All for a Rose (23 page)

“If we had moved home, to our
proper
home,” Corrine ground out, “the people would have better things to do than stew in superstition. No one there gave a flying fig about my illness, no one thought twice about it. They certainly didn’t think I was being seized by demons, that I was…
evil
.”

But here, oh, here was different. Country people wallowed in superstition. They left milk and honey out regularly, told horror stories about lights in the forest and dark shapes that moved under the surface of rivers and lakes. It had taken no more than one of Corrine’s episodes to send the rumor spreading like wildfire in a drought—the farmer’s daughter was a witch.

At first Corrine had cowered from their ire, but Mother Briar had quickly put a stop to that. Witches must command respect, and if it is not given then it must be
taken.
She’d coached Corrine, fed her confidence until she could meet the stares of the villagers with an answering stare of her own—and a stare was a great deal different when it came from a witch. As far as they were concerned, every glare from her was the Evil Eye, and they scattered like mice in the path of a hungry cat.

If she couldn’t be loved, she would be feared. It would be enough. It had to be.

Corrine shook herself out of the reverie she’d fallen into, disgusted with herself for giving in to self pity. Reminding herself of her goals, she gazed out into the night sky. Searching.

“Where are you, little one?” she called out, keeping her voice as sweet as possible. “I have something for you.”

There was a spark of light and something buzzed through the window to swirl around her head like a hyperactive firefly. The glow was faintly pink, and it spiraled around so quickly it could have drawn words in the air with its trail.

“Is that honey?” came a voice.

Corrine paused, slowly trying to parse out what the creature had said in her annoyingly high, squeaky tone. “Honey, yes. I have some honey for you. That is, if you have something for me…?”

The pixie halted as though it had somehow been crushed against the air, smashed into a smudge on invisible glass. Its eyes bulged as Corrine played her fingers over the lid of the small honey pot. “They’re fighting.”

Corrine’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Fighting? About what?”

“The female wants to know why dragonman made her come there. Dragonman says it was supposed to be her sister. He says the sister is the one who cursed him.”

Corrine’s heart nearly stopped in her chest, her fingers going limp. Daman had told Maribel about what Corrine had done? No. No, Maribel couldn’t know about that. Corrine couldn’t bear it. The jar of honey started to tumble to the floor and she had to scramble to catch it as the pixie gasped and dove for it at the same time. Corrine caught it first and yanked it away from the fey. “And what did the woman say?” she demanded, her heart in her throat.

The pixie wrung her hands, eyes locked on the honey. “She’s crying. Be careful you don’t drop that!”

Crying?
Corrine opened the jar and lifted the lid away. In the blink of an eye, the pixie dove into the honey and was instantly covered head to toe in the sticky mess. Corrine cringed and turned away, her thoughts racing.

“He’s made his play.” She paced the length of her room, nightgown tangling about her legs in a mad dance of silk. “The fight begins. I can’t let him win her. If she believes him…”

The thought of Maribel finding out about Corrine’s most desperate moment, her most humiliating memory, turned Corrine’s stomach. There were few people in the world right now whose opinion mattered to Corrine, but Maribel was one of them. There had to be a way to get her back.

Corrine twirled a lock of her long dark hair around a finger, then stiffened as the strands stuck and tugged. She gritted her teeth, remembering the sticky residue she’d forgotten to clean off.

I. Hate. Honey.

After taking a moment to regain her composure, Corrine stormed over to her wash basin and dumped some water from the matching pitcher. She washed the lock of hair as best she could, along with both hands. Agitated ripples in the water drew her attention and she stopped. Were her hands trembling? She slowly raised them out of the water, ignoring the rivulets that ran down her arms to wet the silk of her nightgown. Yes. She was shaking.

Her gaze fell past her hands, down her body. The nightgown that had looked so sleek and decadent to her before now emphasized every sharp angle, every bone stabbing out against her skin. The soft, womanly curves sung about in songs and described with loving detail in poetry were nothing but a cruel dream, something a pathetic urchin like herself could only aspire to. She was starving, wasting away in a wilderness full of frightening monsters and mocking villagers. She was a skeleton draped in expensive cloth. The sick child that should have died in the cradle.

No, no, no…

She averted her eyes, not wanting to see herself anymore. Cruel fate dragged her gaze up and across the room to the large mirror hanging on her wall. A memory rose like a zombie from a grave to touch the silver surface of the polished glass. The episode she’d had earlier, her body twitching and unresponsive to her commands as she lay there, forced into a staring contest with her own reflection in the silver tray Maribel used to bring her meals on.

She’d seen her aura in that reflection. As her father had a hole in his heart, Corrine had a hole in her aura, a gaping mouth on the surface of the shimmering coat of color that fluctuated near-constantly. A bright tube of light led from that hole. It had once connected Corrine to Maribel, but now it was stretched so far, so thin, that Corrine couldn’t feel anything on the other end of that link anymore. There was no energy flowing to her, no taste of Maribel’s presence inside her. She was alone.
Vulnerable
.

“Maribel, you’ve ruined me.”

Slowly, she clenched her hands into fists. “Why did you have to ask for that damned rose? Why did you have to draw
his
attention?” She bit the inside of her cheek, her throat suddenly closing, her heart twisting in her chest. “He’ll keep you. He’ll keep you or he’ll take you away.” She cleared her throat, warm tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. For a moment, thoughts of magic and illness fell away and an image of her sister hovered in her mind’s eye. Her sister who had always been there for her, always loved her. Her favorite person in the world.

“Maribel, I miss you,” she whispered.

Anger rose like an avenging angel, slaying her yearning for her sibling, her pain at being without her company, her laughter, her unwavering support. It hardened her soul, coating it in a protective, impenetrable shell. “She left me,” she reminded herself. “Left without a second thought—
wanted
to leave. Why should I miss her?”

She wrapped her fingers into fists. A dull pain throbbed to life in her hands as her burned skin screamed in protest. The pain was a welcome distraction, exactly what she needed to focus on the future instead of wallowing in self-pity. Corrine lifted one of the small jars sitting on the end table. She twisted the lid off and the scent of lavender filled the air. The homemade cream was cool against her fingers as she dipped them in, ignoring the lumps of herbs and firmly rubbing the ointment into her skin. The wounds on her fingers burned, drawing her attention to the myriad of cuts.

She tried to imagine Maribel’s face if her sister could see Corrine’s hands, see what she’d been reduced to. Without Maribel close enough for the bond between them to let Corrine share her fey energy, Corrine had been forced to brew a different kind of potion to keep her strength up. The only potions strong enough to even come close to the fey power she was missing required powerful ingredients—including blood. Even with the addition of her blood, Corrine could feel the potions growing less and less effective. Mother Briar had told her it was a temporary fix.

She needed Maribel to come home.

“What is the dragonman’s temper like these days?” she called out to the pixie, not taking her eyes off her own hands as she continued to rub the healing ointment into her skin.

“The sprites are back.”

The pixie made the announcement as if it explained everything and went back to alternately playing in and eating the honey. Corrine pinched the bridge of her nose, the scent of the lavender ointment on her hands doing nothing to alleviate the growing headache pounding in her temples. “And do the sprites say he is in better spirits?” she ventured tiredly.

“The sprites wouldn’t be there if it was too dangerous,” the pixie scoffed. “They’re cowards.”

“So he is kind to the woman then? No bouts of temper?”

“Oh, yes, still bouts of temper. But it doesn’t deter the woman.” The pixie focused sparkling blue eyes on Corrine. “They were kissing.”

“They were…” A tight, wrenching pain squeezed Corrine’s chest and she closed her eyes. Of course. Of course he would want her. Maribel was a changeling, and Daman had always had a tender spot for changelings. Why shouldn’t Maribel succeed where Corrine had failed? Why shouldn’t Daman want her, kiss her, when he had cast Corrine aside like so much garbage?

“Are you sick?”

Corrine opened her eyes in time to see the pixie—still covered in thick, viscous honey—march over her coverlet to plop down on her lap. The miserable pest left a sticky trail all the way from the windowsill across the bed, and the sweet substance was now soaking into Corrine’s silk nightgown. The fabric was ruined.

“Yes, little one, I am sick.” Corrine snatched up the pixie, drawing a shriek of indignation from the creature. More disgusting honey oozed between her fingertips as she rose to her feet. “I’m
sick
of being pathetic. I’m
sick
of relying on others to keep me safe, to keep me
alive.”
She tightened her grip. “I’m
sick
of needing
anyone
.”

The creature in her grasp suddenly morphed into a scorpion, black insect body shining, and wickedly sharp stinger raised and ready to strike. A drop of amber venom beaded on the tip of its barbed tail.

“Save your glamour for someone who is unfamiliar with your kind,” Corrine sneered.

The pixie snarled as she gave up the glamour, once again becoming the tiny person-shaped creature with translucent wings. “Let me
go
!”

Corrine stalked over to her wardrobe and tore it open, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. She retrieved a small birdcage, which she then opened so she could deposit the pixie inside. “Try to escape,” she warned, “and the next place you go will be forged of iron.”

The pixie scowled at her, sitting on the floor of the cage in a sticky honey puddle. “This was not part of our arrangement.”

“I’m changing the arrangement.” Corrine’s mind danced over her options like a honeybee in a field of flowers. “I’m changing a lot of things.”

There was much to do. After tucking the cage safely to the side, Corrine quickly washed her hand and gathered a few gowns from her wardrobe. She dragged a bag out from underneath the bed—the same bag she’d packed with her most precious clothes the day she’d had to leave her last home—her
real
home. She paused, staring down at the bag.

A memory flashed into her head. For a moment she was back in Daman’s manor, standing beside him still covered in her sister’s tacky, drying blood. He’d been so gentle with her then, so incredibly kind. He’d led her to that room and opened a wardrobe filled with beautiful gowns, each one more stunning than the last. All for her.

She slowly pulled the bag off her bed and went back to her wardrobe. Her potions rattled as she loaded them into the satchel, speaking to the pixie without looking up.

“What weakens a fey besides iron?”

The pixie crossed her tiny honey-thickened arms. “Why should I tell you?”

Corrine slid an iron file out of her grooming kit. She waved it at the pixie, letting the iron threat speak for itself. “If she’s upset. Will that emotion make her stronger or weaker?”

The pixie scowled. “Weaker if she’s sad, stronger if she’s mad.”

Corrine tightened her grip on the file, gritting her teeth as she fought the tremble threatening to rattle her fingers. “And if she’s incredibly happy?”

That question gave the pixie pause. She tilted her head to the side. “What kind of fey is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s stronger if she’s outside, and she’s good with plants.”

The pixie arched an eyebrow. “It would narrow the possibilities down more if she wasn’t good with plants. Your sister’s never told you what she is?”

“She doesn’t know. She thinks she’s human.” Corrine hesitated, the file drooping in her grip. “I never…  I never wanted her to feel like she didn’t belong, so I never said anything. It didn’t matter anyway, she’s my sister no matter where she comes from.”

The pixie blinked. “But…she’s a grown-up now. You shouldn’t have to tell her, there would be signs, her gifts would be obvious. Is she stupid?”

“No. There haven’t been any signs.”

“
You’re
stupid,” the pixie muttered. “If you think she doesn’t know. No matter what she is,
there would be signs
. She has obviously been hiding them from you if you don’t know about them.”

Corrine gripped the cage, squeezing until the bars bent under the pressure. “You would do well not to insult my intelligence,” she said, letting her anger warm her voice. “What if someone had been sharing her energy? Could that mute it enough to hide the signs?”

The pixie’s gaze intensified with interest. It gave her a sharper appearance, carved more lines in her face, darkened her eyes into solid stones. It was an…unsettling look, and a trickle of unease dripped down Corrine’s spine.

“You mean if a witch was draining her power?”

Corrine stiffened. “Not draining. Sharing. Symbiotically.”

The pixie leaned against the bars of the cage, the motion somewhat predatory and completely at odds with the image of the honey-loving creature she’d been moments ago. “Symbiotically would suggest the fey got something in return. What does a human have to offer a fey?”