A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

To this day, I often times fought the impulse to look behind me, to make sure that Death wasn’t standing there in the dark, touching me with his icy fingers—lying in wait to drag me back. The impulse was pulling on my body now as I glanced out at the dark ocean waves.

I wasn’t fearful of the place I’d been. I was afraid of the feelings that crawled out of the dark corners of my mind, whispering their longing to return. To shrug off my dress and walk into the water until there was nothing but waves lapping at the shore. Or better yet, cut my wrist and let the blood drip, drip, drip.

My grandmother had always said you can only conquer a fear by throwing yourself into the fire. I hadn’t the guts yet to walk myself into these dark flames. I’d been there once before and barely made it out alive. Besides, there wasn’t a reason to do it, if you knew you could never return.

Now, time was measured differently than when I’d been in the dark. It was the same as it had been before icy blue eyes and blood-stained hands.

The church bell rang in six, slow dongs throughout the darkening city, announcing the evening hour. A small breeze blew off the ocean, a relief against Symbia’s sticky, hot air.

At this hour, the city was quiet—the never-ending lilt of its ghostly instrument so commonplace it faded underneath the sounds of the rats in dark street corners, the ringing of laundry as it was hung to dry on lines above the alleyways, and the shallow puffs on cheroots or traditional pipes.

Sometimes it grew so silent—everyone tight in their homes for the evening meal—that the indiscernible music came to the forefront again, as though its tune drifted down the street, knocking on residents’ doors to remind them it was still there—that it still played. Then, they wondered what would happen if the music ever stopped. For all the city’s people knew, once the music ceased, so would the sun.

Standing on the roof of the magistrate’s house, was the best view of the city. The residence maintained its reputable, rich air with its stone walls and the soft trickling of a fountain below in the middle of the home where an open courtyard sat. Though, its placement near the south side of town allowed the smell of garbage and spicy Southie cooking to cover the soft scent of the jasmine vines.

The last gong of the bell reverberated through the air, and I swept my gaze across the city. The tall steeple of the church was to my left, while the palace sat on my right. The ocean straight ahead with the dark silhouettes of a few ships sitting on the water.

A deep, masculine laugh reached my ears, and I followed the sound, walking across the roof to the front of the home. I looked down at two of the king’s men guarding the front door. I say ‘guarding’ lightly, because one was taking a piss, and the other was lighting a cheroot from a lantern.

The man, spraying an overly wide stream, chuckled. “Was it worth it?”

Letting out a puff of smoke, the king’s guard shook his head. “Barely got out alive. ‘Bout got my cock chopped off, in fact. Awkward situation getting home without my pants, got some nasty looks. Bloody wench never told me she was pledged.”

“Like you would have cared,” said the other guard as he buttoned up his pants.

“I do when the pledged is twice my size.”

His friend chuckled.

“I don’t think I believe it.”

Their heads whipped toward my voice, seeing me standing above them in my hooded cloak. One guard only took a puff on his cheroot, unsurprised.

The other narrowed his gaze on me. “Ei, how many times have we told you to stay off the roof?”

“Close to five,” I said indifferently.

Steady, the king’s guard with the cheroot, who I knew got the name from his charm with the ladies, took a lazy drag, a sly smile pulling on his lips. “So, what is it? You don’t believe I can get a woman? Or you don’t think I got disapproving looks in the buff?”

He was confident it wouldn’t be the latter, it seemed.

“Neither. I just merely think it would be difficult to find that small target to try and chop it off.” Yea, it was a cheap shot. But it’s all I had at the moment, and everyone knew the best way to anger a man was to question the size of his manhood.

Steady choked on some smoke. While his friend’s laughter was instantaneous—my next target.

“You know, Gregory,” I started, his amusement faltering as I called him by his real name and not Tuko, the only name his friends called him, “I heard the magistrate’s wife going on about finding out who’s been relieving themselves on her gardenia bush. Said she’s just short of hiring a street runner to off the culprit.”

r /> His jaw tightened. “And how did you hear her ‘going on’ about that?”

It was a good question, considering Beatrice was a recluse who’d never left her house . . .

I lifted a shoulder. “She’s awful chatty in the morning after her first cup of wine. Did you know she drinks like a fish? I don’t blame her, though. It’s good wine if I do say so myself.”

Steady chuckled, eyeing his friend. “Gregory, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he responded before shooting a narrowed gaze at me, his hands on his hips. “You saying you been in their home?”

I pursed my lips. “Well, there’s a trellis leading right down into the courtyard. It’s basically an invitation for a meal at their table.”