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Authors: Abigail Barnette

Beast (6 page)

BOOK: Beast
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Johanna opened her mouth to argue with her brother as he cut the moldering heel off a loaf of bread and then sliced an unaffected portion off for himself. She could not let him go out on such a long ride without something hot to eat. But before she could speak, Philipe broke the terse silence. “Let’s have it all out now then, shall we?”

Wilhelm looked up, then quickly back down at the bread. He flicked the moldy slice into the rushes, but he did not respond.

“My behavior toward you both was abominable.” Philipe paused, as though rolling the words about in his mouth to order them correctly.

He still does that
, she realized. Her heart, a long dead thing, gave a feeble sign of affection at the memory. She drove a spear through it, turned it to stone. She would not allow herself to remember the boy she’d fallen in love with, for he had never existed at all. He had died along with her brother and father and all the other poor souls who’d burned alive within the walls of Hazelhurn.

“When we heard of the fire, I could have asked my father to send aid. I could have come, myself, and brought the finest doctors and builders. I could have helped you in your hour of need, and instead I turned my back.” Philipe drew a breath. “I know how you must hate me. I do not begrudge you that. You should hate me, and yet, you help me. For that I am grateful, beyond sufficient words. Know that I am not the same man I was then. I would not use you opportunistically, after all the grief that has befallen you. After the grief I have caused.”

Wilhelm nodded. “Thank you for your words. I entrust you with the keeping of my sister while I am away. May you prove those sentiments with your actions. Keep her safe.”

“On my life,” Philipe vowed.

Johanna had heard such a vow before, on the last night he’d left her. He’d stood at the postern gate, with his father and their escort, leaving in the dark of night because Albart had feared the wrath of the people. “Come with us,” he’d said then. “We can keep you safe.” But she had not gone. She had stayed, and days later the wrath the king had brought down on them had turned to fire and burned her family alive. Though she knew she should regret not leaving on that night long ago, she’d known then that he was just a boy playing at being a man. She had seen through the veneer of princely pride that night, when she’d seen how his hands shook when he held his horse’s reins. He couldn’t have kept her safe, not from the fire or the peasants or the court. It was better that she’d stayed and faced the flames with the rest of her family.

Wilhelm would not stay for porridge, no matter what manner of frozen, hungry death she threatened him with. She did not begrudge him his eagerness to leave. In fifteen years, she had never once desired to leave Hazelhurn, but her brother still yearned for the world outside. So long as she hung on him, a scarred wraith in black raiments, he would never be able to escape the castle, so letting him leave on these short trips without wailing and bitterness was a small gift she could give to him.

She kissed his cheek and bade him be careful as they stood in the courtyard below the tower. “I do not trust Lord Fueil. Father did not trust him, either.”

“That was the old lord. This is his son,” Wilhelm reminded her.

“And the son is like to be as greedy and vain as the father. Look at you, Wilhelm, you’re so much like our father that it pains me to look on you at times.” Johanna laughed with him, but icy dread had frozen her insides. “I merely caution you. Be careful. We don’t know that Philipe isn’t…playing us false, because we are an easily exploited target.”

“Because he is Albart’s son?” Wilhelm smiled. “If you believe I am so like father, then trust that I will act with his wisdom. And do not worry over me, sister. I will return.”

She went back to the tower and watched from the window as Wilhelm cleared the castle gates and galloped away across the valley. She could sit all day, if she liked, and watch as he crossed the miles spread below the mountains. He would be but a black speck in a sea of white that would sear her eyes, though, and she had told him she would trust him. She turned away and wiped her tears on her sleeve beneath her veil.

“The porridge smells like it might burn,” Philipe said gently.

“Eat moldy bread, for all I care!” she snapped, but she went to the pot. She would do her duty as her brother had bid her, and trusted he would do his.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

There was a single chicken left, scrawny, with sparse feathers. Johanna had planned to save him to cook upon her brother’s return, but a week had passed without word from him. She’d hoped to rise that morning to a dark speck against the blazing white horizon, as she had hoped for the past three days. The trip to Lord Fueil’s manor was only a day’s ride. Even if he’d been pressed to spend a second night, as Lord Fueil’s hospitality sometimes required, for he did not like to drink his wine alone, Wilhelm should have returned by now, at least.

It was Philipe’s fault, she thought angrily as she chased the pathetic chicken all about the castle yard. Wilhelm had promised to act with her father’s wisdom, but she should have known better than to set store by such a promise. Her father’s wisdom had brought them nothing but fire and pain. Likely it had landed Wilhelm in Fueil’s dungeon, branded a traitor.

What a fine existence it would be here, alone, with no man to barter for supplies with traders, or cut wood. She would freeze before the end of winter, for she would not be brave enough to put flint and spark to tinder herself. Wilhelm always did that.

She was not alone yet, she reminded herself. Perhaps Philipe would see to her care. He must have a bevy of lords in his pockets, with wives who would prefer an ugly, scarred chambermaid.

That was the fate of the daughter of Köneig. Nearly a princess, she would end as a servant, if her erstwhile fiancé looked upon her kindly enough to help.

A fig for his help. She could not bring herself to be civil enough to him that he would bother to stick a dagger in her heart before he rode away. Not that he deserved better treatment, after what he’d done to her.

She caught the bird on her third try, and wrung its neck, grateful that her veil kept the feathers out of her nose as it flapped and squawked. The bones of its neck crunched, and still the animal ran about when she dropped it, its head fallen dead to the side while the body fought for escape. It ran a pitiable circle and fell over as Johanna looked about for the scalding pot.

With a curse she realized that she’d forgotten the fire, to boil the water over. She groaned and wiped her hands on her gown, forcing herself to adopt a light tone when she called out, “Philipe! Might you help me with something?”

He leaned out of the tower window, holding the flap of heavy cloth back with one dripping arm. “What, this very second?”

“Are you bathing again?” As if they had all the water in the world, his royal highness had seen fit to not just wash every morning, but strip completely and pour bucket after bucket of perfectly clean water over his head. He’d used nearly all the soap she had Wilhelm had for the year. She hoped he brought more back with him, or that the prince gifted them with pounds of the stuff in repayment for their troubles.

“I’ll keep bathing for as long as you complain about my stink,” he retorted.

Resolving to never again use “stinking”, “reeking,” or “disgusting” to refer to him, lest he empty their cistern and boil all the snow off the mountain in his vain quest, she made herself calm. “I need a fire, to scald the chicken.”

His brow crumpled. “What did the chicken do to you?”

Gods, could royalty be so sheltered? “It’s going to feed me, and you, if you like. But not unless you come down and help me. I don’t wish to pluck it inside, when I’ll have to clean up the mess.”

“Pluck it?” his confusion became even more visibly pronounced, and then clarity dawned bright as sunlight. “I’ll dress and be right down.”

She sat on the chopping block and covered her face with her hands. She had promised to be civil, to do her duty as father would have wanted her to. But when the prince was such an idiot, it was very difficult not to comment on it.

He came down the stairs, hair still wet, the patched arm of his shirt hanging strangely over his bandage. He held his arm stiffly, and it concerned her, but only for a moment, because he opened his mouth and told her, “You know, when you said ‘pluck’ the first thing I thought was—”

“No, Philipe. I am not so desperate as to fuck a chicken.” Though she’d said the words in anger, she could not hold back the shocked laugh that exploded from her lips.

Philipe’s bark of laughter was like to bring down the snow from the mountains. “How did you know I wasn’t going to say ‘a harp’? No, you chose defloration, quick as lightning, didn’t you?”

“It is lonely on this mountain,” she said, hearing something of the flirtatious girl she’d once been. She hated the girl, hated the way she mocked her from the past. “Over there, if you please. It doesn’t need to be a bonfire, just enough to boil some water.”

“As my lady commands.” Philipe went to the wood pile. He could not cover his grimace as he tried, unsuccessfully, to not involve his wounded side in the carrying.

“Let me.” Johanna took the split log from him and tucked another under arm. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“I am not strained. I know you think of me as some spoiled prince who cannot lift a finger to help himself, but I assure you—”

“You’re wounded. What good will Fueil’s help be, should he grant it, if you are dead?”

Philipe did not argue further, letting her stack the kindling without a word. He took the flint from his pocket and set to striking up sparks against the dried pine boughs she’d added to start the flames. When the first tiny, infernal flame leapt up, quickly setting the boughs alight beneath the split logs, he stood and said with satisfaction, “There, then. At least I know how to build a fire. Who’s spoiled now?”

“I know how,” she admitted, gritting her teeth in a vain attempt to bite back the rest of her explanation. “I am afraid to.”

“As anyone would be, in your position.” There was no mocking to his words, no gentle humor about them. Long ago, he’d hid behind his words even when the true answer hadn’t mattered. Perhaps he had changed.

“If that’s all, then,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly, “I’m back up to my sick bed. If I sleep, wake me for dinner.”

She waited until he was up the stairs, into the tower before she spit on his path.

* * * *

She woke him for dinner, and the anger that had simmered along with the stewpot had not yet come to full boil, so she didn’t bother to converse with him. The silence of the day stretched into night. Though her eyes ached and her head drooped on her shoulders, Johanna would not allow herself to sleep. If she slept, she might miss the first sound of Wilhelm’s boots on the stair, or his shouts from the courtyard. Or his cries for help, as Philipe had cried out upon his arrival. If Wilhelm hadn’t heard him…

She shuddered to think of it, but not for Philipe’s sake. Her concern extended only as far as her brother. The fate she imagined for Philipe was the one she dreaded for Wilhelm.

So, she stayed awake, despite the rhythm of her sewing that did its best to lull her. The needle thunked through the tightly drawn fabric, the string whispered against the fibers, and it repeated, again and again, until her hand could raise no more and her eyes drifted shut of their own accord.

A cracking log in the hearth sent up long, snatching fingers of embers, and Johanna hissed an indrawn breath between her teeth. Fully awake in a heartbeat, she drew her skirts back with a sharp movement of her legs. She heard Philipe’s breath, too, and imagined it was one of agitation. “I am sorry if my shyness of fire bores you, Your Highness. It is not something that I can overcome.”

When he answered her, his voice was a whisper. A whisper, yes, but it held anger in it that even she could hear. “Why would you say such a thing to me?”

“You are a prince, are you not?” With her stiff, melted fingers, she pushed the needle back through the fabric, laying down a line of red. It should have been the edge of a rose, but all too easily it became a line across Wilhelm’s throat, his blood on the snow.

“You know I am,” Philipe rasped. He lifted his cup to his lips, grimacing at the taste of the plain water.

Her lips twitched in satisfaction at his pained expression. Honeyed wine would have been a drink fit for a prince, but they had none, and his discomfort pleased her. It pleased her still when she replied innocently, “I’m sure, then, that there are a great many apologies made to you for things people cannot themselves change. I beg your pardon for my detestation of fire, which you are sure to find disagreeable.”

“I do not think you disagreeable for loathing fire.” His gaze flicked up to her face for one of those furtive glances. “I very much loathe it myself.”

He still could not look into her eyes when he spoke to her. Did he avoid seeing her so that he could imagine her as she had been all those years before? So that he could absolve himself of his guilt over what she had become? She wouldn’t forgive him with a smile, as the pretty maid she had once been would have. “You say you loathe it, but it seems to me it has caused relatively little inconvenience to you.”

“Little inconvenience?” He made a noise that sounded like sarcasm and disbelief running into each other headlong.

She would not give him the benefit of his regret. “You lost nothing from the fire that ravaged our home. Indeed, you gained much. My father’s death secured the North for your crown.”

“Keep the damned North!” Philipe raged, coming to his feet. “I am not my father, the size of my kingdom doesn’t concern me.”

“I’m glad to know that our pain is nothing to you.” She could still play the courtier, twisting words to her own end, and would gladly, so long as this spoiled prince intruded upon her home. “For my pains, I lost everything I held dear.”

BOOK: Beast
11.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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