Hearts Return - Dark Heart 2

I scarcely hear the others around me in the kitchen. Twittering, laughing, inconsequential girls. Worried about dresses and boys and their petty little world. Fools. Lace frills are no armor, and that little world smashes easy as an egg.

My eye is still watering from Sallastin's slap, and these foul onions aren’t helping. I blinks hard. He was furious when I told him Imma’s boy was here, a cog in his plans gone awry. I still feel his hand across my cheek, red stain, red badge. I knew he’d strike me, knew he’d lash out at the messenger in that moment of frustration. Had to keep myself from moving with the blow too much. Can’t let him know how well I read him.

He meant to jailbreak the boy after the wedding, right before the trial, then frame him for her murder. Or so he said. What of that plan now? And what of this whole complicated abduction just to get some stupid plot of land?

Maybe it’s all deceit. Maybe he just wants Immalaine. But why her? Pathetic, simpering, miss goody-goody perfect. Sickening. Like choking on molasses or honey. Why would he want that? No, there must be more to it. Must be.

One of the other girls slows as she passes the table where I’m chopping, her gaze brushing over my face with a look of smug sympathy. Shows what little she knows. I smirk back. Sallastin hinted I should seek out his bed tonight – his apology, after a fashion. I’ll have more marks in the morning.

The knife trembles slightly at the thought, shiver of anticipation, and nicks my finger. Red blood on the white flesh of the onion. White like that damn bridal dress. I pause in my slicing, distracted by a fantasy of Immalaine’s blood spilling onto her dress, until I feel a cuff to the back of my head.

“Keep at it, lazy girl,” cook scolds. “Only days til the wedding.” She moves on, trailing reprimands, like steam from a kettle. Stupid cow. I’ll make her suffer – make them all suffer – when I’m the lady here.

Me. Not Immalaine.

Immalaine’s probably down in the laundry now, kept out of the way of these extra servants. Wouldn’t do for them to see the master’s bride in chains, would it? Not that anyone would do anything. No one crosses Sallastin. No one would dare.

I need that power too. That safety.

I push the chopped onion to one side, and slip one hand into my pocket before reaching for the next. Smooth silver of the brooch. I wonder what I should do with it.

My eyes drop back to the cutting board; my hands return to their work. For now: patience, quiet. Head down. Play along. Be Imma’s friend; Sallastin’s aide. Let him see how useful I am, how valuable. More than just a body in his bed.

When she’s gone, I’ll still be here. A worthy partner.

And maybe – just maybe – if his plans are fraying, I can find a way to turn things to my own ends.