To Bewitch a Devil

165 Familiar scent

Panged with fury and a shame she had no business feeling, Pen stepped out from the shadows of the alcove. The unexpectedness of her presence caused screams from the gossiping maids, and Phoebe, after collecting herself together, twisted her mouth into an unrepentant snarl.

“If it isn’t our Lord’s favorite pet herself,” she commented with a chuckle.

Penelope flicked off the comment as she would do to a mosquito’s bite; minuscule, but it still stung. She proceeded to walk down the stairs, ignoring them, but Phoebe was right behind her heels.

“You do know you are the fiftieth lady I would see the Master sleep with this year alone?” Phoebe asked. Penelope heard the giggles from the other maids, boosting Phoebe’s jeers, but she kept walking.

“Yes, we have a game where we count the women who have walked into Master’s bedroom, but you, you were a sneaky little one, acting as if you were better than all of them,” there was venom in her tone, but it sounded like a desperate kind of jealousy in Pen’s ears. “You acted all high and mighty when you knew he was staring at you at all times, but the second he turns away, you are going after him like the little whore you are!”

Phoebe was not prepared for the slap that landed on her face. It happened so fast and hard that she let out a yelp like a wounded dog. The other maids stopped laughing, mouths hung open at the two of them; an attacked Phoebe, a fuming Penelope.

Penelope closed the gap between her and the boisterous maid. Her palm throbbed from the pain, but she would worry about that later. An attack on her honor was out of the question, and it was almost involuntary how her hand had made contact with Phoebe’s face. Never had she hit anyone in her life.

“Don’t ever call me a whore.” Penelope warned. She eyed the other two maids, and they were sensible enough to keep walking away from the scene, and no doubt, a new fire of a rumor would blow around the estate.

But Penelope didn’t have time to dwell on that. She resumed her walk down the stairs, leaving a stunned Phoebe behind.

.....

….

The sun broke in the sky like an egg yolk, and the rhythm of brooms sweeping by the maids below floated in through Neera’s window, merging with the morning crows and the cadence of the songs of different birds perched on branches of trees.

Jasmine was not bad company, and if anything, Neera had grown to love her like a friend. When Zavian was away, Jasmine was there, and Neera could tell it gave the King relief to have the Queen around her. Jasmine had brought books to read to Neera, and in her mellifluous voice, Neera had found a more peaceful lull to sleep devoid of nightmares.

For more than a week, Jasmine had had most lunches with her up in her room, and Neera watched with fascination as dainty fingers spread jam on bread in a swift motion, the noiseless stirring of her tea, the quiet way she chewed and swallowed —it was like watching elegance take a form. She spoke about her Kingdom, Selesee, stories that Neera looked forward to listening to more than anything, and Jasmine gorged her on the riches of the land, the thicket of forests that bordered it on the outskirts, and the easy way people looked out for each other, altruism as innate as living.

But she missed Zavian, and there were days she would love to seek him out in every room in the castle till she found him, and curl up in her arms, and feel his fingers run through her hair. No words exchanged, just companionable silence, just to have him near. He didn’t let her in on his need for his recent travels and meetings. He didn’t want to burden her with unnecessary details when she should be resting.

As much as she found a new kind of love, she wanted to speak with the King. The urgency with which she had woken that morning had been at its peak, and she left her chambers, reaching for the double doors and opening them quietly.

The stoic face of the guards blinked at her and she stared back at them before whisking past them.

She darted down the passageway and skipped two stairs at a time before the guards could process that they were supposed to stop her.

Neera reached the meeting room first. She pushed open the large oak doors and called out his name, “Zavian?” Silence answered her in return. She could hear the guards now, booted feet thumping not too far away.

Her legs carried her across the castle and down the stairs, and she could hear the hurriedness in the footsteps of her chasers now, but she was quick. She reeled across the courtyard and into the stables, and there, brushing the mane of his stallion, the white hair falling to the side in silky waves, was the King himself.

Zavian looked up upon seeing her. “Neera?”

She ran to him and held onto his arm as the guards came to a stop upon entry after her. Their chests heaved in breathing, and their greetings came out raspy.

“Your Majesty,” the shorter one spoke. “We were just trying to tell the Lady…”

“It’s alright,” Zavian cut them off. “She’s with me now.”

Neera watched as the guards walked out, clearly relieved at their almost failed duties. A small victory at winning them shot in her. Once out of sight, she threw her arms around Zavian, her nose buried in his neck, the smell of hay clinging to him.

As she lowered back to the flat of her feet, she buried her nose in his tunic, and there, hidden like a lover, was the familiar scent of Jasmine.

Unbridled rage awoke in her, she moved back only with miraculous strings of patience.