Luminous

123 - Baroness Graye (1/2)

Ice and heat woke her, although she didn't remember falling asleep, to a body drained dry and heavy as stone. Soft sheets cushioned her, cold against her skin, as sunlight burned her from above.

A sudden breeze dragged its icy caress across her middle. She jolted, squeezed her legs together, scrabbled feebly in the dark for her blanket. The bed was endlessly vast, despairingly empty. The last thing she wanted to do was open her eyes so the blazing sun could scorch them, but she couldn't bear being so naked.

She flipped onto her belly, burrowed her face into her pillow, then creaked open her eyelids. She was sticky all over, in particular between her legs, like she did after every night of passion with Coris.

Coris.

The name jolted her to her senses like a douse of water. Meya bolted upright, heart racing, eyes frozen wide open.

Faces—Baron Graye, the watching knights, her own in the mirror. Sounds—Graye's whispers, her moans and cries, her screams of bliss, rustling of shed garment, creaking of wood, meeting of flesh. Smells—tea, perfume, sweat, the stench of lust, his seed flowing down her skin, taking root, branding her. Eyes, watching, unblinking. She couldn't take it any longer. She needed rest. Her knees buckled. The world careened. He didn't stop, flung her onto the bed, stabbed her, again, again, again. Eyes, still watching. He dragged his tongue across every inch of her skin. Again, she summited, yet couldn't feel, not even the heat of tears sliding down her cheeks. She couldn't move. Her body had drifted just beyond her grasp. Eyes, unblinking on looming shadows. He splayed her limbs for them to see as again he ravaged her—

Her head spun, and she dove from long experience. She reached under the bed, but this wasn't Coris's room. Chamberpot. Where's the chamberpot? Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as acid barreled up her throat. She leaped for the light and emptied her bowels out the window.

Spent, hollowed out, she sunk to the floor, knees folded high, arms wrapped over her chest. She seared down there with every move. Coris would never push her this far. Graye's ooze had become one with her skin. She couldn't see it, yet she felt it. His stench smothered her nostrils. She rubbed until she was red raw. It wouldn't go off. Water. I need water. Yet, even all the water of the Celestel couldn't scrape off the nightmare of his touch reaching deep inside her.

No. No. NO!

Whimpers grew into wails of despair, yet no-one was here to heed her, even to scold her to silence. Why? Why was there no-one? Her whole family was always just across the hearth. Coris was always right beside her.

What have I done? Oh Freda, what have I done?

Her curling toes crushed fabric of some sort between them. Meya opened her eyes. Draped down the side of the bed was a silken dress of pure white, embroidered with charcoal-gray thread, lined with lace.

A circle of curtains stood at the heart of the room, likely shrouding a bathtub lined with sponge, filled with steaming hot milk, scattered with rose petals. Should she tug the tasseled rope next to the bed, a crowd of servants would burst inside, toting warm, fluffy towels, armed with an array of potions for her skin and hair, ready to wait on her every need.

This is what I've done. This is the fruit of my labors. This is my life now.

Baroness Graye. Lady Hadrian no more. Baroness Graye.

She whispered to herself, over and over, yet she trembled as the words echoed in her head, as she pulled the resplendent dress to her and pressed it flush to her bosom. She rocked back and forth, struggling in vain to staunch the tears flowing down her cheeks.

Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye.

⏳

Meya bathed and dressed herself, as she'd always done. Even braided and pinned her hair the best she could. Unlike Coris, she still couldn't numb herself to being served like a helpless babe by folks who until recently had been her equals—sometimes even superiors. Even sitting in carriages while whips shuttled her around made her uneasy, unless it was with Coris, Arinel or other nobles.

She stepped out to last night's hallway, now lit dazzling bright by the morning rising at full force, then at once almost crashed into the same maid in gray from ereyesterday. She'd probably come to press her ear to the door, see if Meya was at long last awake.

Poor girl was terrified to see her clean and fully dressed. She led Meya downstairs to the same tea-table at the end of the gallery, then scurried off with a harried promise of breakfast.

Baroness, the girl had called her, over and over. She couldn't be over a year younger than Meya. The voices still chorused in her head, when a bowl of steaming wheat porridge landed before her with a clink and a waft of cinnamon, followed by jars of cream, sugar and raisins. Meya followed the hand up the arm to find one of Graye's older male servants from her last time here. Probably the butler.

"Thank you, sir." Yet again, habit tricked her into bowing. Meya sprung upright, slipping on her best Arinel voice. "Where's the Baron?"

The butler arranged silverware neatly next to her napkin, then straightened with a courteous smile.

"Off to fulfill his Council duties, my lady. He said you'd had a rigorous night, and has instructed us to let you rest your fill."

Meya's face burned as she drooped in shame. She spied on Graye's clock with many faces. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to tell the time on the land of Latakia. She returned glumly to the white gruel in her bowl. She felt cold dollops hitting her cheeks, trickling down her throat, spilling down her front, sliding down her thighs. Her bowels churned and heaved. She scrabbled for the spoon, gripped it so tight its cold seeped through to the bones of metal under her skin.

"Before he left, the Baron arranged for gold, jewels and fine fabric to be sent to your parents at the Dragon's Crossing, and also took the liberty of inviting them to meet you here," the butler prattled on, seemingly unaware. Meya's heart froze, then plummeted into a void when the sharp neighing of horses blew in through the tall windows. The butler perked up, his face bright.

"Splendid timing! That must be Icari, back with them already."

Sure enough, not long after, the far door opened. In came the whip, Icari, and the fearful messenger boy, and no more. Meya couldn't decide if she was relieved or crestfallen. She wasn't ready to meet them. Not yet.

"Where's Mum and Dad?" She bolted up when they came in talking distance. For a moment, Icari didn't seem to have heard, then he raised his unblinking blue eyes to her, his face pale and haunted as the messenger behind him.

"Sir Mirram and Madam Alanna would like me to convey they are grateful for your generosity," he regurgitated words like a golem, shaking his head numbly, "but they cannot accept your gifts, nor your invitation, as they know not of Baroness Graye."

Silence fell. Meya gaped at Icari, as he, the butler, the errand boy stared expectantly back at her. Time seemed to have slowed, but of course it was in actuality just her head. Yet, why was she caught off guard? This was Mum and Dad! The Mum and Dad that for seventeen years she'd seen reject every last coin of copper not earned through a hard day's work. She knew how they'd react. She should know better than any how to convince them—force them to accept her gold, yet she didn't.

Yet, there was no sense in putting it off. Graye was right—every second past is an eternity of pain for Dad. She'd have to face Dad sooner or later, if she wanted to help him.

Meya drew a deep breath, then heaved a long sigh.

"Right." She nodded slowly, then met eyes with the waiting Icari.

"Prepare the carriage. I'll meet them myself."

⏳