But that didn't mean he couldn't touch. It didn't mean he couldn't hurt.
As I fought the shudder in my limbs at the thought, the Mist Guard moved on, tormenting another harvester as he finally turned his attention away from me. I heaved a sigh of relief, drawing a small measure of comfort in the fact that I hadn't been whipped for moving too slowly. On the last day of the harvest, all of us were bone-tired and exhausted, ready to drop and sleep for a week. The end of the day couldn't come soon enough.
"Brann," I hissed at my brother under my breath as he shoved two of the twilight berries into his pocket. He was lucky they hadn't torn yet with all the times he’d stolen the fruits from the King's Garden, risking his hand for a few bites of the luxury he would have never tasted otherwise. "They'll catch you one of these days."
"Relax, baby sister," he said with a hushed laugh, seeming entirely unconcerned about the watchful eyes of the Mist Guard as they walked through the paths in the garden. "No one will notice two missing berries in the rush to complete the harvest."
"And yet that will not stop them from taking your hand if they catch you stealing," I snapped, irritated with his recklessness. He judged me for my propensity for going on midnight walks in the woods, yet he risked everything for a few bites of fruit. Not only would he lose his hand, but he would lose all the favor I'd curried for him over the years with Lord Byron. Favor that had come at a great expense to me personally.
Horrifyingly enough, no matter what the price might be, or how unimaginable it seemed in the nights when my body slicked with sweat and I couldn't sleep, for fear of what memories would haunt my dreams, working at the edge of the Veil was a far more terrifying prospect. I'd heard rumors of the plants that grew just before the shimmering curtain itself—that they were nearly as likely to eat you as you were them. If you survived those, there was the magic-induced sickness that stole the youth from a person's flesh and reduced them to little more than skin-covered bones.
"Fine. Then I guess I won't need to share with you later, will I?" he asked with a smug grin, knowing very well the twilight berries had once been my favorite as a girl. I'd adored the hint of luxury during those first days after my father’s death, when Lord Byron summoned me to his library to have the Priestess tutor me privately. Had it not been for the way the Lord of Mistfell had ruined their sweetness, turning it sour with his bad intentions, they would have still been my favorite. Brann's eyes darkened as my skin went cold, watching as I reached into the bush and wrapped my hand around another berry. A thorn caught in the skin on the back of my hand, pulling free from the branch and embedding itself in me when I jolted back and hissed.
I pulled my hand out of the bush slowly, careful not to drop the berry clutched in my fingers as I shoved away the memory of whispered promises against my skin about the life I could have if only I was patient. If only I could overlook the details that made a relationship between us both impossible and disgusting.
Like his wife, his age being twice mine, and the fact that he'd forced me to watch as the High Priest slit my father's throat and sacrificed his life to the Veil.
Those little details.
I winced as I caught sight of my hand, depositing the berry into the basket and setting the entire thing on the ground as gently as I could. The thorn buried in my skin went deeper than I'd hoped, the flesh moving around it as I spread my fingers. More blood welled from around the edges of the thorn, staining my skin as I touched a tentative finger to the wound.
"You really must be more careful, Lady Estrella," a male voice said from behind me. My body stilled as dread sank inside my heart, and I watched from the corner of my eye as Brann turned his attention back to the twilight berries with renewed energy.
I turned slowly, dropping my gaze to the ground respectfully as my knees dipped into a curtsy, my dirty, bloodstained hands clutched at the edges of my worn pea-green dress. "With all respect, my Lord, we both know that I am no Lady," I said, rising to full height but keeping my eyes averted in an attempt to show him the respect he believed he deserved.
"Patience," he murmured, taking a few steps closer to me and taking my hand in his. He pinched the thorn between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it free slowly as my lips twisted in a pained grimace.
He watched the hole it left fill with blood, transfixed, enjoying the sight of my suffering and knowing it would give him a reason to tend to my injuries in the privacy of his library later tonight. "Will you allow me to clean this for you later?" he asked, raising his brow.
He might have phrased it like a question, but it was really nothing less than a demand for my company that night. "I apologize, my Lord, but I must admit I am exhausted after the harvest," I said. He studied my face, undoubtedly reading the truth in the circles under my eyes.
"Very well. Tomorrow then," he said, smiling lightly as he bent forward to touch his mouth to the wound on the back of my hand. His lips were stained with my blood by the time he pulled away, sliding his tongue out to lick them clean.
"Tomorrow," I agreed, hating the words the moment they left my mouth. I wanted nothing more than to tell him to tend to his wife's health instead of spending his time with me, but I kept my mouth shut and turned back to the twilight berry bushes.
Because duty came first.
2
The luminescence of the Veil came with the setting of the sun and with it my inability to sleep. Gleaming in the moonlight, it drew me toward the window of my small, cramped bedroom until my breath fogged the glass. My father’s last words rang in my head as they always did, calling me to the freedom of the night and the temptation of what might wait for me outside this miserable village.
Fly free, Little Bird.
I curled my threadbare quilt tighter around my shoulders, attempting to chase away the chill as the late autumn air filtered through the gaps at the edges of the window. After my father had died, I’d stuffed scraps of old cloth from outgrown dresses into the holes many winters ago in a pathetic attempt to keep the coldest of winter nights from entering my protection from the elements.
In the fall, I could almost convince myself that it was enough. But once winter well and truly arrived, I would join my brother on the floor in front of the fire while my mother slept nearby in the wheeled chair Lord Byron had fashioned for her after my father’s sacrifice.