Poison & Wonder // 5
CHAPTER FIVE
If one of them opens their eyes, it’s over—except they won’t. The potion Sienna slipped into her companions’ cups at dinner slows their heartbeats, keeping them asleep. She won’t miss her crate-like chamber. In the absence of beds, the healers step over one another’s hay mattresses every time they need the chamberpot. The women have learned to adapt to each others’ needs, though most of them are never met.
Built-in shelves keep their meager belongings, and a wooden chest stores their clothing. Sienna’s possessions fill no more than a satchel, and only one of her items carries value. Pressed flush between the crinkly leather bottom and a layer of wool, the letter threatens to crumble, so old is the paper and so many times she’s held it to candlelight, rereading the lines in search of new meaning. It always reads like an execution order.
She slides the satchel from under her sheets and slings it over one shoulder.
Cobwebs snag Sienna’s face, and she shakes them off her hair, disgusted by the thought of finding their maker. Pressed against the wall, she peeks at the yawning guard outside the healers’ rooms. She holds her breath as he reaches the end of the corridor. There’s no other way out, and she can’t take on a grown man alone. Jumping out of a window is doable, but healing her broken bones would slow her down, and she can’t risk passing out. If they catch her, they’ll never let her go. And if they find out her reasons for leaving, they won’t be kind enough to send her off with a buyer.
Sienna sneaks behind the guard, tiptoeing to the stairwell. To the other side of her, another wing houses the element-wielders, and she prays to Curion, goddess of healing, that none has the brilliant idea of wanting to grow plants or start a fire at this moment. With a full moon swallowing the skies, they’d be unwise to step a foot outside the Sanctum. Gods know the Moonblessed would step over a sorcerer and complain about the filth under their soles, no matter the phase of the moon.
Sweat trickles down her neck as she takes two steps at a time. With a guard at the front door, she slithers through the window, into the garden.
Hazy air curls over the brush sprouting between the cracks in the stony ground. The smokiness covers greenery, the benches, the fountain where a decapitated aurelius statue is planted. Another marble aurelius stares her down with runny, mossy eyes. If she was an aurelius herself, she wouldn’t bother delivering the gods’ messages. She’d let her wings get her closer to the sun and die a brazen death.
A branch stabs her skirts, and if it’s Morjan’s message to turn back, Sienna dismisses it. If the old god wishes to meddle with her life, he’ll have to hit her with the wrong end of his halberd.
Finally, her gaze pierces through the fog, locating the iron gates. A grin spreads across her face. Is this what freedom tastes like? Mildew and wood and—
“Sienna?” Ms. Rosie’s strong hand clasps the crook of her arm.
Breath caught in her throat, Sienna can’t turn to face Rosie. It’s over. Now, she’ll be trapped like an animal until the auction. No more chances before her buyers drag her to a place she didn’t choose, to a life she’d rather avoid. To serve.
Her shoulders hunch, neck stiffening. Old Rosie wouldn’t catch Sienna if she landed a punch and hit the road. But Rosie could scream for the guards. Sienna should jump in front of a carriage. Though, at this hour, there won’t be any carriages traversing by.
The aurelium’s pious eyes seem to turn in her direction. A white feather rests upon her shoulder. The skies grow lighter. Once the Maiden finishes her journey, dragging the sun behind her, the morning will be fully-fledged, and Sienna a rat in a trap.
“Please.” Sienna doesn’t know what she begs for.
Rosie yanks her back. “You’re so ungrateful.”
Sienna dugs her heels. “I don’t want to be a healer! I don’t want to waste away so that a noble can live beyond his gods-given years. Our life is not our own, Rosie.” Sobs rack through her body. “Do you find me a heartless creature? I don’t wish to serve.”
Rosie’s grip slacks. “You don’t owe your life to anybody just because of the circumstances of your birth. But this is your chance, Sienna. Be selfish. Keep your charge alive and leave the Sanctum far behind you.”
She’s switching cages. The new one might be made of gold, but it’s a cage, nonetheless.
Dragged inside, the familiar damaged wallpaper welcomes her back. The door closes, mangling her hope.
Sienna stays in her room until Hynes comes to get her. He kicks her ankle, forcing her to jolt out of her sheets.
Mr. Hynes doesn’t give her time to mull over her fate. The smug smile is back on. “I expected to find you in better spirits. Come on. The buyers can’t wait.”
They can, but they won’t be made to. Mr. Hynes stays in the corridor, but Sienna can almost hear him whistle. She doesn’t bother to braid her hair or choose her better dress. All her clothes are patched up, either way.
“Must I be escorted?”
He stares at her as if he can read her dirty, dirty soul.
“Sienna,” Rosie’s loud voice rings in the corridor. “Don’t dawdle.”
Behind her, two other workers carry a sorceress into her chambers, a veil drawn over her face. Another sorceress spent so that a noble may prance about town while she rests in peace.
If she had a sword like Clara’s, Sienna would plaster the moldy walls of the Sanctum with Rosie’s brains. No, not Rosie’s. It wasn’t her that condemned both to a life of servitude.
Rosie beckons Sienna closer. “Smile. Be polite.” Her hands smooth down the front of Sienna’s worn dress.
Trying to suppress a shudder, Sienna stretches her lips. “Like this?”
“Yes.” Rosie’s eyes water. “This isn’t going to be like it is for the others. You’re stronger.”
Rosie has no idea how much. “I know.”
Her smile is a crooked, rusty wince in a sea of aging lines. She means well, and Sienna must not yet be unfeeling because she throws herself into Rosie’s arms.
What horrors lie outside?
As if she hasn’t seen worse at the Sanctum.
“Thank you, Rosie,” she murmurs against her worn uniform. If she could, she’d send Rosie new clothes from her new home.
“You have options. You don’t have to go with a Moonblessed. Go with the magicless woman, live in a manor, and see the sun.” Her voice trembles.
Sienna’s lips part to let out a gasp, but Rosie’s uniform chokes it. Sienna can’t swallow past the lump in her throat to talk. She nods. Choose the woman and spend the rest of your days strolling through a field of poppies. Until the woman dies, that is. Sienna is a healer, not a miracle worker. Then, she’ll be auctioned again—and they don’t provide choices when it’s a healer’s second time. One always gets an option on their first. As a treat. If only all her firsts had been like that.
Just as the guards open the doors to the waiting room, they let go of each other.
Mildew clogs the room’s air, and broken cabinets hang over the snuffed-out hearth, full of useless trinkets and chipped porcelain. The furniture is mismatched, donations from patrons. Sienna wonders how many pieces were fetched in exchange for healers, and how much she herself is worth.
Just three potential buyers. Sienna always made sure not to stand out.
A woman sits with her hands clutched in her lap, a pendant of Curion around her neck. Mr. Hynes’s eyes drift toward her. There’s a couple, too.
Ignoring the others, Sienna makes eye contact with a lone man. He must be a Moonblessed, the kind that burns quickly through his healers. If Sienna went with him, she’d have a chance at a quick death, never to be sold again.
“Her mother is in her late years. Ms. O’Brien lives in farmland, west of Strelon,” Hynes whispers, organizing the papers behind his crooked desk, one leg broken beyond repair. “The couple are here for their son. Poor creature hasn’t stepped out of their house since he was born. Sick, sick child.”
Sienna isn’t sure why he’s informing her of this. To her, a buyer is a buyer. Still, she gets a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. The woman in a richly tailored gown, if only a stitch too rigid. The man standing behind her chair, unmanageable blonde hair framing a pair of large brown eyes.
“The lone man has come from Maranish.” Here, Mr. Hynes’s tone shifts lower. “He’s the Ruler’s lame son, Steafán Keller.”
Lame, as if he were a horse. Sienna has heard about Brigid’s youngest son, who cannot sire an heir. When the eldest died, Steafán was taken out of the line of succession, in favor of his two nephews.
“Don’t they have healing sorcerers in Maranish?” Sienna whispers back, cocking her head to the side.
Mr. Hynes’s benevolence sours. “Don’t be insolent. He’s still a ruler’s son. He’ll do as he pleases.”
Steafán looks as if he’s attending the most boring of banquets, forced here by custom. Black eyes peer at the other buyers with disdain, lingering on the stain of grass lining the hem of Ms. O’Brien’s skirt. He must be in his late twenties, though the thick mustache ages him. When he finally deems Sienna worthy of his stare, it’s a disinterested thing, so fleeting she doubts he’d be able to remember the color of her hair if asked about it.
“Let us start,” Mr. Hynes announces, stretching his lips wide like a starved dog sniffing out open flesh.
Posing in the middle of the chamber, Sienna steps onto the threadbare carpet, green as weeds and peppered with blotches. Sienna is a statue carved to be admired. To hear their Ohs and Ahs, as Hynes lists off her achievements—he turns her into a prized pony.
A scoff twists Steafán’s mustache.
Sienna’s ears clog as if she’s underwater. She’s aware of her surroundings, yet her gaze refuses to land on anything or anyone in particular. Muffled voices join in a chorus. Is she even inside her body anymore? Her soul seems to have detached from it, wandering through the auction room like an ill-buried dead, prevented from following either to the Other Side, where noble souls dwell, or to its dark counterpart, the Underworld.
As her attention roams about, she catches black eyes. Steafán studies the skin drawings on her collarbones, two daggers pointing to the hollow of her throat, where the artist scribbled cut here. She got her first skin-drawing—a shipwreck on her back—years ago, while out with Faye. A neat trick of sorcery and artistry alike. Nothing can replicate the pain of the ink being etched into her pores.
His lips curve to the side, not quite a grin, but the most amused he has appeared since she entered the room. Before she can pull her gaze away, he pins it in place.
“Do you like pain?” he asks, and she wouldn’t have caught it, if she wasn’t already focused on him.
Yes.
She says nothing aloud, merely blinking at Steafán.
She can read his expression effortlessly—none of the others can give it to you.
The auction must have kept going while she was trapped between the Sanctum’s peeling wallpaper and Steafán Keller’s cutting stare. Mr. Hynes gives a little shove to the small of her back, pushing her forward.
“I’ll take you to Maranish,” Steafán says, this time louder. “You’ll be tending to the Ruler’s son.”
Sienna, living in a ruler’s house. Seems like Lupa enjoys a good joke.
She nods, unsure if he sees it before turning his back.
“Ms. O’Brien,” calls Hynes.
The older woman approaches, opening the palms of her hands. It takes Sienna a minute to understand her silent request. Sienna’s palms rest uneasy over the stranger’s.
“My mother is sick. I want her to be comfortable before she…” Her lips twist into a misplaced smile. “Before she rests. We live in a lovely manor, but we have lots of help, and you won’t be required to do any homesteading. There are no close neighbors, no one to disturb our peace.”
She says peace, but Sienna hears freedom.
Body swaying, fingers twitching in her grasp, Sienna doubts. Knowing happiness would hurt all the worse when she returned to the Sanctum. Ms. O’Brien’s mother won’t last long—Sienna can read it on Ms. O’Brien’s shoulders, squared to hide the fear that eats away.
“And we’re close to Strelon, so you can come to town and visit your peers from time to time. We won’t ask too much of you. Just some comfort for my mother, dear.” Ms. O’Brien squeezes Sienna’s hands one last time and heads back to her chair.
“Lord and Lady Morrison,” says Hynes.
Lady Morrison’s smile is broad and beautiful, but not even her lovely brown eyes hide the signs of early aging. Her husband looks equally tired, but the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes are charming like the promise of an easy grin.
“My name is Moira, and this is my husband, Diarmuid.” Her voice is polite and clear like bells chiming. “Our son is very sick. And he hasn’t yet lived, so this isn’t about comfort for his last years.”
Sienna’s brows knit together, as she glances at Ms. O’Brien and her docile manners. “What is it about, then?” her voice sounds harsher than she intends.
“We want him to be alive for as long as possible, but we also want him to be happy. He has been in his sickbed for all his short life. Maybe you could even be friends. He’s never had one of those…” She sighs. “We tried to have a baby for a while, and I cannot… I cannot have any more children. When I was pregnant, I had an accident.” She swallows, her stare glazed over. “I drank the wrong potion, and it left me barren.”
Her husband places a hand on her shoulder, and she continues, “It tainted his blood, made it poisonous. My baby is in constant pain, and it’s my own fault.” She hangs her head down. “I want him to be happy for as long as he’s here.”
Could Sienna twirl around and pick poppies, so far from the rulers and their gallows? Or would she prefer familiarity for as bleak as it is? Flowers or pain.
Then she pictures a little boy stuck to his bed, longing for freedom, and she can’t help but empathize.
“Sienna,” Mr. Hynes calls.
The buyers must wait outside, while Mr. Hynes hands her the contracts she was supposed to have studied last night. Words on parchment, easily torn.
On his way out, Steafán stops near the desk and nods as if to say, choose wisely, they won’t give you what I will.
What if she grows attached to the old woman? What if she must watch a child die? Nonsense. Unless her plan fails, Sienna won’t have the time to do so. She should have left tonight with the money she managed to scrap from her healing favors across town, and the offers of Faye’s devotees. Sienna wants nothing out of life, other than a place to rest her head, far from healers, and wolves, and their laws. To exist in quietude.
“Who are you going with?”
Unspoken words coax her. Mr. Hynes wants her to choose the Ruler’s son, a favor to Invernia, to keep good relations with the closest territory.
It snaps Sienna back into herself. She dashes out, ignoring Mr. Hynes’s pathetic cry. She must speak to Rosie; ask someone else to make the decision for her. But Rosie is already departing, her short legs moving impossibly fast as she disappears into one of the nearest chambers.
Imagine being put to bed by the sound of clashing swords. What a nuisance. And every flower, for as beautiful it is, must wither. That leaves one path to take.
“Sienna! Come right back!”
She stops short.
As her eyes meet the Morrisons’, guilt twists in her gut—she’ll be out of their house as soon as she finds an opening.
In the end, she’s the cruelest she could be. She gives them hope.
Harden yourself.
They might be loving parents, but they’re Moonblessed nonetheless. And wolves are born with a charred, hungry thing in place of a heart.