He wanted me to see how bad it could get without him. He wanted me to see Mother at her lowest.
If Elloven had to sell Nightwood to get her mother away from him, it wouldn’t give her a moment’s pause. The place held little sentimental value. She’d suffered at home just as she had away. Even that word, home, didn’t mean for her what it did for others.
She retreated to the kitchen and watched the sun settle behind the hills. Jesstin was probably in Mythgarde, enjoying all sorts of strange delights. It had been years since Elloven had let go and enjoyed anything. Vices weren’t particularly appealing, but going to a place where the one rule was you could be whomever you wanted to be, and no one could say a word without repercussion?
Hmm.
Elloven filtered through her old trunks, wondering what a person even wore to such a place. All her gowns were still in Whitechurch, probably covering straw replicas of her burning in effigy. The simple clothes she’d worn in her girlhood, mostly practical trousers and plain skirts, were all that remained of her wardrobe. She picked out a plain, moss-colored dress that was only slightly too small, though not nearly warm enough for such a chilly night, but when she tried it on, she felt different. Youthful and carefree, in a way she hadn’t remembered until that moment.
Best of all, it covered every bruise except the one on her left collarbone.
If Taven were there, he’d throw a shawl over her and fuss about decency. Her mother would chastise the ill fit and tell her to call the tailor, as if they weren’t one missed tax collection from repossession. Fabrien would have beaten her and called her a whore.
But none of them were there to do any of those things.
As Elloven turned in the mirror, their judgments echoing only in the background, she decided she looked perfectly fine.
Before she left, she paused to consider leaving a note, but her mother wasn’t likely to wake until morning, and she didn’t want Taven to know where she was.
Taven had taken the carriage, but she’d never been good at driving and preferred the freedom of riding anyway. It was something she hadn’t been allowed to do in seven years. Although Mythgarde was more than an hour away, and she wasn’t confident she knew the way, Elloven threw on the heaviest cloak she could find, then dressed and saddled Gennady’s old mare, Pinky.
The horse snuffled and nuzzled her in an almost desperate call for affection. Elloven wondered when she’d last been ridden properly. She decided then and there that Pink would be hers henceforth. Her own, Midnight, had been sold the day after she’d arrived in Whitechurch, something she tried not to think about anymore. Sorting her losses was a pointless way to further weaken herself.
Riding to Mythgarde while still being hunted wasn’t the most prudent decision, but as Jesstin had said, they wouldn’t care about what she’d done. Her sanctuary in Riverchapel extended almost to Mythgarde’s border, and no one would look for her anywhere near a place like that. It was a risk, yes, but one she was willing to take.
Jesstin was the first person she’d met in a long while who had neither asked anything of her nor expected her to conform to an idea. He was also the only living person who had made her feel close to her brother since his death, and maybe, just maybe he was searching for that same comfort. Gennady had been the only pure thing in her life, and her greatest regret was not being there when he’d needed her.
“If we get lost, then we’ll be lost together, and that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” she whispered in Pinky’s ear and spurred them into motion.
Men and women were packed shoulder-to-shoulder at the Azure when Jesstin arrived. Music competed from the different rooms, rising just above the raucous din of laughter and conversation. He enjoyed these nights best because no one was looking for him, looking at him. There was no need to sit upon his perch for all to watch him pretend to get off to the skills of a beautiful woman anyone else there would be thrilled to entertain.
There was a hierarchy to the immorality of Mythgarde, and the regulars knew it well. First time visitors might tentatively dip into the Crimson Rogue, the first tavern they saw when passing under the village gates. It seemed a pub like any other on the outside. The experience within was a watered-down taste of what else they could find, should they gather the courage to continue down Peddler’s Row.
The Azure was on the far end, only for the most seasoned adventurers. Rarely did it see the tentative faces of newcomers among its patrons. By the time revelers made their way that far down the line, they were fully invested in the darkness of their consciences.
If Elloven were to show up, she would be nowhere near the Azure.
Just across from the Crimson Rogue was an establishment that, on the outside, seemed not to belong. The Ivory Rogue, sister tavern to the Crimson, looked more like an outpost of the Resplendent Reliquary of the Guardians than a house of ill repute, but it was known for one of the most fascinating displays of the entire village: the Ivory Virtues of Temptation, a dozen young maidens dressed in the simplest white gowns, their skin dusted with the palest powders and their hair covered in pearl blossoms. Virgins, all of them, chosen from families who needed the money and had no compunction in selling their daughters off to be ogled by drunken men and women, eventually sold to one of them for an astronomical price.
Some taverns had laws of their own, which the village respected and upheld, and the one law of the Ivory Rogue was to never, ever lay hands on a Virtue, unless her life was in immediate peril. The punishment for violating this wasn’t a fine or a prison sentence. It was death. He’d watched a dozen men hang for it over the few years he’d been the Azure’s patron, and despite that, men still couldn’t help themselves.
Jesstin rarely visited that end of the row. He hadn’t had a reason to. But if there was even a chance Elloven might show up, he intended to be there.
He stood in the center of the cobblestone road, trying to decide between the Crimson and the Ivory, and randomly chose the Ivory.
The two Rogues were as quiet as an average village tavern. He was straightaway uncomfortable at how exposed he felt amid such a thin, subdued gathering. Most were enjoying rounds of ale with friends, sharing nervous glances about what the rest of the night would hold, probably weighing how much truth there was to the vague whispers. All of them thought they were brave and bold for coming to such a place. It was easy to pick out who would last, who would not.
Jesstin ordered a house ale from the barkeep and settled into a corner table near a clouded window, where he had a view of the entrance.
“Is this seat taken?” a woman asked.
He looked up and found a familiar expression. Lidded, sultry. She was pretty, her hair dark and long and wavy. She would have no trouble finding someone to take to her bed. “Sorry.”
Her disappointment was colored with the shame of rejection. He wanted to say, It’s not you, but that only ever made it worse. If she started crying, she’d cause a scene, which was the last thing he wanted. “Oh. My apologies.”
“None required,” he said and returned to his untouched drink. Maybe it was a bad idea, venturing out of his own territory. Even if Elloven showed up, what was the likelihood she would want to see him at all? Or that she’d come that night?
“Especially if she knew about you and me, aye?”
