Lady Death's Diary: Chapter 18 (Patreon)

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Xander’s grin widened at the audible growl in my voice. “We’re moving forwards,” he said.

Smug jerk. I shouldn’t have agreed to follow, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. And perhaps a part of me had latched onto an excuse to leave, to temporarily escape from Emilia’s sickroom and my own gnawing guilt.

After eliciting an oath from the nurse that he would send for me should Emilia’s condition change in the slightest, I’d followed Xander off the castle grounds and into Bellcrest proper. Xander made no attempts at conversation other than the occasional warning before he changed direction. Our route soon broke from the main thoroughfare and weaved through narrower side streets. After about ten minutes of walking, we ended up in a residential area that, while not impoverished, required several new layers of paint.

The cobblestone street itself was missing nearly half its stones, and none of the squat houses lining its sides were more than two stories. Many possessed multiple doors so close together that opening them simultaneously would be impossible—evidence that they’d been converted from single-family homes to board several tenants. Several middle-aged women, in the process of hanging laundry up to dry in the parched patches of grass that passed for front lawns, paused mid-gossip to ogle at us. Despite the utilitarian cut of Xander’s overcoat and my own practical cambric borrowed from Emilia’s closet, our garb was still noticeably better quality than their yellowed linen aprons and patched kirtles.

“Come somewhere private with your floozy for a bit of fun, m’lord?” One of the woman’s faces twisted with contempt, as if she were contemplating whether to spit in our direction before deciding it was beneath her. “We’re respectable neighborhood. Get away, now.”

I gasped. In past lives, I’d been accused of being a traitor, a murderess, and a witch. Now someone was calling me a lightskirt as well? “You presumptive harridan, how dare you—”

Xander laid a hand on my shoulder. “Ignore her. We’re almost there.”

Whereas my hackles had been raised by the woman’s public denunciation, the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. I jerked away from him and stalked towards my accuser. I’d run out of patience for being slandered several beheadings ago.

“If I werehis mistress, your nasty comment would have caused me to buy your house and turn it into the seediest brothel in Bellcrest. And if you say another word,” I added when she opened her mouth to retort, “I shall name the business after you.”

I spun around and marched back to Xander, whose shoulders shook with barely constrained laughter. “I hardly think her words warranted your reaction. Though I would be lying if I claimed it wasn’t amusing to witness.”

I huffed, my exhale blowing away a strand of hair that had escaped from my bun. “It’s wrong to accuse someone without evidence. Furthermore, my business is none of hers.”

He gestured towards the laundresses, who were now pointedly ignoring us. “Count their baskets.”

“What?”

“Their loads of laundry. How many does each woman have?”

I frowned but nonetheless took stock of the baskets. “Twelve total, so three each.”

“When I was last here a year ago,” he said, “bags were piled so high against the fences that you couldn’t see the drying lines, each representing a different customer. Then Fengal put an embargo on half the goods exported from Verdan, trying to pressure King Eldin to ally with them against Anterdon.”

“The women’s clients must have been mostly merchants,” I spoke slowly as the realization struck. “Merchants who either lacked the funds to hire their own servants, or who didn’t keep a permanent household due to travelling back and forth between Bellcrest and other countries—countries like Fengal.”

He nodded. “The embargo hurt a lot of traders, many who live in the neighborhood nearby. The merchants now do their own laundry, most like, to save a few extra suns. Not calamitous to Verdan’s economy as a whole, but it made a difference to her.

“The washerwoman was trying to protect the reputation of her business,” he continued. “I hardly think it right for you threaten to take that away, no matter how offensive her words.”

I didn’t respond. The beginnings of a revelation began to take shape, deep in the part of my mind that I usually strove to ignore. I had lashed out at the woman for her unfounded accusations and yet . . . had I treated Councilor Timons any more fairly? I’d been so convinced of his guilt that I’d ensorcelled him, and felt no qualms in doing so. My motive had been to stay alive; the washerwoman’s had been to preserve her livelihood.

I sighed. Self-reflection was a terribly unpleasant pastime. I’d bring up the laundress’s situation at the next Council meeting—surely other workers had been impacted by the embargo as well. The merchants might grumble at having to do their own laundry, but most would be able to weather the embargo until King Eldin renegotiated with Emperor Irax. But perhaps the Table of Coin could offer loans to those less able to afford waiting. Or, if the Council refused to take action, I could at least ask Emilia to sell off some of my jewelry and invest the money in the poorer neighborhoods myself. It wasn’t as if I ever wore any of my mother’s heirlooms, after all, and pointless sentimentality didn’t help Bellcrest’s citizens.

My face fell. Emilia was in no condition to be sent off on errands. I’d forgotten temporarily, and my heart ached anew at my own callousness. How dare I forget, when her state was my fault?

“Have we nearly arrived?” I tried to inject some levity into my tone so that Xander wouldn’t notice I was once again on the verge of tears. “Or do you intend for us to scandalize the entire neighborhood?”

He chuckled. “And let you to keep terrorizing the locals? No. We’re here.”

We stopped in front of one the many identical buildings lining the street. Like its neighbors, the whitewashed brick had a thatched gabled roof and old-fashioned leaded glass windows instead of clear panes. Unlike the buildings on either side of it, however, there was only one door. I followed Xander up to it, searching for a nameplate or other clue.

He knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice again. The door opened to reveal a young boy, who greeted Xander with a gap-toothed grin.

“My lord!” The lad bowed so low that his unruly brown curls nearly brushed the ground. “You haven’t been back in years.” His large hazel eyes were reproachful.

Xander ruffled the boy’s hair fondly. “It been barely one, Henric. Yet I find you having grown almost as tall as me!”

Henric straightened himself to his full height, which barely rose past Xander’s waist. “I think I have a way to go yet, my lord,” he said regretfully after measuring the disparity.

I couldn’t help but laugh. The boy glanced towards me as if only just marking my presence. Instantly, his bearing became more formal. He swept a hasty bow.

“My lady!” he squeaked. “Is this your first time at our establishment?”

“I’m still trying to figure out the nature of said establishment,” I said. “Since Lord Brant insists on being cagey.”

“We’ll take one of the private rooms, Henric,” Xander informed the boy. “Lady Vitrula will need a spare uniform.”

“She’s wearing a skirt,” noted Henric with disgust before running off down the hall and into another room.

Before I could question Xander over the boy’s reaction, he returned with an armful of rumpled clothing that he unceremoniously dumped into my arms.

“You can get dressed in the second room on the right, my lady,” he said.

The garments smelled like soap despite the wrinkles. I shook them out and held them up with outstretched arms, arching an eyebrow at Xander upon viewing the white pants and oversized shirt. Unlike in Anterdon, Verdan noblewomen hardly ever wore pants unless going riding—to do otherwise was considered moderately scandalous, though some like Councilor Venuda bucked convention. The court was more forgiving of her behavior, since she’d been born a commoner. Also, because she would happily challenge anyone who criticized her to a duel (and win). I was less bold, and the thin cotton pants looked vastly different than the modest split skirts of my riding habit.

Reading my dismay, Xander smirked. “My mother wore the same outfit, the one time she agreed to come. Besides,” he gestured expansively, “no one here will judge you for unfashionable attire. Will we, Henric?”

“No, my lord!” Henric’s tone implied he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was agreeing to but that he was enthusiastic about it nonetheless.

The washerwoman’s words had made me hyperaware of any breach of propriety, but Delphine would never have gone anywhere too indecent. I didn’t think. I took a deep breath and went through the door that Henric opened for me.

The dressing room had only a small wooden chair in the corner, and was so small that my elbows bumped against the walls as I changed. I hung Emilia’s gown over the chair’s back, feeling awkward and exposed in my new outfit despite the fact that only my lower arms were left uncovered. Henric pounced on me as soon as I exited.

“Lord Brant is waiting for you in the practice room.” He yanked on my hand with suspiciously sticky fingers. “Colm is there, too.”

“Is Colm your father?” I asked as he steered me down the hall to another door.

Henric shook his head. “Don’t got a father. Colm is Colm.”

“Did your father pass away?” I asked. “Everyone has parents at one point.”

“Not me.” He sounded almost proud. “Never had a ma either. Just Colm.”

Henric must be an orphan, and have been taken in by the house’s owner. I followed my miniature guide down a set of stairs to what would usually have been the house’s larder. Instead, the stairway ended at a spacious room, empty but for several large leather bags that hung suspended from the ceiling and two prior occupants.

Xander had changed into an outfit similar to my own, though his sleeves were completely absent instead of merely short. He was conversing with the largest man I had ever seen, and whom I assumed to be Henric’s “Colm.”

The middle-aged man stood only an inch or two taller than Xander, yet appeared to loom over his lither companion. Thick muscle corded his neck, and his bare arms were easily four times the girth of my own. He noticed my stare and dipped down into a surprisingly graceful bow.

“Lady Vitrula,” he said. “I’m honored by your patronage.”

“Yes, of course,” I stammered. His size was intimidating, even if his demeanor was polite. “Though I admit to being unsure of just what, precisely, I’m patronizing.”

The giant unleashed a bellow of laughter. “Xan didn’t tell you?” He playfully pushed at Xander’s shoulder. I winced at the force of the shove, though Xander grinned as if unperturbed. “Fifteen years, I’ve known this boy, and he still acts like a mischievous child. Welcome to The Incredible Colm’s Boxing Gym. Private members only. I, of course, am The Incredible Colm.”

****

The Incredible Colm had been ten-time victor of the Open Brawl, one of the six annual tournaments held alongside the Tower Climb during the Festival of Bells. According to Colm’s own account, he’d eventually grown tired of taking all the King’s money and decided to spend his sunset years passing on his skills to others. In truth, a decade’s worth of tournament purses most likely meant Colm was flush enough in pocket to never work again if he had so desired. But after only a few hours in his company, I could already tell that The Incredible Colm wouldn’t have been content to fade away into luxurious obscurity.

Colm had chosen to open his gym in the neighborhood he’d grown up in. The unfashionableness of the area meant that his business remained a relative secret, which Xander only half-jokingly warned me to guard with my life. (Apparently, the cost of Colm’s tutelage more than compensated for his limited client list.) The retired pugilist proved to be unexpectedly gentle and patient as he coached me in proper form and demonstrated how to follow through a punch by pivoting my hips, using Xander to model the movements in order to point out where I went wrong. Which, given my complete unfamiliarity with fisticuffs, was frequent. Half the time, my fist missed its target completely.

“Better!” he exclaimed when my punch finally caused the heavy bag to sway. “Remember: thumb on the outside. Your goal is to bloody someone else’s nose, not break your own fingers. I have another lesson, but stay as long as you like.” He gripped Xander’s forearm in fond farewell. “Don’t go so long between practices. You’re becoming rusty.”

“And you’re becoming too content with your wife’s cooking,” replied Xander with a pointed glance at Colm’s solid middle.

Colm laughed and patted his gut. “Niamh be glad to have you over again. Just name the date.” Appearing pleased by Xander’s nod, he departed.

“This . . . was not what I expected,” I said as the door closed behind the boxer.

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Xander.

“I did,” I admitted. “Even if I was an unmitigated disaster.”

He chuckled. “You eventually hit the bag more often than not. I would call that a mitigated disaster, at the very least.”

I couldn’t argue, so settled for sticking my tongue out at him. “Most noblemen consider boxing beneath them and prefer fencing. How did you ever discover this place?”

“My father used to take me here when I was boy.” Xander grinned at the memory. “He always pretended we were embarking on a secret mission. We’d dress up as soldiers and Colm would salute as we entered. It was only later I realized he was paying Colm a considerable amount of money to go along with our charade.”

It made sense that the King wouldn’t want others knowing of their visits, let alone Xander’s existence. Had Xander realized I knew King Eldin was his father? Either way, he wasn’t quite willing to be explicit about his sire yet. Which was fine. I could respect the desire to guard his secrets; I had more than a few of my own.

Rather than pry, I asked, “Did Lady Delphine join you on these adventures?”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Once. Much to my father’s disappointment, she declared sweating in a basement to be ‘distasteful.’”

“That sounds like her,” I agreed with a laugh. “Boxing certainly isn’t ladylike.”

“Yet you were perfectly willing to brutalize that poor punching bag.” He shook his head with feigned dismay.

“I suppose I’m not very good at being a lady.” I tilted my head to the side and gazed at him thoughtfully. “I’m still not quite sure why you brought me here of all places.”

Xander reached for my hands. Gently, he began to unwind the leather strips protecting my knuckles. His forehead knit as he contemplated how to answer.

“You were feeling powerless,” he said at last. Despite having finished unraveling the leathers, he didn’t let go of my hands. “This was the only way I could think of to help you feel capable again. Before, you said you needed to make sure that your maid kept fighting. Well, I needed to make sure that you kept fighting.” His mouth quirked up in a small smile. “Literally, as it turned out. The bag practically bled sand by the time you finished mauling it.”

I blushed, praying that my cheeks remained too red from exertion for him to notice. It had felt good to have an outlet for my pent-up stress, even if my attacks on the bag had been far less effectual than Xander claimed. Still, I was taken aback by his thoughtfulness.

“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say. No one had ever been so considerate of me before—he’d sincerely contemplated what I had needed. He hadn’t told me to toughen up like my father would have, or resorted to plying me with sweets and jests like my brother. Instead, he’d helped me to regain my sense of agency. I doubted I’d be able to physically defeat Letty’s mysterious conspirator with an uppercut after one lesson. But with practice, I could become a little less helpless. “Thank you,” I repeated. The words seemed inadequate.

Xander squeezed my hands. Our eyes met, his honey-flecked green and gazing at me with a look I’d never before encountered. Or rather, that I’d never witnessed directed towards me. I felt the urge to close my own eyes. Rather than resist, I allowed my lids to drift shut as he leaned forward.

Xander intended to kiss me.

I intended to kiss him back.

“Lord Brant!” A high-pitched yell startled us both from our trance. Henric stood at the door, panting as if he’d taken the stairs two at a time.

Xander cleared his throat. A hint of pink tinted his cheeks, and I suspected mine matched. Yet when he spoke, his expression was unruffled and his voice calm. “What is it, Henric?”

“A messenger.” Henric swung against the door, using the momentum to propel himself into the basement. He stumbled to a stop before us, ignorant of tense atmosphere still lingering in the wake of our almost-kiss. “A messenger came looking for you and he said it was important so I said I would get you right away because you told me to.”

“The message, Henric,” prompted Xander.

“I was getting to that bit!” Henric’s lower lip pushed out at the interruption. “The messenger said that Lady Vit—Vitruv—” He glanced at me. “What’s your name again?”

“Lady Vitrula,” said Xander.

“Right! He said that Lady Vitrula and you should come back to the castle because your mother—your mother, Lord Brant, not hers—told him to tell you that Lady Vitrula’s friend is awake.”