♪ But your home is now your prison
You forgot that, without me, you won't go far, far ♪
{MARINA—Purge the poison}
[EXPLICIT WARNING for the song]
Keeping her chest puffed out, her arms tight at her sides, her fingers stiff in her itchy gloves, Cordelia proceeded into the decorated main salon. One would never guess the amount of large, accommodating rooms Read Manor had from looking at it from the outside. Within were a multitude of spaces with warm wooden floors and high windows and a lofty appearance that reminded Cordelia of a Ballroom. Her Ballroom.
She'd never entered a Ballroom without men's heads turning to her, women's eyes glazing over her outfit, admiration and awe echoing in their words while she breezed through guests and accepted the proper introductions and greetings. She'd never been unknown, unseen—and if she'd ever wished to be invisible, she'd gotten her wish that night.
Guests kept to themselves, barely acknowledging her as she took a few steps into the area. The light music—a fiddler and a piano-player—hummed in the corner, where a few men were watching, tapping their feet to the rhythm. It was not a dance-party, Lady Read had specified, so there was no room to dance. Yet Cordelia caught a few gazes between potential dance-partners, who'd proceed with dancing later, after having had a few too many drinks.
A smell of baked goods and dough rose through the area as servants deposited platters of food on the buffet, at the rear of the room. There was more awareness for that than to Cordelia's arrival.
No one knew her, here. Few were those who'd visited with Lady Read and learned of her stay here, of her existence, even. Those ladies—who'd gossiped about her fate right in front of her—either hadn't arrived, or were stationed in another of the salons. Lady Read had prepared several areas for the guests to entertain themselves.
Hadn't this anonymity been what Cordelia wanted, when fleeing from Torrinni? The freedom to make her own choices, to marry whom she wanted to if she wanted to, to live life as she saw fit with no rules, no temper-throwing older brother to dictate her decisions? She'd fled to hide her identity as the writer of a scandalous book; she'd ran off to preserve her sanity from her brother's heartlessness. And yet here she was, disappointed that no one would notice her tonight. But also disappointed, she realized, at those who'd locked themselves in Lord Read's study and hadn't given her a chance to prove who she was.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Helen amongst the guests, standing near the windows. She also hadn't seen her—but her excuse was that her wrist was being held tightly by a man a few heads taller than her. She was wincing, struggling not to cry, from what Cordelia could tell. He gripped her hard, with the intention to hurt, that was obvious. He scolded her—even with the music playing and the light chatter of other guests, Cordelia could hear his hissing voice directed at Helen. Spittle flew from his mouth as he reprimanded her, having no care for those around them. And, truth be told, no one was watching them, anyway, too absorbed in other gossip to pay attention.
When the man's grasp tightened again—causing Helen to gasp, to shrink, to look ready to snap in two—Cordelia came close to hurrying over to push him off, to make him release her. And yet, as she quickly understood, it would be no use. This man unfortunately had the right to shake Helen like so, and Helen had made it clear she was anticipating it.
Lord Hughes, living up to the reputation everyone seemed so afraid of.
His sandy, dark-blond hair was short, combed backwards and out of his face, revealing a high and quite reddened forehead. His mustache twitched as he spoke to—more like spat at—Helen, and Cordelia saw that his entire body was tense, rooted to the spot but leaning forward as if to tumble onto Helen and smoosh her.
Cordelia had stopped in the middle of the room, and now people were looking at her—but only because she was in the way. She apologized, shuffled to the side, a smidgen closer to where Helen was being told off—and nearly beaten in public—by her father.
Drifts of their conversation reached her ears.
"... and if you think this stunt of yours is going to get you some kind of acclaim..."
"... never, Father, I did not do this for attention." Helen's voice was more strained than Cordelia had ever heard it. So laced with pain and shame that it broke her heart, compelled her to want to rush in front of Helen and protect her from her father's blows.
"No, you did it because you wanted to go home." Lord Hughes grunted, a sound that wasn't muffled by the melodies, but that went unnoticed as someone had erupted into an impolite fit of laughter nearby. "This is your home, Helen, you would do well to remember that."
As if hearing her internal thoughts—let her go you blasted bastard!—Lord Hughes' gaze found Cordelia, who was poorly masked within the growing crowd of attendees. And that gaze he shot her—a fiery glare if she'd ever known one—was so piercing, so pointed, that it was clear he knew who she was. He'd seen her before, whether by drawings in books or because he'd been in Torrinni, she couldn't be sure. But those eyes, their apple-green shade similar to his daughter's, ripped into Cordelia's soul and stilled her, squeezed her lungs.
Cordelia had met more impressive men in her lifetime. But Lord Hughes was fearsome, and was well-built, and had a tough grip that even Helen—moderately strong herself—couldn't escape. His sternness, his cruelty, even, ravaged Cordelia's careful courage, and though his glower only lasted a few seconds, it was enough to force Cordelia to look down at her shoes and gulp. Intimidated, fearful for Helen, for herself.
"I have no idea what to do with you," he said, and Cordelia peered up again to see him dragging a hand down his face. He'd released Helen, who was rubbing her wrists and cringing, her shoulders sloped forward, her earlier proud posture completely evaporated.
Cordelia had a few ideas—how about leave her be, you demented, dark-minded arsehole?—but bit her lip to refrain from blurting them out. Lord Hughes' eyes—like lightning flaring through her, setting fire to her insides—remained imprinted in her brain. Those eyes were like Helen's, but so devoid of kindness, so sharp, that Cordelia felt nauseous. That was their only resemblance, it seemed. His build was a bit wider, more muscular than Helen's, and his face shape and nose were more prominent of what Cordelia called the typical Englishman. Helen must have gotten most of her looks from her mother, and likely her attitude, too.
I imagine that does not make things any better.
Another idea developed in Cordelia's mind, and this one was harder to put out. The way he'd looked at her—more like snarled—implied he indeed knew who she was. He could identify her. Could he not barge into that meeting in the study and prove to all who she was? Was he not a man of excellent standing in English society, as everyone had been repeating over and over whenever speaking of him? Surely he had the power to say something, to speak on Cordelia's behalf, to aid her in getting to her home. If he wouldn't help his daughter, would he at least help the sister of the man he sent his daughter off to?
Cordelia flinched; no, he wouldn't. Lord Hughes was in another world, too busy yelling at Helen to understand that there were other matters at stake. He wouldn't let her out of his sight, too worried she'd run off again. He'd be too focused on figuring out what to do with her, and wouldn't be willing to interfere on Cordelia's behalf. For all Cordelia knew, he'd accuse her of influencing Helen to run off, which wasn't true. But a man like this, so enraged, so infused with anger, was senseless, and impossible to deal with. Cordelia would know—for a moment, he reminded her of Antoine and his tantrums.
Had Lord Read been to Totresia? Did he know King Antoine? Would he vouch for Cordelia, once he calmed down—if he ever did—if anything to get her out of England and away from his daughter?
The idea of being separated from Helen had crossed her mind often, of late. She knew it'd happen, sooner or later. They belonged in different worlds, they had different visions, and they most definitely couldn't be together, privately or publicly.
But tonight, the feeling hit her harder, nearly knocking her off her feet. Despite their tension, their sentiments towards one another, their disagreements, Helen was her friend. Her best friend. They'd been through a lot together—running away, camping under the stars, dashing down alleyways to escape patrolmen, locked in a Parisian prison, kept captive at an evil Baronesses' luxurious home, stashed onto a packet boat to travel to safety. The bond they'd formed—no matter what it was, and Cordelia didn't know, anyway—was heavy, and if severed, Cordelia wasn't sure what would happen.
Caught up in her thoughts, she almost smacked into a servant who'd been passing around a tray of beverages. Thirsty—her throat had dried up at the thought of never seeing Helen again—she grabbed one of the cups, uncaring what was in it, and downed a few swigs at once.
It was a brew, a beer, she thought. Not something she'd usually drink, as she preferred wine, but beer was a beverage she'd had occasionally during their travels and didn't dislike it. The fresh, bubbliness of it slithered down her throat and soothed it for a spell. She took a few more gulps, begging the liquid to numb her, shut off her thoughts, calm her erratic heartbeats.
She followed the servant, needing another drink, but someone tapped on her shoulder, prompting her to whoosh around so fast she almost dropped the cup. And on instinct—a weird, long-lost instinct—she reached up to her head, as if to adjust her crown... a crown that she hadn't worn in months.
The person who'd touched her noticed, and smirked; a smirk that stopped Cordelia's once out-of-control heartbeats.
The situation was so eerily reminiscent of their first meeting, in her Ballroom, what felt like decades ago. And yet this was now, in Read Manor's main parlor, surrounded by drinking guests who were becoming a blur as Cordelia fixed her gaze on him.
Thomas Barns, standing before him as if he'd never let her go, as if they'd never been apart.
"Thomas?" Her voice croaked, and she'd been holding the cup so hard her hand was sore.
"Princess." His sharp sepia-shaded eyes were melting, drinking in her shock, lapping up her happiness to see him. That copper-colored mane of his was like rivers of caramel basked in light from the overhead chandelier, and he was dashing in an off-black suit, pulling on his lapels as he leaned forward into a bow. He'd not lost any of his charm, and if anything looked more handsome now, though she'd quite enjoyed his ruggedness during their voyages.
It was too much—containing her fear for Helen, her sadness at them losing one another, and now, her excitement at seeing Thomas. She burst into laughter, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as she grabbed Thomas' upper arms and squeezed.
"Thomas, what are you doing here?"
•••