Online Read Free Novel
  • Home
  • Romance & Love
  • Fantasy
  • Science Fiction
  • Mystery & Detective
  • Thrillers & Crime
  • Actions & Adventure
  • History & Fiction
  • Horror
  • Western
  • Humor

    We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire

    Prev Next


      The duchess taught me

      to waltz, as well as to kill.

      No amount of ale

      can distract us

      from the truth

      of what we have

      set out to do.

      I’ve had a taste—

      the man in the alley

      the man in the stable.

      When the time comes

      will I be capable

      of draining the life

      from a monster?

      And do I want

      that answer to be

      yes?

      CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

      I write.

      No one else can do this for me.

      And this story has to be told. It can’t be yet another folded-up scrap caught in the bottom of a shoebox.

      I can’t tell Nor’s story. But I can tell Marguerite’s. No one else is going to.

      So I write, even when the sun is shining and I could be at Green Lake with Chester. I write, even when my dad asks me to help him make ravioli. I write, even when I miss a movie marathon with Mom, miss a Skype date with Francie and Sam, miss my grandma’s birthday party.

      I write, even when I could be sleeping except I couldn’t really because my mind never stops spinning out the next piece of the story, Marguerite’s story, the bedtime story we all should have heard but instead we got stories of princesses in towers and princes so inept they somehow got thorns in their eyes.

      There’s no prince to save Marguerite, just like there was no prince for Nor. Marguerite has to do this shit on her own, and she’s scared—so am I—but she’s not letting a little thing like abject terror stop her.

      Marguerite knows how to wield a sword.

      I will too before I’m done.

      BINDINGS

      Tents billow in the distance

      resisting a wind that seeks

      to tear them down.

      Close enough we’re almost there

      but far enough they will not see us

      stop, retreat behind some trees.

      The trousers and tunics

      borrowed from René

      have served us well

      as traveling clothes

      but now we add the final detail:

      heavy linen strips

      to bind our breasts.

      Because we’re born

      with the ability to produce food

      and sustain life, we are considered

      weak.

      I’d laugh if not for

      the searing pain

      as Zahra winds

      the linen round my self.

      Sentries throwing dice

      straighten up

      at our approach.

      I run a nervous hand

      through close-shorn locks

      then lift it in friendly greeting.

      We wave the Crown’s flag

      but any sentry worth their sword

      would know Chalon’s men

      are not above deceit.

      I seek a deep breath

      to steady my nerves

      but my bindings only

      allow the barest bit of air

      into my lungs

      and so my

      CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

      It’s bullshit.

      Marguerite and Zahra having to cut their hair, bind their breasts, erase themselves.

      It’s my first impulse, born of As You Like It and Twelfth Night and Lord of the Rings and Song of the Lioness. Girls dressing as boys to gain access to what no one will give them otherwise. Only as boys can they possibly wield their rage.

      The duchess would have advised it, probably. The cooler, calmer head prevailing. Sometimes you make sacrifices, play the game before you twist the rules.

      But Marguerite doesn’t have land and power, a duchy, a husband treating her as an equal, and a future with a girl she’ll raise to be as fierce as she is. She’s not operating from a place of security and support.

      She’s an untethered ball of rage.

      The rules don’t matter because she’s never been playing a game.

      And when she finds the Prince of Orange, she’ll want him to know exactly who has come for him and why.

      FLOWERS

      Sentries throwing dice

      straighten up

      at our approach.

      I run a nervous hand

      through the length of my hair

      then wave in friendly greeting.

      We fly the Crown’s flag

      but any sentry worth their sword

      would know Chalon’s men

      are not above deceit.

      Zahra and I exchange a glance

      then prod our horses forward

      until we are right before the men.

      Mesdemoiselles?

      We wish to speak with

      Governor de Gaucourt.

      The taller of two sentries

      chuckles, strokes Minuit’s nose.

      I doubt that will be necessary.

      If you have come to . . .

      . . . meet the needs

      of our men at arms—

      We haven’t.

      A flicker of self-doubt.

      Zahra argued we should use

      assumptions to our advantage

      if only to gain entry, but I refuse.

      I do not judge the camp followers

      who survive by men’s basest desires

      but I will not fall back on my form

      when I have every right

      to be here as I am.

      The man’s tone shifts.

      Not only is my body

      not for his pleasure but

      I have interrupted him.

      We have no need

      of cooks or washerwomen.

      You’d best be on your way.

      You must think us foolish, sirs.

      Zahra giggles, setting out

      on another story.

      Will she say I’m addled,

      with child, lovesick?

      I won’t wait to find out.

      Waiting for someone else

      to act is how we got here.

      I’m almost sure

      they won’t run me through

      with the nearest lance

      when I force entry into the camp.

      Not speared but grabbed

      the moment I’m in reach,

      thrown hand to hand

      and hauled into a tent

      where terror chokes me.

      If I had trusted Zahra—

      Don’t move.

      The one left standing guard

      is my age, maybe younger.

      I wish to speak

      with the governor.

      I said, don’t move!

      He points his dagger

      as though he’d use it.

      I didn’t threaten him.

      I didn’t draw my own dagger

      tucked against the thigh

      he’d never dream

      could give him

      anything but pleasure.

      I only spoke.

      Perhaps that’s worse.

      My traveling companion—

      Shut your mouth!

      I have to believe Zahra

      is being held with more care.

      She knows how to speak

      to these men, she is not

      blunt force like I.

      But that is why

      I will succeed.

      The young one is

      far too insecure,

      too eager to prove

      he’s man enough.


      The fact he’s never

      known a willing girl

      only means he’s sure to feel

      entitled, enraged by any woman

      who does not exist to please him.

      He’d slice my throat

      to show he could.

      I wait until

      he is replaced.

      My new guard is weathered,

      too old for this life

      but he knows no other.

      Nearly one hundred years

      the battles for power have raged

      and all anyone has to show

      are dead brothers, sons,

      the ones who live hardened,

      desiring only to meet

      their basest needs, survive.

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

      “Hon?”

      Mom sticks her head in my door as though I haven’t told her a million times to knock.

      She waves a familiar blue box at me. “I got tampons.”

      “Okay? You can leave them on my dresser.”

      “Are you keeping some in here now?”

      “Does it matter?” I slam my notebook shut.

      “Of course not, sweetie, I just, I went to put them in your bathroom and saw that you still have a full box. I’ve run out, and we’re usually pretty—”

      “I didn’t realize I had to account for every menstrual product I use now!”

      I’m being a total brat and I’m fully aware of it but also incapable of stopping even when I see the pain written across Mom’s face.

      “I’m just worried about you.”

      “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” I say, jumping up and taking the box, then holding the door open in invitation.

      “That wasn’t what I was suggesting,” she says, taking the unsubtle hint and walking through the door. “But if you were, you know you could—”

      “Okay, thanks.” I shut the door.

      She thinks my systems are breaking down, that I’m not taking care of myself like I promised, that I’m not eating and sleeping and humaning like a normal person with normal worries who can afford to do those things, who has time and energy in their normal life because they don’t have this story they have to tell bursting out of their chest like an alien, this story they have to keep telling or they’ll never know how it turns out, if it turns out okay.

      She’s not wrong, either. But I don’t care.

      I need to relieve myself.

      My guard acts as though

      he doesn’t hear me

      but the blush creeping

      up his neck says otherwise.

      Sir, if you please.

      It’s my time.

      Still nothing.

      I have the flowers.

      The courses?

      My flow is—

      Hold your peace!

      He glances around

      for someone to save him

      from this most horrifying prospect—

      a woman bleeding.

      A divine punishment

      on half the world

      because one woman

      (as the story goes

      though let’s be honest

      a woman didn’t write that tale)

      couldn’t bear to pass up

      a juicy piece of

      fruit:

      The monthly shedding

      of blood, without which

      the wandering womb

      would flood is capable of:

      souring wine felling fruit

      killing bees blighting crops

      infecting dogs corroding male members

      killing children in the womb

      or should it live, poisoning a child

      through the vapors that flow

      through the eyes of a woman

      with the flowers.

      So terrifying, a woman’s blood,

      but more terrifying still:

      A woman who does not bleed

      is prone to many forms of madness.

      And a woman who’s mad

      is most terrifying of all.

      On your feet.

      He jerks his chin to the door,

      leads me on the point of his dagger

      to a board suspended over a pit of waste.

      My stomach turns.

      In my rush to match

      my mettle to any man’s

      I had not considered the reality

      of day-to-day with soldiers.

      Some privacy, sir?

      The pit is situated

      along the edge of the camp

      backed up against scraggly woods.

      If I were on my own, I could run for cover,

      get a head start before he realized I’d gone.

      But I didn’t come

      all this way to run

      and most of all:

      I’d never leave Zahra.

      The camp is laid out

      as René predicted:

      the grandest tent in the center,

      home to the governor of Dauphine,

      leader of these troops,

      the only one with power

      to let us stay as equals.

      My captor is distracted

      chatting with a fellow soldier

      perhaps exchanging tips

      on how best to protect their

      crops and dogs and members

      from the corrosion of a woman’s flowers.

      Do men discuss such things?

      There’s a chance

      I can get from the pit

      to the nearest tent

      and from there decide

      my next move.

      A chance is all I need.

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

      What if I had a chance to be alone with Craig Lawrence and the dagger that’s become an extension of my self? Only in the dead of night for now, safe inside my family home, but what if they became a reality, the scenes that play out on the movie screen of my mind once I’ve willed myself to sleep, fingers still gripped around the dagger’s handle?

      SUBSERVIENT

      I move against my instinct,

      slowly, less prone to catch the eye.

      The men continue talking,

      avoiding me, my blood.

      (All the blood

      they spill on battlefields

      but one drop from my womb

      could bring them down.)

      I reach the first tent,

      heart in my throat.

      My goal:

      find Zahra or

      reach the governor,

      whichever comes first.

      When several men

      stomp toward me

      I fight the instinct to flee.

      Instead, eyes down,

      invisible, I play my role:

      subservient woman who

      cleans their soiled garments

      cooks their meals

      relieves them in the night.

      They needn’t know

      she keeps a hand on the dagger

      concealed beneath her skirts.

      Emboldened when they pass

      without a glance

      I pick up my pace,

      focus on reaching

      the governor.

      I’m very nearly there.

      If I should shout

      he’d probably hear

      but shouting would draw

      the wrong attention.

      Head down

      silent as thunder

      I fight the urge to run

      and then—

      Mademoiselle
    de Bressieux?

      CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

      Soft fingers intertwine with mine on cool, crisp sheets. Bright lights, antiseptic smell, a steady hum of voices and beeping, punctuated by calls over an intercom.

      I’m back in the hospital with Nor, trying not to faint at the sight of her blood—they’ve stripped off her clothes while she stands in the middle of a sheet we have to hope will gather physical evidence, because god knows a girl’s word isn’t enough.

      Except now I’m the one in a bed. My eyes drift down the length of my arm and land on the leather cuff encircling someone else’s wrist.

      Mom’s only accessory is her simple wedding band.

      I force my brain to do the work that’s normally automatic, but under the haze of whatever they’re pumping through me, it’s a conscious effort to turn my head and see a sheet of jet-black hair falling over a face bowed low.

      Jess is here. I manage to form words. “Are you praying?”

      Their head snaps up. “Why, yes, yes I am. Praying to the goddess that you will survive so she can then smite you for reckless endangerment of my nerves!”

      My brain isn’t functional enough to wrap around Jess’s words. “I’m fine.” I squeeze their hand. At least I try. “You’re here.”

      “In the flesh.”

      “I was such a jerk and you came from Saipan.”

      They laugh. “You were a total jerk. Terrible friend.”

      “Jess, I—”

      “But I only came from San Francisco. And I was pretty shitty too, not responding to any of your messages or telling you where I’d gone.”

      “I saw a picture of you on a boat. With your mom.”

      Jess’s brow furrows, then realization dawns. “Not my mom. Though if Dad has his way, she’ll be my mom’s replacement soon. That was Vanessa. In San Francisco Bay.”

      “You went with your dad?”

      They shrug. “Mostly so I could go to a Guild of Cookery feast.”

      They ramble for a while about some young, medieval-obsessed chef duo that prepares eight-course meals in San Francisco based on period-correct recipes and cooking techniques.

      That can’t be the only reason they chose San Francisco over a tropical island, but who’s to say how Jess’s brain works. Whatever the reason, when I needed them, they were a short plane ride away. Even though I hadn’t been there for them when I was only a couple miles away.

     


    Prev Next
Online Read Free Novel Copyright 2016 - 2025