She stood, hugging herself against the shivering that vibrated through her. She felt a sheen of sweat on her forehead. How long since he had given her the poppy juice? How long did it take for the body to miss?
But Aunt and Uncle never gave me anything like that! Never! I mean, surely they could not hide it in the meagre rations I was given. This is nothing but a devious trap!
Aaron slumped back, closing his eyes.
“My head is spinning. I do not have the energy to argue the point. I believe that withdrawal can produce reactions in the mind as well as the body, but…” he waved his hand as though dismissing her.
“…Who are the two boys in the painting you destroyed?” Catherine asked after a breath.
Aaron opened his eyes, and she was surprised to see tears. He closed his lids, brows furrowing, and when he opened them again, the tears had disappeared. His face hardened once more, softened only a touch by the drink—but still stony.
“A ghost, no more,” he muttered with a cursory wave of the hand.
“You have not talked of your past after me, much.”
“Because I despised every moment!” Aaron snarled, eyes going wide, “my father wanted a Duke who would prove himself worthy. I was forced to fight for everything, and it still wasn’t enough!”
Catherine’s heart broke for him.
“You seemed so happy,” she whispered, “I had no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won,” he sighed, “I won in the end.”
“Who is the second boy in the picture? He looks so like you.”
Her only answer was the soft sound of snoring. The brandy had overwhelmed him.
CHAPTER 11
Catherine sat beside Aaron for a long time. She watched him slumber beneath his blanket of brandy, weighed down by the waking world. His clothing was dishevelled, the laces of his shirt loosely tied. She bit her lip as she pondered the birthmark.
Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe the birthmark is precisely where it should be. I have not always been able to rely on my own senses.
She thought of the times when she had been told by her Aunt and Uncle of conversations that she had no memory of. Or which she remembered, but differently to how they described. Always to their advantage. Always put down to the illness, the same illness that had claimed her parents. She moved closer to Aaron, studying his face.
So different and yet, so the same. The boy transformed into the man. There is cruelty there. Coldness. Brutish strength.
She tried to remember the boy who had been her companion and childhood friend, and saw the picture, distorted now by broken glass. Her gaze flicked from one to the other until her eyes grew unfocused and her head swam.
Leaning back against the wall beside him, she shuttered her eyelids for a brief moment. The illness was returning, the feeling of infirmity. The aches in every limb. Aaron couldn’t possibly know. But would he really have administered poppy juice to her? Was that just a ruse to quell any rebelliousness? Keep her docile?
“Catherine,” came a croaky whisper.
His voice tugged at her heart. There was such plaintive emotion in it. His stony exterior had been stripped away by the drink, revealing the frightened boy that lived within the armor.
“I’m here,” she winced at the sudden pain in her stomach.
Aaron’s eyes fluttered open and met hers. They were inches apart.
“Your eyes are golden. You are a goddess, for certain,” he whispered.
His own eyes had the soft darkness of peaty loam. They were portals to a gentle soul hidden by his outward appearance.
“You are in pain,” he murmured, brows creasing.
“I am always in pain. It is the nature of my burden,” she sighed, “it will pass, and one day, it will trouble me no more.”
She spoke fatalistically, but not wanting to be melodramatic.
