She arrives at Forwinter's estate suddenly, without warning anyone, but she is welcomed. Ahayut, asking about the road - she responds sparingly and unambiguously. A week after moving she spends as if in a heavy dream - walks, smiles, talks to her sister and other residents of the house - but feels nothing. The telegraph does not work, there is no news from home. Leaving the dining room, she accidentally lets a heavy door out of her hands, and the door, picked up by the draught, slams with a deafening rumble. The sister flinches with her whole body and, scrounging through the room with some wild, hounding look, presses her daughter in a protective gesture.
- It's just the wind.
So without letting the child out of a convulsive embrace, the sister smiles unsurely, looking at her with flushed, crying eyes, and she involuntarily thinks: as she would have done in her place. In memory with sharp, painful brightness the events of six months ago come to light.
- You have wonderful children, - gem lord descends into the chair with a careless grace of predator. - The war-torn province is no place for such young creatures. I think life in the capital would be a much better option for them.
The look of silver eyes slides down her body like a snake - so frankly that it leaves no chance to be misinterpreted. She physically wants to shake it off and trample it, but instead she just squeezes her fingers so that her fingernails fit into her palms. The capital has the deceased husband's family, the capital does not need any medicine or food, the capital is not bombarded by artillery, whose howling is heard above the roof of the estate every night...
She bows her head in silence as a token of her agreement.
* * *
In the evenings, all the inhabitants of the estate gather together. She sits in a knitting chair, trying not to talk.
- Peter returned today. He asked to go and see his family. And the village is empty - the old Forwinter's voice is quiet and rattling, but it can be heard in every corner of the spacious living room - houses are burned down, and where the residents are unknown.
The gem lord has thin fingers with rings. Always cold. He never hurts her, his movements are always accurate and perfectly calibrated. Even at the peak of passion it seems that he performs a complex ritual, the meaning of which eludes her. She continues to fulfill his desires, not even trying to understand the essence of what is happening, every time until the last resisting the wave of pleasure that rolls on her against the will. She hates herself for this weakness - and there is nothing she can do about it.
Gem Lord continues to come to the estate almost every day, and somewhere on the edge of her consciousness beats a painful misunderstanding - what did he find in her?
But time goes by, one day is replaced by another, and somehow imperceptibly this question ceases to matter to her.
* * *
Morning starts with a headache. It comes out on the porch, painfully squinting at the bright light.
- Here you go! Here's the damn color for you, on, get it! - The scream makes her tremble. She doesn't want to go, but for some reason she goes to the ringing voice coming from the backyard, where the guys were crowded. The stick in the hands of his cousin's cousin is spinning at an incredible speed. His attack is swift and ruthless, from the clay army in all directions flying shards, and the hero is already up to his ears in the red dust. A handful of his peers look at the unequal battle, admiringly opening their mouths. The last of the enemies is defeated, and the boy proudly throws his weapon to the faded sky.
- When I grow up, I will be a great military leader! I will drive gem lords to Tsetaganda itself, and I will put their emperor in a cage and drive them through the streets!
She slowly retreats backwards, unwittingly touching the dagger of a for-lady hanging on her belt.
A month later, the gem lord stays on the estate for the first time until morning. The face without the usual bright divorces of make-up seems to be deprived of age and its strange, inhuman beauty fascinates. She looks at him without having to break away - until the candles burn out, plunging the bedroom into darkness. And then, until dawn, he lies awake listening to his even breath and squeezing the dagger handle under the pillow.
In the morning she carefully puts the dagger on the table near the bed.
Gem Lord, of course, notices. For a moment, she is stopped by a gaze of silver and says nothing.
to be continued...