, and so I make a decision.

First, I go home.

Then, I find my gun.

Then, I go hunting.

Come on! Don't tell me you don't get the urge to shoot at innocent creatures when you're mad.

Anyone who says so is either a saint, or lying.

Hey, I need to let off a little steam. I don't think anyone can grudge me for this.

And if they can, who the hell cares?