did not know a dozen tales centred on the unfortunate, unsightly hag who snatches bad children from hearth and home at the height of Alldark Week’s foulness? Grimalde, some call her, or Nethella, the Great Hag of the underworld called Nethe. An icon of Umarik prejudice, Janos had called her during one of his interminable philosophical asides.
Then, I laughed. But my recent experience was a lamp new and bright. The housemaster’s attitude rankled. ‘Ugly as a porker’ was no civil appellation, no way to describe any woman who walked Mata’s good earth. I should have attended more closely to Janos. Better still, I should grant this woman the chance she had been refused elsewhere.
Had I not received a second chance at life?
“I’ll do it,” I declared.
“Good!” The housemaster clapped my shoulder heartily.
* * * *
“Thank you.”
At Torri’s low whisper in the boudoir’s darkness, I wondered how to respond. Should I attempt a kindly speech? Blurt forth the truth, that to me she represented no more than a chance at advancement in my bond-house? Twenty ukals for intimate speech, a massage, and nought else! I scarce believed it myself. But then … during our tryst I had touched the puckered scars on the back of her neck, and upon her right arm and flank. Burns, I imagined. Disfiguring burns splashed across her flesh. Why then choose massage? Knowing my hands must touch that which others most hated and she herself hated too?
I stared upwards into the gloom, unseeing.
Not only was the boudoir heavily screened to exclude any hint of light, but Torri wore a stagesmith’s mask that covered her whole face save eyes and mouth. Her rumiaflower perfume, mingled with the heady scent of Sulian incense slowly charring and curling on a coal brazier, made me feel warm and lethargic.
She tried again, “Thank you for being … willing.”
“ Nonsense,” I grated, and had to clear my throat. “I’m grateful, Honoria, for your generosity, and confess I–”
“Did my mother pay you that well?”
“Larathi to that!” I snorted, before I could stop myself.
I cringed. Profanity was not in the script! Torri could have me lashed, or worse … I lay stiff as a length of timber in the darkness, my heart leaping about in my throat like a frisky jatha overfed upon Springtide-ripe herikbane. She quivered from head to toe. Any moment, I imagined, she would leap off the bed in a screaming rage and I’d lose all I had schemed so patiently to gain … but what was this? A sound–a sob? Was she weep … no! Laughter! Praise Mata, she was giggling merrily at my embarrassment.
Sheer relief set me chuckling too. In a moment we had each other rolling. Torri’s anger melted, washed away in a cleansing stream. When last had she laughed? And I? I could not even remember. My diaphragm heaved, my lungs labouring as if to release a gale, yet the sound of my own mirth distressed me.
The loneliness, since Janos died, had been crushing.
I felt absurdly grateful toward her.
Then I wept.
Torri stroked my brow for the longest time. At last I found peace enough to master my emotions. Shame dried my tears.
She said lightly, “Was it that bad, Arlak?”
“Nought of your doing, honoured one,” I returned, roughly. ‘Less harsh of tone, Arlak,’ I told myself. And aloud, “I’m sorry. You could not imagine what I’ve been through. You should go.”
“I purchased a whole night’s company.”
I raised my hand to stroke her hair. “Did you?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Just –it reminds me.” She sighed, and I felt her shift away on the fine sallinen sheets. “You have been so nice … I would not have that change.”
I fished for a suitable rejoinder, but found only silence.
She added bitterly, “You wouldn’t understand the world of a scarred woman, Arlak–you’re too beautiful to ever understand.”
Has beauty its own curse , the converse to the curse of ugliness, I wondered? Where did pride in
Then, I laughed. But my recent experience was a lamp new and bright. The housemaster’s attitude rankled. ‘Ugly as a porker’ was no civil appellation, no way to describe any woman who walked Mata’s good earth. I should have attended more closely to Janos. Better still, I should grant this woman the chance she had been refused elsewhere.
Had I not received a second chance at life?
“I’ll do it,” I declared.
“Good!” The housemaster clapped my shoulder heartily.
* * * *
“Thank you.”
At Torri’s low whisper in the boudoir’s darkness, I wondered how to respond. Should I attempt a kindly speech? Blurt forth the truth, that to me she represented no more than a chance at advancement in my bond-house? Twenty ukals for intimate speech, a massage, and nought else! I scarce believed it myself. But then … during our tryst I had touched the puckered scars on the back of her neck, and upon her right arm and flank. Burns, I imagined. Disfiguring burns splashed across her flesh. Why then choose massage? Knowing my hands must touch that which others most hated and she herself hated too?
I stared upwards into the gloom, unseeing.
Not only was the boudoir heavily screened to exclude any hint of light, but Torri wore a stagesmith’s mask that covered her whole face save eyes and mouth. Her rumiaflower perfume, mingled with the heady scent of Sulian incense slowly charring and curling on a coal brazier, made me feel warm and lethargic.
She tried again, “Thank you for being … willing.”
“ Nonsense,” I grated, and had to clear my throat. “I’m grateful, Honoria, for your generosity, and confess I–”
“Did my mother pay you that well?”
“Larathi to that!” I snorted, before I could stop myself.
I cringed. Profanity was not in the script! Torri could have me lashed, or worse … I lay stiff as a length of timber in the darkness, my heart leaping about in my throat like a frisky jatha overfed upon Springtide-ripe herikbane. She quivered from head to toe. Any moment, I imagined, she would leap off the bed in a screaming rage and I’d lose all I had schemed so patiently to gain … but what was this? A sound–a sob? Was she weep … no! Laughter! Praise Mata, she was giggling merrily at my embarrassment.
Sheer relief set me chuckling too. In a moment we had each other rolling. Torri’s anger melted, washed away in a cleansing stream. When last had she laughed? And I? I could not even remember. My diaphragm heaved, my lungs labouring as if to release a gale, yet the sound of my own mirth distressed me.
The loneliness, since Janos died, had been crushing.
I felt absurdly grateful toward her.
Then I wept.
Torri stroked my brow for the longest time. At last I found peace enough to master my emotions. Shame dried my tears.
She said lightly, “Was it that bad, Arlak?”
“Nought of your doing, honoured one,” I returned, roughly. ‘Less harsh of tone, Arlak,’ I told myself. And aloud, “I’m sorry. You could not imagine what I’ve been through. You should go.”
“I purchased a whole night’s company.”
I raised my hand to stroke her hair. “Did you?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Just –it reminds me.” She sighed, and I felt her shift away on the fine sallinen sheets. “You have been so nice … I would not have that change.”
I fished for a suitable rejoinder, but found only silence.
She added bitterly, “You wouldn’t understand the world of a scarred woman, Arlak–you’re too beautiful to ever understand.”
Has beauty its own curse , the converse to the curse of ugliness, I wondered? Where did pride in
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