Author's note
: this is only a part of a much longer story. Amelyn was once the princess of Farish, until a coup ousted her family. Shadruck, the new regent of Farish, kept her a prisoner, until a soft-spoken and mysterious man calling himself Josset helped her escape. Now, he accompanies her across the border of Farish into neighboring Alstaire, where she hopes to find her banished brother and escape Shadruck's men. We join them on the first full moon of their journey; Josset has enigmatically rented a room that locks from the outside, and has given Amelyn the key, forbidding her to enter no matter how hard he begs. That night, Amelyn goes to his door, woken by his cries.
* * * * *
He had forbidden her to open the door, to even answer his pleas. She looked at the key in her hand, a small silver key. She went to the door and listened.
"Amelyn?" His voice was low, strangely raspy. He sounded ill.
She fell to her knees by the door, leaning against it, closing her eyes. Over the course of their travels he had kept her from harm. She knew what it was to cry piteously to the darkness. She knew what it was to feel as if no one heard. How could she leave him like this, when he had protected her?
"Josset," she whispered to the door. "Josset, are you all right?"
"Amelyn. Please, open the door."
"I promised. I promised I wouldn't."
"I need help. I feel ill. Oh, gods, Amy, it hurts."
"What's wrong?" She laid her forehead on the door. She rested her hand on the knob, cool and hard beneath her fingers.
"I don't know, but I need your help. Please, Amy."
"I promised," she said again, her voice barely a whisper.
Silence met her from the other side of the door.
"Josset?"
No answer.
She stood. She looked at the key he had given her. Silver in her palm, cutting slightly into her skin.
"Josset, I'm coming." It went smoothly in. She opened the door.
The room was dark, save a single candle flickering on the bedside table. The bed was made, golden coverlet taut across the mattress. Josset was nowhere to be seen.
"Josset?"
The hairs on the back of her neck, newly exposed to the world, lifted high. She wished she had not cut her hair; she wished she had left it to hide behind, to protect her scarred back, her soft neck. "Josset, where are you?"
"My poor girl. Did I not tell you to keep the door locked?"
Amelyn turned to face the door. He stood behind the open door. His hair, long and black, covered his face.
"Josset?" she whispered.
"Well," he said. "In a manner of speaking."
As he turned she staggered back, tripping against the bed and sitting abruptly upon the mattress. His face, always thin, flickered weirdly in the light, dangerous and lean. His usually dark eyes glittered gold, the eyes of a nocturnal hunter. His fingernails had grown, sharpened into claws. He had grown so pale the scar across his cheek nearly disappeared.
Amelyn gripped her skirt. She had promised not to come in. He had made her promise over and over and probably for good reason. And now she was here.
"Are you ill? Josset, what has happened to you?"
"Never mind that." His eyes danced over her face, something playful and malicious caught in their golden light. "I thank you, sweet girl, for opening the door. I thought you would not. I thought perhaps you would be too afraid."
She could not remove her eyes from his face. It was still beautiful, though it held a different kind of beauty. It no longer contained the cold, restrained calm, no longer the same elegant subtlety. Now his face was hungry, amused, scornful. He looked like a half-starved wolf.
"I'm not afraid," she said. It was a lie.
His eyes widened in laughter. "No? Most maids would be. Most maids would be halfway to the constable by now."
Her eyes fell to her lap, to the plain brown cloth of her traveling dress. "I am no maid."
"No." His voice was soft, strangely gentle and cruel at the same time. "I suppose you aren't."
The mattress bobbed beneath her, and when she looked up he was next to her, this new and vicious Josset. His eyes skated over her face, over her short dark locks and heart-shaped face, and, unless it were her imagination, her bodice, the plain low-cut dress of a commoner that was her disguise, that left the tops of her white round breasts exposed. She felt her cheeks color. Her eyes dropped back to her lap.
"Tell me," he said, not a request but a command.
She glanced at him. "Tell you what?"
"Tell me what they did to you. Tell me, did you acquire a taste for rape?"
She stood quickly, her cheeks on fire. "No." Her voice wobbled. She began backing away. This could not be Josset. He was sick or under enchantment.
But then she saw his eyes: strangely kind, strangely commanding.
"No," he said softly. "No, I suppose it was not like that. Sit. Tell me."
Without knowing why, she sat, keeping her distance from his warm flesh. She looked at her lap. She fumbled for language, and then spoke.
"It hurt," she said, her voice very low. "It hurt. Shadruck...did it first, before his court. They cheered and...called me names." Tears began flowing down her cheeks as she remembered, fat hot tears of embarrassment and helplessness. "Then he gave me to his men. And...it was like I wasn't even there. They took me like I wasn't even there. They didn't want me because I was beautiful or well-bred or kind, they did it because they wanted to debase my family, debase my kingdom. They wanted to hurt my people and so I became...a way to do that." She had not said any of this out loud before, had not spoken of her treatment at the hands of the regent. Something in her chest felt loose, open. She felt exposed to Josset in a way she could not explain. Again she felt Shadruck's hands, squeezing her breasts, squeezing her throat. She felt the shame of her nakedness and her father's defeat.
Suddenly Josset's lips were on her cheek, on her forehead, on her chin. Kissing her tears as they fell. His lips just soft for a moment on her skin, and then moving somewhere else. She stopped crying, stared at him.
