Lover Reborn

It was more accurate than what had been before, though. False order, preserved out of a refusal to move on, was a dangerous kind of lie.

You’re really going to sell the property? he signed.

“Yeah. Fritz is calling the Realtor as soon as the business day gets rolling. Unless… well, if you and Xhex want it, it goes without saying—”

No, I agree with you. Time to let it go.

“Listen, I want to see if you can take the next couple of nights off? There’s a lot still to do here, and I like having you with me.”

Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.

“Good. That’s good.”

The two of them stared at each other. I guess it’s time to go.

Tohr nodded slowly. “Yeah, son. It really is.”

Without another word, the pair of them stepped out of the front door, locked up… and dematerialized back to the mansion.

As his molecules scattered, John felt like there should have been some kind of proclamation or exchange between them that was momentous, some conversational flag in the sand, a grave, milestone-y recitation of… something.

Then again, he supposed the healing process, in contrast to trauma, was gentle and slow…

The soft closing of a door, rather than a slam.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Several nights after Autumn arrived at Xhex’s cabin, a towel changed everything.

It was just a white hand towel, fresh from the dryer, destined to be rehung in the aboveground bathroom and used by either one of them. Nothing special. Nothing that Autumn hadn’t handled either at the Brotherhood mansion or up in the Sanctuary over the course of decades and decades and decades.

But that was the point.

As she held it in her hands, feeling the warmth and the soft nap, she began to think of all the laundry she had done. And the trays of food she had delivered to the Chosen. And the bedding platforms she had made. And the stacks of johnnies and scrubs and towels…

Years and years of maid service that she had been proud to do…

You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries.

“I have not.” She refolded the towel. And unfolded it again.

As her hands made work for themselves, Tohr’s angry voice refused to yield. In fact, it got even louder in her head as she went out and saw the floors gleaming from her hand-polishing, and the windows sparkling, and the kitchen neat as a pin.

That symphath was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault—

“Stop it!” she hissed, clamping her hands on her ears. “Just stop it!”

Alas, the desire to become deaf was thwarted. As she limped around the small house, she was trapped not by the confines of the roof and walls, but by Tohrment’s voice.

The trouble was, no matter where she went or what she looked at, there was something she had scrubbed or straightened or buffed right in front of her. And her plans for the night had included more of the same, even though there was no demonstrable need for any more cleaning.

Eventually, she forced herself to sit down in one of the two chairs that faced the river. Extending her leg, she looked down at the calf that had not looked right or worked right for such a very long time.

You enjoy being the victim—you’re all about it.

Three nights, she thought. It had taken her three nights to move into this place and slip right into the role of maid—

Actually, no, she had started in as soon as she had woken up after that first sunset.

Sitting by herself, she breathed in the lemon-scented fragrance of furniture polish and felt an overwhelming need to get up, find a rag, and start wiping tabletops and counters. Which was part of her pattern, wasn’t it.

With a curse, she forced herself to stay seated as a replay of that horrid conversation with Tohrment churned through her brain again and again.…

Immediately after he had left, she had been in shock. Next had come great waves of anger.

Tonight, however, she actually heard his words. And considering she was surrounded by evidence of her behavior, it was hard to dispute what he had said.

He was right. Cruel though the expression of the truth had been, Tohrment was right.

Although she had couched it all in terms of service to others, her “duties” had been less of a penance, more of a punishment. Every time she had cleaned up after others, or bowed her head under that hood, or shuffled off to stay unnoticed, there had been a satisfying lick of pain in her heart, a little cut that would heal nearly as quickly as it was inflicted.…

Ten thousand slices, over too many years to count.

In fact, none of the Chosen had ever told her to clean up after them. Nor had the Scribe Virgin. She had done it herself, casting her own existence in the mold of worthless servant, bowing and scraping over millennia.

And all because of…

An image of that symphath came back to her, and for a brief moment she remembered the smell of him, and the feel of his too slick skin, and the sight of his six-fingered hands on her flesh.

Yet as bile rose up in her throat, she refused to give in to it. She had given him and those memories far too much weight for far too many years…

Abruptly, she pictured herself in her room at her father’s manse, right before she had been abducted, ordering around the doggen, unsatisfied by everything around her.

She’d gone from madam to maid by her own choice, pitching herself between the two extremes of unqualified superiority and self-enforced inferiority. That symphath had been the binding agent, his violence linking the ends of the spectrum such that in her mind one flowed from the other, tragedy overtaking the entitlement and leaving in its wake a ruined female who had made suffering her new status quo.

Tohrment was right: She had punished herself ever since then… and denying the drugs during her needing had been part and parcel of that: She had chosen that pain, just as she had picked her low station in society, just as she had given herself to a male who could never, ever be hers.

I’ve been using you, and the only person it’s working for is you—it’s gotten me nowhere. The good news is that this whole thing is going to give you a great excuse to torture yourself even longer.…

The urge to attack some manner of dirt, to scrub with her palms until sweat beaded upon her brow, to work until her back ached and her leg screamed was so strong, she had to grip the arms of the chair to keep herself where she was.

“Mahmen?”

She twisted around and tried to pull herself out of the spiral. “Daughter mine, how fare thee?”

“I’m sorry I’ve gotten home so late. Today was… busy.”

“Oh, that is fine. May I get you something to—” She stopped herself. “I…”

The force of habit was so strong, she found herself holding on to the chair again.

“It’s okay, Mahmen,” Xhex murmured. “You don’t need to wait on me. I don’t want you to, actually.”

Autumn brought a shaking hand up to the tail end of her braid. “I feel quite undone this evening.”

“I can sense that.” Xhex came forward, her leather-clad body strong and sure. “And I know why, so you don’t have to explain. It’s good to let things go. You have to if you want to move forward in your life.”