Using the Sorcerer's Magic Against Him
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Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
The Wrath of the Courtesan
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Image by Анастасия Гепп from Pixabay
The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.
They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.
Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels. Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world.
Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist? To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.
The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.
I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.
Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, hardly worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, this man who set all the women against Ella Bandita.
He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience. In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.
His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.
Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.
He hadn’t been married a year before the Charmer pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating. He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession.
She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful.
Dark and fiery with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary.
Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city. She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective.
The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.
But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera.
The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince. They sat across from the Charmer and his wife.
Adrianna even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
He smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint.
Then the Charmer made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.
He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat. The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.
Then his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted. He forgot about Ella Bandita once the performance was under, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
The Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell.
He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, a life of elegance and leisure. The Charmer was enjoying himself, his privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Who knows why we do the things we do?
Perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent.
Maybe he sensed the boredom that would come.
All we know is when the Charmer caught sight of Ella Bandita during intermission, she had no trouble enticing him with a new game.
She met his gaze and grinned. Then she wove her way through groups of ladies and gentlemen, provoking the Charmer with brief glances behind her, eyes glittering when she smiled at him.
And he followed her, this man who had everything.
The Charmer returned to the balcony with his wife and finished the opera with her. Yet he left their bed and house late that night.
The next morning, he was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering the same words as those who fell before him.
“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”
A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came. Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.
She had never suffered this indignity before. She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure.
Her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came to call with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
The Redemption Found in a Gilded Cage
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The Rogue returned to society a new man.
People were stunned watching him court the Marquis’ daughter since it was rumored he seduced the girl shortly after her debut. Once the surprise wore off, his former mistresses snickered with malicious glee.
Even his friends couldn’t suppress their mirth. Respectability denatured the Rogue, the spectacle of him as a suitor both pathetic and irresistible.
But he bore the ridicule with grace and ignored his detractors with ease. Feeling foolish in the face of indifference, the same ladies and gentlemen awaited official word of their engagement. All had to admit the Rogue had done very well for himself.
He visited the Marquis and the Debutante every day, arriving in time for dinner and leaving before his host showed signs of fatigue. His manner couldn’t have been more pleasant, but the Rogue never requested an audience with his sweetheart’s father.
With each visit, he intended to ask the Marquis for his blessing.
His near fiancée was a love, eager to please, and with a sensual nature. And her naivety was astonishing. He knew that if she were to be his wife, he could have as many mistresses as he desired and she wouldn’t be the wiser. But he just couldn’t bring himself to propose.
However, the Rogue was still a rogue.
Their courtship continued, and as formal as his manners were to the Marquis and the Debutante when he left, he always came back when all the lights were out save one and climbed the trellis to an open window.
There he would stay until the dark hours of morning. He always hoped to see the vagabond girl when he left and was always disappointed. The memory of his nemesis was with him always.
Finally, the night came when the Rogue was caught.
Complacency had dulled his instincts and his timing.
Winter was giving way to spring and he had become careless, leaving tracks in the mud to the trellis beneath the Debutante’s window.
He didn’t notice, nor did he hear the Marquis enter his daughter’s rooms. He became aware only when the Debutante froze, her face going white as she pushed him off.
The Rogue turned to the blank face of the Marquis staring at him in bed with his daughter.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked.
The old man’s voice was feeble, looking from the Rogue to his daughter and back to him.
The Rogue hesitated, struggling to find a believable lie.
“Since the very beginning,” he said.
“Then you will marry her, of course.”
The Marquis’ mouth quivered and he spoke without looking at them. The Debutante’s weeping echoed through the cavernous chamber.
“At least my father will be happy,” the Rogue thought and almost laughed aloud.
He saw a future that would crush him.
His marriage would be a lifetime sentence of noble comfort with a woman he had little affection for. He saw the mistresses he would take, wives as bored with their husbands as he would be with his wife.
On occasion, he would seduce a virgin debutante during the years he was young enough, but only the really foolish ones and never the beauties.
If he was blessed, he may meet another woman like the Duchess who had spirit and imagination. But he knew that was unlikely, for he would never be as desirable as he was when he had his freedom. As time passed, his mistresses would grow older and less alluring until he succumbed and went to the courtesans.
Of course, he would only have the best and most beautiful of the profession. He would be able to afford them.
The Rogue saw the life that would be his and shuddered.
His instincts came back and he rolled off the bed. He gathered his clothes before he knew what he was doing and leaped out the window.
The silence behind him was eerie for this was the worst thing he had ever done. He knew he was destroying the Marquis and his daughter as he climbed down the trellis.
He knew this would ruin him as much when his feet touched the ground. One gentleman never humiliated another and got away with it.
But that thought didn’t stop the Rogue from fleeing across the yard to the trees throwing his clothes on as he went.
But even the Rogue couldn’t escape his shame for the disgrace he would bring on his father. He’d been proud of him for winning the heart of a Marquis’ daughter. There was pain in his heart, but the Rogue kept running, panicked that he couldn’t find his horse.
He heard galloping behind him and stopped.
He knew it must be the Marquis coming to challenge him. A duel was the only way for a gentleman to restore his pride after a dishonor like this.
The Rogue was relieved.
He was younger and faster than the Marquis, and would be preserved through victory.
He heard the rhythm of more than one horse, wondering if the Marquis sent a posse after him. But he couldn’t run anymore and waited.
The vagabond girl came out of the trees to the right of him.
Then he saw his horse and understood why he heard more than one gait.
He couldn’t see her face backlit by the full moon, her hair shining in its glow. She let go of the reins to his steed, then extended her hand and released one foot from her stirrup.
“You can take your horse, Rogue,” she said, “or you can come with me.”
Spoiling the Rogue's Afterglow
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He was the most unscrupulous Rogue in the Capital City.
She tormented him for months, toying with him the way a cat does a mouse.
Of course it was the only way the Thief of Hearts could seduce such a man. Ella Bandita flaunted her hypocrisy for the Rogue, throwing in his face the contempt she had for him.
The brutal manner in which she treated him was nothing more than the disdain he felt for his mistresses, the only difference between them being that her cruelty was more honest than his.
As a roué, he was gifted and liked to seduce in extremes.
Virgin daughters and treacherous wives were the ones he set his sights on.
All his mistresses were noble through birth or marriage, preferably both.
All of them were sought out in society, lovely to look at, charming to converse with.
The Rogue enjoyed the sensuous life and reveled in the softness of woman.
But it was knowing he had taken the honor of a highborn lady that gave him the most pleasure, for all his conquests were women who should have been beyond his reach.
He was of common birth, the son of a man who had no more schooling than any of us in this room.
But his father had made a fortune through a genius that can’t be taught and the sweat of his labor.
In his own way, the Rogue worked as hard as his father to cultivate the carefree elegance that gained him acceptance in society.
Like most men of his nature, he was more charming than handsome. His stature was average, his hair was thinning and his features were ordinary.
Yet his eyes twinkled like those of naughty children who got away with their mischief. He was impudent and bold, a favorite with the ladies.
As his reputation became notorious, he was eagerly received in the highest social circles.
The night he met Ella Bandita, the Rogue had just brought a seduction to a satisfying consummation.
She was the daughter of a Marquis who had made her debut at the start of the season. The courtship was long by his standards, for the girl fancied herself virtuous.
As fresh as she was in society, the Debutante had already heard of his notorious reputation and rebuffed him when he approached.
But the Rogue watched and waited.
The young lady hadn’t gone many paces when she turned back to see if he followed her with his eyes.
In that moment, the Rogue knew the Debutante had read romantic novels with far more attention than her holy books.
In her eyes, he saw she believed herself the heroine of her own grand love story; the lady with a pure heart who inspired the devil to repent his wicked ways and yearn for a life of goodness.
Her piety was vanity, a mask to cover up her longing for excitement.
The Rogue looked away abashed, his head fallen a touch lower. If he could have forced himself to flush, he would have.
It was all he could do to suppress his smile. This would be too easy, for she was a very silly girl.
She was also the daughter of a Marquis, and her father was known to be a fool. But he had extensive property and a seat in government, and that made the Debutante an immediate favorite.
The Rogue still had to court her for several weeks before she succumbed.
It was well past night and just before dawn when he left the Debutante’s rooms at her father’s country estate.
He’d enjoyed his night of love with her.
She surrendered easily to the ways of the flesh.
He whispered tender goodbyes on his way down the trellis to the ground while the Debutante leaned out the window, blowing kisses and bidding him adieu.
He finished dressing as he ran across the lawn to the woods where his horse was hidden.
His heart pounded when he sat on the ground to don his boots.
This was the part of seduction he cherished most, the sweet shiver before he truly made his escape. It always hinged on this final moment.
So long as he was never caught, his dishonor would be suspected but never proven and the delicate balance needed for him to seduce again would be preserved.
So the sound of galloping was alarming.
The Rogue jumped up and fled for his horse which took off at a run when he leaped on its back.
His stallion was fast and he was certain he would get away without being seen.
But the Rogue couldn’t believe he heard the gait of another horse behind him and pushed his mount hard.
He wasn’t used to running this fast and had difficulty staying balanced in the saddle, yet his pursuer kept up.
Fear made his heart pound in his chest.
He couldn’t understand how he’d been discovered.
The vague oblivion of the Marquis was legendary.
Then he realized if an outraged father were on his heels, he would hear some proof, irate shouting or shots fired at his back.
Whoever chased him couldn’t be the Marquis.
He heard her before he saw her.
Her chuckle was masculine in its lustiness, a laugh between brothers, but the tone was feminine.
Then he heard the click of a tongue, and his vision blurred when she passed. She stopped a few lengths ahead of him.
The Rogue reined in his horse, stunned when he saw his pursuer was not only a woman, but also a vagabond.
She wore patchwork breeches and an oversized peasant shirt, hair in tangled disarray.
She was young, riding in a saddle just like his on the most magnificent stallion he had ever seen. Her horse stood a several hands higher than his, and the girl looked down on the Rogue from her mount.
She smiled, her eyes glittering, and inspected him from head to foot.
His light brown hair, usually pulled taut to accentuate the contours of his round head, had fallen from the tie at the nape of his neck. His naked chest peeked from the shirt and his jacket was opened to his waist. His feet bruised and bloodied from running through the trees without his boots.
She brought her gaze back to meet his eyes and curled her lip in a sneer. Slowly the girl shook her head and kicked the flanks of her horse.
Then she was gone.
Instead of going down the road leading from the country to town, she disappeared back into the woods bordering the lands of the Marquis.
The Rogue stared at the empty space his pursuer left behind, feeling like she’d just made a fool of him.
It ruined the afterglow he usually savored on his ride home.
Ella Bandita, Thief of Hearts
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They came for the Doctor the next day. He was sipping his morning tea when he saw two boys through the window.
They stopped their horses at his door and leapt from the saddles.
The Doctor was irritated at first.
Everybody knew he detested being called on without an appointment, and the hour was far too early.
Then he saw the expression on their faces and lost his appetite.
The boys rushed into the cottage without knocking, pleading with the Doctor to come with them.
He recognized them as stable hands in service to the Patron, and their white faces and hollowed eyes implied something terrible.
He didn’t ask questions, for inquiry might send them into hysteria. The Doctor was swift, grabbing his coat and bag, and telling his wife there was a crisis and to attend to the patients until his return.
The two boys climbed atop one horse, leaving him the other.
They weren’t timid about running their mount fast, but the Doctor stayed with them.
During his ride, he detected the scent of peaches lingering weeks after they were plucked from the avenue trees. Then the aroma became sickly at the garden of withered lilies.
Something was horribly wrong.
The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity.
Now everything was quiet.
A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables.
The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes.
The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied. “I think it’s best to just show you.”
They entered the house.
The stillness inside was eerie. Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.
The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor. This grief was fresh, raw. He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.
The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside.
The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath. He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied.
“One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.”
“Well she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the Lawman?”
“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”
“And where is…”
The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow.
The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair.
Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression.
His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag.
He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise.
The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing. He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer preyed on young women.
“Patron, what happened to you?”
“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged. “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is this Ella Bandita?”
The Patron looked confused at the name. Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.
“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper. His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek.
“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”
The Patron stood up.
The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw.
His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo.
The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross; only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.
The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.
The Last Time
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His original intention had been to mold her into the perfect concubine.b
But the Sorcerer was surprised at the pleasure he took in mentoring her. She had a most intense focus, intelligent with a gift for asking the right questions.
The Sorcerer could not resist such a pupil.
As the months passed, he gave her far more knowledge than he meant to, going beyond the ancient texts on carnal arts.
In the past few days, he struggled to find new lessons and realized he’d taught her everything he knew.
But he couldn’t regret that decision.
Once the years of civilized denial shed from her, unveiled was an animal magnetism unusual for women.
Her features were as savage as ever, but the ugliness now suited the girl and made her presence devastating.
When she strode into his Caverns, it was with the strut of an outlaw. The Sorcerer was overwhelmed with pride for his creation. She was a masterpiece.
Then there was their coupling.
He had never experienced anything quite like her. From the first night, she plunged into the realm of fantasy with breathtaking abandon.
And the pleasure that was already exquisite became indescribable when the girl showed initiative and nurtured her unique expression in the subtleties of physical love.
This was the only time a seduction borne from illusion became passion that pulsed with life of its own.
The Sorcerer cherished this chance to forget who and what he was, succumbing to the allure of being a man taking possession of his woman, only to want her more after his craving was satisfied. No conquest ever had this effect on him.
It was dangerous to don the essence of another man.
The morning the Sorcerer saw how little was left of the ruby liquid, a melancholic stupor weighed on his limbs as he slid that vial back in the rack and chose a deep green.
He would never feel that way again once the Trainer was used up.
Yet the Sorcerer prepared his lesson with the object of introducing another lover, hoping he hadn’t waited too long.
Then his protégée was late.
By the time he heard the near silent footfall on the stairs, he was convinced she wasn’t coming.
There was no relief to his unease when he saw her.
The girl was different tonight.
She was almost beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her eyes glimmering. And the Sorcerer sensed a current running through her so strong the air around the girl was palpating.
She was excited about something. But the cause of her excitement had nothing to do with him or the Trainer’s essence.
She settled into the sofa as always, and the Sorcerer pulled the tapestry.
The subject was one he’d already taught about positions for the body that would pleasure the woman no matter the skill of her lover. He planned to segue in the middle and introduce the need for a seductress to know many men, but the girl noticed immediately.
She folded her arms and frowned, tapping her foot until he was distracted from talking.
“You spoke about this several months ago,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do, but this lesson has another conclusion.”
She cocked one brow and smirked.
“I’m familiar with these positions as you know, so why don’t you conclude now?”
Startled, the Sorcerer couldn’t think of anything to say.
He felt awkward pulling the vial from his pocket, but disguised his uncertainty with flair, sweeping the essence to the torch where the vial glowed emerald in the light of fire. The richness of the color lent him a moment of optimism. Perhaps this would be another form of ardor.
“This came from a man celebrated for his poetry when he was alive,” he said.
The girl raised her brows, yet remained quiet.
“He was tormented as I recall, but very passionate. He was also handsome and revered the feminine mystique. I think you’ll be pleased with him.”
“Why should I be?”
“I admit I should have mentioned this some time ago. But a seductress is wise to have many lovers.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is part of our agreement,” he countered. “You are more than ready to-”
“You have nothing left to teach me, do you?”
Her question caught him unawares. But she was right.
So exhilarated he’d been with his gifted student, he’d lost sight of his plan, teaching her in six months what he meant to pass on over many years.
The girl leaned back in the blood red velvet of the golden sofa, her wide mouth curved in a closed smile and the Sorcerer cursed himself a fool. She was perfectly still, but he could sense a restlessness which hadn’t been in her the previous night.
“Sorcerer,” she said. “Have I pleasured you more than any woman ever has?”
“You have pleased me greatly as you promised,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“Again, I don’t believe you,” she said, without a hint of arrogance in her voice.
The Sorcerer was impressed.
This was the mark of true self-possession. A swell of pride rose up. His protégée had mastered the soul of seduction, but he was loath to admit that.
“Your disbelief isn’t enough,” he said. “You must prove that beyond any doubt and…”
He extended the poet’s essence. In response, she waved the vial away.
“Have you exhausted the Trainer?”
“Not yet.”
The Sorcerer went to his collection, lifting the vial with a few drops left. He turned and saw the girl standing behind him.
She took the essence from him and held it to the nearest torch. Her sinewy neck curved as she looked up, tears glistening in her eyes at the scant ruby liquid, swirling all she had left of the Trainer.
“This is the last night I come to you,” she whispered, her voice husky.
This excerpt is out of my novel “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” If you’d like to purchase the ebook, click here.
Busted
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Image by Efes Kitap from Pixabay
The Patron found her past the wide bend in the river in the same spot where she and the Trainer used to fish.
Crouched on her haunches, she wore crude trousers tied at her waist, the fine stitches of her blouse grimy, her hair in a long braid to her waist, strands tousled around her face.
Although she’d grown taller and now had the curves of womanhood, she looked just as she had that season seven years ago. Scanning the trees, he almost expected to find the Trainer, but his daughter was alone.
One thing had changed.
She’d never worn a holster back then, but now had one belted below her waist.
He raised his brows when he saw one of his pistols at her hip. He hadn’t heard the shot when she caught a squirrel, but she was skinning the carcass with one of his daggers. So intent was she on her task she didn’t hear him approach.
Her eyes grew wide when she looked up and her hand slipped, the blade slicing into her wrist.
The Patron leaped off his horse and reached her in two strides. Gripping her arm, he sunk her hand in the water.
The girl resisted, but he held on tight and squeezed her wound to stop the blood flowing into the river.
He brought her hand out of the icy water and pressed his scarf against the side of her wrist, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He heard her labored breathing and felt the taut muscles of her arm while tying the bandage around her wrist.
The Patron glanced over, ashamed when he saw the girl pulling as far from him as possible, her eyes narrowed to slits.
It had been years since he last touched her.
“Daughter.”
His voice was hoarse as he ended the silence of seven years.
The girl froze when he addressed her, but the Patron felt her arm give and continued.
“You must know I sent him away because I was trying to protect you.”
Her face clouded over before she scowled and looked away.
“The Horse Trainer.”
“I know who you’re speaking of.”
Her voice startled him.
She’d had the higher pitch of a child the last time the Patron heard her speak. Now her tone was rich and deep, the voice of a woman.
The realization that the silence he gave her was a silence she had returned pierced through him, bringing pain to his heart for the first time in over twenty years.
“I suppose he meant well,” he continued, “but he wasn’t a good influence on you.”
“I beg to differ with you on that.”
“He took you to the Abandoned Valley!”
“No, Papa. I went with him to the Abandoned Valley.”
“Yes. You certainly did.”
The girl looked sharply at him, her expression guarded.
The Patron found no satisfaction in the change, his lips tight as always when he felt his temper rising.
He remembered the reason he came searching for her and reached for the watercolors slung over his shoulder, unrolling them before handing the stack to her.
Her cheeks paled as she flipped through the paintings, but otherwise she was impenetrable. When she met his gaze again, her eyes were empty.
“Why were you going through my things?”
He glanced at the image on top and his hand clenched into a fist.
The Trainer’s features were contorted and heat flared in the Patron’s temples.
“I don’t think that really matters,” he said.
The girl didn’t answer right away, peering at him with one brow cocked.
“I haven’t seen him in years, Papa. Are you now accusing him of seducing a child?”
“That’s not seduction. That’s rape.”
“You’ve lost your mind if you believe that.”
“Then what do you have to say about these?”
His daughter looked to the paintings in her grasp, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“I would say these are fantasy,” she said. “The stuff of dreams.”
She was mocking him.
The Patron heard the scorn in her voice and saw it in her eyes, glaring at him with the look of secrets.
He breathed slowly, determined to keep his calm.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he snapped. “What is your explanation?”
“You must beg my pardon, Papa,” she said, “because I don’t have one.”
Something exploded inside the Patron. Grief and resentment locked in his heart for years catapulted through every fiber of his being. His will was no longer his own.
Watercolors scattered across the ground when the Patron grabbed his daughter and shook her with all his might.
A howl surged through him, desperate to give voice to an agony that was endless. But he wouldn’t let it out, couldn’t let it out. He could only shake this girl who had caused him nothing but anguish.
Somehow, her plaintive cries pierced through his madness until he regained his senses enough to stop.
But the Patron wouldn’t release the girl trembling in his grip and heaving for air. He looked into her eyes and saw the same torment that tore him apart and the same rage.
“Tell me, Papa,” she said, her voice raw. “How many times can a girl fall to her ruin?”
Second Rule of Seduction
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Her bed was empty every night.
Nobody knew except her mother, but the girl didn’t fear betrayal from her. She always stopped to kiss the woman before she left the house, reassured by the scent of lilies emanating from the portrait.
A sliver of dark moon lit the sky, and the overripe scent of dying lilies guided her to the giant gray stallion.
She smiled at the animal hidden in the avenue of peach trees.
Every night, she was tempted to ride him for a long spell before going into the Ancient Grove, but her anticipation for the pleasures the night would bring always stopped her.
The stallion left her at the edge of the woods, where he would always be in the morning, waiting to carry her home.
She always went the rest of the way on foot, winding her way through the trees until she came to the clearing. The giant boulder stood aside, the Gateway to the Caverns open to receive her, glowing from the torches lighting the way down.
The Sorcerer waited for her at the bottom of the spiral. He always had his cue in hand, standing before an easel with sketches illustrating the art of love.
Thus their time always began.
The sight of the old magician with lessons prepared had upset her the second night she came to him.
She had expected to see the Phantom of the Horse Trainer who had come as a Vagabond. It was the Phantom she wanted.
The memory of his touch tingled through her flesh all day, and she rode to the woods belly quivering.
She ran through the trees that first night, breathless when she stepped into the main chamber of the Caverns, only to meet the Sorcerer with pointer in hand, the covered easel behind him.
She stopped in her tracks, the heat in her blood suddenly chilled.
“Second rule of seduction,” he said, laughing at the look on her face.
“Keep your lover off balance. Never ever be predictable.”
He threw off the tapestry and revealed a sketch of a peculiar looking fruit, one she’d never seen before.
When she asked about it, the Sorcerer smirked and corrected her.
Then he pointed to a mirror he left for his pupil on the table and gave her first assignment. Her face burned once she understood.
“You must be joking,” she said.
“This is part of our agreement. What did you think I would be teaching you?”
The girl averted her eyes from the Sorcerer and his drawing.
“You must know your own body,” he said, “if you are to become a superior mistress.”
“Are you teaching me to be a courtesan? I never agreed to that.”
“Of course not, unless that’s what you choose.”
“What you’re suggesting is defilement,” she murmured.
The Sorcerer peered at her and the grooves along his brow dug deeper.
“I suppose that’s enough for tonight.”
He turned to the wall with shelves carved deep in the stone, bypassing the vials and cauldrons for the row of silver goblets and bottles of wine.
The Sorcerer took one of each and came back to the table.
He gripped the bottle with one hand, the cork popping in his fist, and out poured a red black stream into the goblet.
“But you need to understand such proper ways no longer serve you,” he said. “Assuming such ladylike virtues ever did.”
He held the wine out to her until she took it.
“Take some time to refresh yourself.”
The girl grew more at ease as soon as the Sorcerer disappeared into the maze of corridors.
The weight of the goblet felt good in her hand, the silver cool against her fingers. Taking a sip, she savored the lush warmth in her mouth and closed her eyes.
She thought of this assignment and flushed again.
What the Sorcerer wanted her to do was unthinkable. She took another sip and leaned back into the cushions.
Opening her eyes, she studied the sketch.
Then she glanced at the mirror and back to the sketch, wondering if the likeness of her was true.
“You always were a curious little minx.”
She heard the drawling voice and froze.
The air teased against the lobe of her ear and trilled down her spine, yawning her body open.
No more words were needed.
The girl was already reaching for the Phantom as she turned to him and he pulled her into his arms, bringing her flesh to life with his touch.
Silence Made Her Numb
/
The girl turned back to the mirror and stared.
Silence made her numb. But the girl didn’t mind. The numbness guarded her against the air grown heavy with quiet wherever she went and the turn of backs on her approach. Nothing could touch her until one early spring morning when that unseen cloak was stripped away.
That day started like any other. She bore her grooming with the usual stoicism. The disapproval of her maid was apparent in the vicious pull of gathers, the servant punishing her mistress for her refusal to wear a corset. The girl turned her head and caught a glimpse of the prim mouth, lips clamped tight. The graying lady’s maid glanced up and scowled, then kept her gaze on task until the laces were knotted at the small of her back.
The girl waited for the click of the door before reaching around and undoing the ties that bound her, and like she did every morning, twisting until she’d regained freedom of motion. She closed her eyes and savored the flow of breath filling her up and making her head swim. As her fingers finished a loose bow at the back of her waist the girl sighed, her lids fluttering. Then she caught the image before her. She froze for an instant, and spun around to find who could be in the room with her. But she was alone. The girl turned back to the mirror and stared.
“How did this happen?”
Even the sound of her voice was startling. Her tone had gotten deeper and her throat was scratchy from disuse. But her attention was still captive to her reflection. The oval looking glass stood tall, and she kept it in the furthest corner of the room so she would never see herself. She had been all arms and legs the last time she had, plagued with the awkwardness of girls who were not yet women and no longer children. She came closer, almost wondering if the silhouette was a phantom, and stopped a few paces away. Her palms roamed down her hips. The smooth fabric was cool against her fingers, her gown the shade of gunmetal, her hair a coil of gold at her neck. The girl followed the gesture in the mirror proving the image she saw was herself. She was pleased her figure was trim, not voluptuous. Yet her body curved in the shape of a woman.
“How did this happen?”
“When did I grow up?”
“When did I grow up?”
She realized her birthday had passed a few days before. She was now twenty. The age when she could come into society and attend the Carnival masquerades and seasonal balls, like the one where her father had met her mother. The girl made another move toward her mirror and stepped into the ray of sun streaming through the eastern windows. The light glared on her blunt features and wide mouth, and reminded her how ugly she was. She had the face of a savage.
She turned her back, but the pain had already started. Inside her breast, the clawing squeeze came on suddenly, leaving the girl confused and even incredulous. It had been so long since she’d felt anything. Perhaps her heart had come back to life. The girl brought her hand to her neck and pressed her fingers into her throat. But there was nothing. She grew dizzy, making her way back to her bed and dropping into the creamy sea of quilts. She waited for the sensation to fade away, for the numbness to wrap itself around her as it always did. Instead the clawing descended and writhed in the apex of her belly.
Then the girl saw herself on one of her father’s stallions, pushing the animal to run until she could disappear. She sat up, craving the sensation that would make this go away. She pushed off the bed, taking a pair of peasant breeches from the armoire and donned them under her skirts and petticoats.
As the girl rushed down the corridor and down the stairs, she was vaguely aware of the aroma of warm bread and coffee, the portrait of her mother glowing in the eternal flame of lamps that were never extinguished. She felt the attendants in the dining parlor staring at her back when she hurried for the front door. Outside, the air was chilly from the lingering memory of winter, yet the fragrance of early bloom refreshed.
But the girl had no mind for anything but the stables. She ran down paths weaving through masses of lilies, her gaze fixed on the lean, young stallion with its head over the stall when she came out of the garden. The cinnamon coat gleamed and strands of honey mane shined from a recent brushing. That one was fast, perfect for what she needed. She waved the stable boys back to their chores and readied the horse herself. The clawing had relented by the time she swung her leg over the powerful back, but she ached everywhere. The girl warmed up the stallion, cantering him along the peach trees and preparing him to run.
She saw her father when she turned her mount towards the western fields. The Patron was with his best farmers, the darkness of the Ancient Grove looming behind them. The men must have been taking a respite from their labor, standing with straight backs. The sounds of cheery talk peppered with lusty chuckles echoed across the expanse. The girl listened to them and remembered her birthday had been forgotten. Even she had forgotten. She thought of riding towards the group and hesitated. But her heart was dead. Yet she could still hurt. The girl set off towards them and the men fell silent on her approach.
Then the girl saw herself on one of her father’s stallions, pushing the animal to run so she could disappear.
She almost lost her courage, tempted to ride past them. She flushed uncomfortably warm when she stopped before the group. But seven years had passed. How much longer could this endure? Ignoring his farmers, she focused on her father. The Patron faced the manor on the highest hill, the line of his rugged features even more handsome in profile. The girl had to force herself to remain, staring at the Patron until he finally turned to her. When the girl met her father’s light brown eyes, she saw the same emptiness she had her entire life and the pain clawed through her again. In that moment, she knew nothing would ever change. There’d be no Carnivals, no balls, no masquerades. She was an outcast and that was all she would ever be.
The farmers began to shuffle the ground, averting their eyes from their Patron and his daughter. Their silence echoed across the fields, but the girl thought she might break apart from the mute scream trapped inside. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry. She kicked her mount and left her father and his devoted tenants behind. The girl was desperate to lose herself in the run, shouting at the stallion to go faster, faster. She couldn’t make herself disappear, but lost herself in perpetual motion.
She didn’t recognize where she was when the stallion slowed down. The grasses were long, grazing along her feet while her mount cut a swathe through them, coming to the edge of a forest where the freshly sprouted leaves reflected the morning light softly and the song of birds could be heard from the trees. She turned the horse around and almost laughed out loud when she saw the river and the Ancient Grove far southeast of her. The girl hadn’t been to this place in years, the northwest border of the Abandoned Valley where life returned once inside the trees.
Memories of the place flooded through her, an onslaught of euphoria that burst the girl into laughter, even with the clawing inside her. It made a bittersweet ecstasy, as palpable as the days when she came here with the Horse Trainer who had come as a Vagabond. She could still see his face, the warmth in his golden brown eyes and smile. The girl remembered the wild gray colt the Trainer always rode, and wondered if the animal still ran in the Abandoned Valley. Then she recalled that day when the colt escaped her father’s stables and started to weep. The bliss that caught her unawares became a torment. She would never have that kind of joy again.
She would never have that kind of joy again.
She spurred the horse to go, her vision blurred from the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mount stopped suddenly, startling the girl when she found herself staring up at the dark trees of the Ancient Grove looming before her. She heard the roar of the river beneath her and realized the stallion would stop where the current was most dangerous.
The girl closed her eyes. She knew this was the last place she should be. The Ancient Grove and Abandoned Valley had been forbidden for centuries. Only trouble came from being anywhere near here and she knew that more than anybody. But the thought of going home almost made her laugh again, the image of her father’s manor as her home somehow absurd. Instead of guiding the horse downriver where the current eased up, the girl remained where she was, listening for anything beyond the rushing water. But she heard no birds singing, no rustle of animals in the trees. Here, the silence was soothing to the girl, coming as it did from an absence of life. Again, there was that squeeze inside her breast and the girl hoped for the resurrection of her heart. She pressed her fingers into her neck where she felt nothing.
“Enough,” a soft voice murmured from her belly. “No more.”
The resolution echoed through the girl who opened her eyes to the river. Long sheaths of water sliced into each other, the snowmelt pushing the current to violence. The girl imagined herself falling in, her relief more frightening than the thought of drowning. She would never have to go numb again, for that would certainly make the pain stop. The girl closed her eyes again and breathed in deep. The water smelled so fresh.
She dismounted and slapped the stallion’s rump until he left without her. Then she turned back to the river, becoming lighter as she came to the edge where water met earth. She cried out when she stepped in, the cold stabbing her feet and ankles. The impulse to get out made her angry and she resisted, biting her lower lip until her feet lost all feeling. Then she took a longer stride into the river, the hairs rising on her flesh when she nearly lost her balance. The current tugged at her calves, whirling her skirts and petticoats around her knees. An icy shiver ran up her spine and set her limbs to shaking. The rushing made a dull keening, and the girl wondered if the water yearned for her. One more step and the river would take her. But the girl found she couldn’t move and cursed herself for being afraid.
Then he spoke. His breath teased along her right ear, just before the murmuring of the deepest baritone she ever heard in her life.
“There’s a better way.”
Then he spoke. His breath teased along her right ear, just before the murmuring of the deepest baritone she ever heard in her life.
“There’s a better way.”