To Die For

Chapter 4 - Riley Emerson

"You look beautiful," our mother says, watching as Shaye spins around, slowly, in her new dress. The butter-yellow fabric is sewn together with wide, slanting sitches of pale blue, clustering together to create a sunburst effect where it gathers at her waist, turning into the soft leather wrapped around her bodice. Smooth, elegant, the color is playful, and the tight leather around her chest and belly draws the eye to her thin waist, yet is high enough on the chest to be fully modest. Eye catching, but not showing off. Sleeves would be a waste of fabric and totally unnecessary, a strap over one shoulder of the braided leather is just playful enough.
"We should have done new shoes," Shaye says, softly, looking at her feet which are in worn brown leather flats.
"Keep them under the skirt, you're fine, it's fine," our mother says, checking her hair which is braided into a crown. Then she glances at me, "Riley, go change."
"I've got a headache," I say, favorite book behind my back.
"Please?" Shaye sighs, making eye contact.
"Mother, she needs the pearls, with that," I say, nodding a little, "I'll go change. Five minutes."
"You have to be there. Someone may ask to court you. You're not a child anymore," our mother says.
I raise an eyebrow.
"No, it's not very likely go on."
I have an outfit prepared. It was fun to make but it's not as elegant as Shane's. A neon purple jumpsuit, with no sleeves and a bit of a v-neck. But in order to qualify as a dress I made a skirt out of all the extra fabric, which isn't a full skirt it's a half skirt, embroidered with the bright turquoise thread I took from the shop this week. The embroidery I just had fun with. A sequence on the bodice then a spiral on the skirt. It's pretty and I like it. I'm sure my father will ask why I didn't wear a proper dress.
I put on a tight bra, I hate the push up ones even if they look better, and I made this neckline to go with my favorite bra. And I get to wear black combat boots, but I painted stars on them in blue so they match well enough.
The entire house is done up for the party, for once we have staff in. Shaye glances at me appreciatively.
"Are Ben and Jace going to make it?" I ask our mother, as I join them at the base of the stairs.
"No word from their platoon, so they aren't back from the front," our mother says, stiffly.
"It's okay," Shaye says to me. Our brothers here would make all the military boys behave themselves. She knows I know she's nervous.
"Mother, I'll go greet them as they come in," I say, taking her arm.
"Yes, thank you," she says. Shaye looks at me, suspicious as I don't usually volunteer for public tasks. I smile sweetly. I have a plan. And father will be inside waiting to talk to the other men. Someone has to take care of this family.
I go to the front door where the first guests are arriving. There's a table set up, where normally suitors would leave gifts as a thanks for being considered. Our father, in his peak of civility, has a little sign out that says any gifts can be left at the end, meaning if he didn't come to any agreement with them they would likely take whatever they brought.
I pick up that sign, holding it behind my back, and gesture politely for people to put gifts on the table.
"Thank you so much, set any offerings there, thank you," I say, sweetly, "I'll inform my sister of what everyone brought."
The boys look like they're being forced to come. The parents already look bored, or perhaps ready for the free food. I feel eyes upon me, and look down the line of guests coming in. A boy, probably my age, with gold curls too long for the military, and sun burnt freckled skin. He has very soft, almost periwinkle blue eyes. They're trained on me. I know that look. Like he wants to tear my clothes off, and pin me to the table. Boys always look at Shaye that way. I'm not used to them looking at me like that.
He shifts out of the line people entering, standing back, just watching as I greet them. He's wearing a red velvet coat, and black shirt beneath it. But he's still wearing military combat boots. So he is a soldier. There's a barely healed mark on his temple. But why is he looking at me? Shaye is the one to be courted.
Most of the party goers have entered.
"The celebration is that way," I say.
"Not the fun," he says, smiling without any teeth, eyes dancing with mirth. He holds up a hand delicately, in it is another one of my father's placards, "This one was outside."
"And why did you pick it up?" I ask.
"Same reason you did. Finders fee?" He asks, gesturing to the table.
"Why shouldn't I scream?" I ask.
He shrugs, "I would likely enjoy that. Does that stop you?"
"It does," I say, examining the trinkets on the table, a few gold rings. I pick those up and pocket them. I sewed lovely deep pockets into this jump suit.
He picks up a compass and pockets it, then holds up a box, "Puzzle box, that's interesting."
"Probably didn't know it was a puzzle, it's a just a relic," I say.
He observes it can't fit in his coat and sets it back down, "It's a fine dress. Who sewed it?"
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I asked," he smiles again, with that look. I don't think he's looked away from me once.
"My sister's the one you're meant to be courting, sir archer," I say.
He frowns a little, biting his lip with an inscrutable look.
"You have callouses on your right hand, quite unmistakeable, my brother's an archer he taught me to shoot," I say, taking his right hand and turning it over, "You've been drawing without proper gloves."
"They got burnt. I've yet to replace them and I can't abide full gloves, three fingers is all I need to draw. It doesn't hurt anymore," he says, flexing his fingers a bit in mine, but not taking his hand back. "So you know my trade but I don't know yours?  Or is it just taking pretty presents from boys you have no interest in?"
"I'm not a thief," I say.
"What a disappointment that is. I'll live with it though," he smirks, "Tell me who sewed that dress?"
"Why?" I ask.
"Because someone's sewed a Fibonacci sequence on the bodice there, and the spiral is done upon the skirt if I'm not much mistake. And I'd like to quietly end whoever else is aware that when you smile your face fits the gold ratio," he says tipping his head.
"My face is not a spiral, I did it to amuse me," I say.
"You did? Well you've amused me, my lady," he purrs, hands on the table.
"Good. Now that I've done that you can go in and court my sister," I say.
"I'm not here to court your sister. I'm here for the three day pass and possibly food. We're old family no money, Wyle Dolon," I say.
"Riley," I say, "Guess that makes two of us here for the food."
We both look in at the party. Shaye has three boys around her, and she's in her element, smiling and chatting with them.
"There's a very serviceable sofa over there, I'll get drinks you get food?" He asks.
"I hope you mean behind the sofa?"
"Of course I do."
I don't expect him to actually come now that he's seen Shaye but he beats me there, with multiple chipped glasses filled with cider and already fiddling with the puzzle box.
"I hope you like sweets," I say, sliding behind the sofa next to him on the floor. He arranges my skirt a bit so it doesn't get in the drinks.
"It is a party, we can arm wrestle to dash for seconds," he says, tipping his head, as he studies the puzzle box. "That, seriously why?"
"Why what?" I ask.
"Golden ratio? You don't see it? I'll draw it on your face," he says.
"I did it because it amused me I'm fond of sequences and pattern. I have an old book of mathematics," I admit.
"Hm," he picks up a chocolate scone.
"Why do you know it?"
"You've got that answer. Sir archer," he holds up his calloused fingers, "Curves, patterns, angles, all rather important to my survival."
"And how did you come invited to my sister's party, Sir Archer?" I ask, "If you've no money to court her?"
"My mother's a Bellamy."
"Ah."
"Yes ah. Ancient blood, they don't say no. And my mother wanted a three day pass so I could come home," he says, taking the scone apart before eating a piece of it. Then he goes back to fiddling with the puzzle box, "This thing won't budge."
"Give it here," I say, holding out a hand. He hands it over, smiling a little. "So you really are here for the food."
"Quite. Boys like me don't marry girls like that. Not that I'd want to," he says.
"Oh? What sort of girl do you want to marry?"
"I've had a couple ideas recently," he says, taking apart another scone, "You going to tell me why you're hiding behind a sofa with a total stranger at your sister's party?"
"I'm not much one for parties," I say, tapping the puzzle box with my fingers.
"You do her dress as well?" He asks, "But not her shoes."
"Why were you looking at her feet?"
"I was looking at the dress if you did yours you probably did hers," he says, like that should have been obvious.
"Who are your parents?"
"When we make a dash for food you'll see too people definitely snogging, or recently having snogged in a corner I belong to them," he says, primly, examining a pastry.
I laugh a little.
"They're an inspiration, and also disgusting. I come by this sort of thing naturally, how is that going?" He asks, looking at the puzzle box.
"I think I might have gotten a square to shift actually," I say, "Ah—there."
It snaps open. Inside a little box, or rather rectangle, bright colors but there's nothing to it.
"Oh that's disappointing," I say.
"Not quite," he leans over, intent, "I've seen this before."
"What?"
"Well something like it," he frowns, picking it up, "My last platoon was supposed to be raiding a depot. The depot was defending one of these."
"What? Why?" I ask.
"I don't know. It doesn't even open that I've found, but it's valuable," he says, turning it over in his hand.
"They can't have known that was in there," I say, "How valuable? Can we sell it?"
"I don't know to who, we're not meant to have it," he says.
"Well what did you do with the one you found?" I ask.
He looks at me, voice so pure and full of innocence, "What?"
"You definitely took it. Like I met you because you were also stealing the sign for the same reason I was, to steal the presents, like there's no way you didn't take it," I say.
"I gave it to my mother, safe keeping," he says, quietly, "She was going to find out what it was."
"How valuable can it be when it's so light?" I ask.
"I assume it's the key for something else? I don't know," he says, "They, they being the Nexos militia, is definitely after them though."
"I'll hide it, till we know what it is," I say, pocketing it.
"Don't let anyone know—seriously, don't," he says, "Until I figure out how we can sell them. My grandfather might ahve a buyer. I'll get you a cut."
"It's mine."
"It's my buyer."
"Finders fee only."
He smirks, "Done. Ten percent."
"Five," I cock my head.
He clearly tries not to grin, "Five."
"Do you think I am amusing, sir archer?" I ask.
"I think I am amusing, always," he says, hand to his chest.
I hand him back the puzzle box, closed. "Did you see how I did it?"
He unlocks it immediately, "Oh I was watching you. How'd you do it?"
"I used to play the piano, before it broke. It was a melody," I say.
He frowns, tapping the box to open it, "I don't play."
"I might be able to show you when some of these people clear out," I say, looking under the sofa.
"Yeah fuck them."
I laugh.
"Well you were thinking it," he says, leaning his head on his knees.
"You can go flirt with Shaye you know. She won't care even if you're not going to ask to court her," I say.
"Why would you say that?"
"Can't believe someone like you is just here for the food."
"Well I'm not here for the food anymore," he says, picking up the puzzle box, "Do you know who brought this?"
"Ah, red head, all right looking but it in a 'knows it' kind of way? Definitely a bit dumb," I say.
"Strong?" He laughs, "Yeah he didn't know that was in it. He's my platoon commander. Dumb."
"What makes him dumb?"
"Tried to get rid of me, oh he's flirting with your sister. Don't worry looks unsuccessful," he says, leaning a bit to see out from behind the sofa, "Are you going to get in trouble for hiding back here with me?"
"No, no one cares what I do, I'm the little sister, why?" I ask.
"Because your mother's definitely coming right this way."
"Damn it, get under the sofa, under, now," I say, pushing him a bit, he obeys, sliding fully under the sofa while I sit up and try to consolidate our plates of food.
My mother leans over the back of the sofa, sighing, "Really?"
"I'm having fun," I say, innocently.
"You have to dance at least once, people are saying you've likely died."
I roll my eyes.
"Riley."
"I will. I'll dance once," I say.
"What are you even doing back here?"
"Eating, and enjoying solitude," I say, sweetly, arms folded over my knees.
My mother shakes her head, leaving.
I glance at Wyle, who has been staring at me this whole time.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.
"Like what?" He asks, crawling out from under the sofa.
"Like you want to tear all my clothes off and pin me to something," I say.
"I think you just answered your own question," he says, cheeks flushed, as he crawls back up to sit next to me.
"Men are ridiculous," I say.
"You should be aware that you alone have had this affect on me. And it's fine if you think that's amusing but you'd do a poor solider a favor if you went out there and lied to some people and let me watch you do it," Wyle says, putting a hand through his hair which isn't actually mussed.
"You're very weird," I say.
He nods, "So I have it on very good authority. Will you dance with me?"
"What?"
"I'm not prone to public displays however I did hear your mother swear you to come out and dance so," he nods.
"I was going to lie my way out of that to be honest," I say.
"Oh gods do that I like your plan," he says, tipping his head back to stare at me.
"My sister's got a new record if she puts that on I'll dance to it," I say, "With you. I'll dance to it with you."
"Deal then. Tell me are you getting cramped or what?" He asks..
"Little bit, do you want see the library?"
"Lead the way," he says, standing up a bit, but still crouching.
"This way, come on," I nod for him to follow me. We skirt the edge of the crowd. No one notes us but we hurry anyway, laughing by the time we've cleared the doors of the parlor and made it into the hall.
"Library, half of them aren't in English. I don't know why," I say, leading him in.
"Still books," he says, going reverently to a shelf.
"How did that happen to your head?"
"War," he says, touching the spines lovingly, "I hate it. But I'm good at it."
I lean against the bookshelf, watching him examine the volumes.
After a moment he asks, quietly, "How long's this party supposed to last?"
"Till midnight."
He selects a suitably large volume of poetry. "This is over five hundred years old. Imagine. The world is coming to an end and you've got nothing to save but bits of paper."
"Who would you save if the world was coming to an end?"
"The world's already over. We're just pretending like it's not," he says, leafing through the pages.
"Then does that mean we'll go on forever?" I ask, stepping forward to look at what he's reading, upside down.
He smiles, slowly, "Sappho. 'Come now, luxuriant Graces, and beautiful-haired Muses. I tell you someone will remember us in the future. Now, I shall sing these songs Beautifully for my companions.'  See? We're just singing to pretend the world isn't over. And they knew it even way back then. We all want to be remembered. More than words on a page or notes in a song."
"But the graces and the muses sang beautifully, and that was small that mattered, their songs," I say, looking down at the text.
" 'I love the sensual. For me this and love for the sun has a share in brilliance and beauty. I desire And I crave. You set me on fire'," he looks up at me as he speaks the final words, soft blue eyes nearly glowing in the moonlight through the dusty window pains, "I always, hated that line. Because being on fire isn't any good it means you'll soon be dead."
"Why past tense?" I ask.
"Because I don't have a better way to say how I feel, except that I want to see you again after tonight ends because I can't be this happy only tonight," he says, looking back down at the book between us.
"Yes—I mean okay, you can see me again," I say, looking at the moonlight across the page, then back up at his eyes, "I'll see you again."
He smiles fully, hand curling over mine on the book.
"I hear the songs I know, come and dance with me. I'll ask my father," I say, hand tightening on his.
"Only if you'll come back here and I can read you the rest," he says.
"That's a promise."
We leave the book open on the table, and steal back to the parlor. I can hear the cold notes of the song starting on the record player. But all that feels like it's in the distance. Right here and now his hand is still in mine. Rough calloused fingers caressing mine. And even in the room full of people his eyes don't leave me once.