Jeweled (33 page)

Anatol cupped her shoulders, his heat warming her back. “It will be all right, Evangeline. No matter what happens, Gregorio and I will be there for you. Always.”

She closed her eyes. Who in her life had ever been there for her always?
No one
. So how could she believe that he and Gregorio would always be there? Still, it was a nice lie; one she needed to believe right now. She covered his hand with hers. “Thank you.”

Eventually she went to sit on one of the chairs, Anatol on one side and Gregorio on the other. Having them with her was a comfort with which she didn’t want to become too at ease.

In so many ways she felt like a small child crossing a ravine on a tightrope. How could she know where to step? How could she know what emotions to trust? What emotions would betray her? She’d never in her life had anyone to trust and now these two men swore she could trust them.

It seemed too good to be true, and she had no experience with
good
at all.

 

 

They reached Malbask, the capital city of Cherkhasii, by midnight. Fatigued by the constant rumbling of the transport—yet oddly still invigorated by the experience of seeing Rylisk through the large window of their compartment—Evangeline followed the men out of the station to Gregorio’s carriage, which would take them to a hotel. He had stored it on the train for the long trip to Malbask. It would take them the rest of the way to her parents’ farm, about a five hour ride from the city.

The streets of the small city of Malbask were utterly silent this late at night, all the shutters of the houses and shops shut tight against the dark. It was as if the revolution had never touched this place, but as they rolled past the former province ambassador’s mansion, she saw the evidence that it had. The great house sat desolate on the top of the hill, its windows and porches smashed, rotten food smearing its once regal brick walls. At least the house was still standing; she was certain its former occupants were not.

The hotel was a narrow building, fitted between a cookshop and a dressmaker. It wasn’t up to the standards of Belai, of course, but it was several steps above the hovel she’d stayed in with Anatol.

A tall, gaunt man with almost no hair helped Gregorio and Anatol get their bags upstairs. The three of them were sharing a room. The hotel owner didn’t even raise an eyebrow, though such three-way relationships were not as common in the rural parts of the provinces as they were in the cities.

After the man set a fire in the hearth and Gregorio tipped him, he left the room with a merry good night, even though it was closer to morning.

Evangeline stifled a yawn and began to take off her clothes. Sleep on the transport had been difficult for several reasons—not the least of which was her growing anxiousness about tomorrow morning. She wondered how many other Jeweled were going through this same thing—finding their long-lost families and hoping against all hope that they weren’t rejected by them.

She turned and looked at the bed. Gregorio had collapsed in a chair by the fire and Anatol stood at the window, looking out at the black. A light rain had begun to fall against the glass. She walked toward him. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight. My stomach is in a knot.”

Gregorio stood and walked to her. “We can leave if you want, Evangeline. If you don’t think you’re ready to do this. We’ll just call it a jaunt to the countryside on the steam transport as a vacation and have done with it. Go home.”

“But don’t you want to meet them, Evangeline?” asked Anatol. “You’ve come this far and it’s been so long.”

“I’m afraid.” She pressed her lips together. “What if they don’t want me?”

Gregorio tipped her chin up. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t want you?”

Her lower lip trembled and she steeled herself. “With the return of my emotions comes the possibility I could be hurt so badly I would never recover. It makes me want to draw in on myself, make a little hard shell all around me.”

“That’s the nature of emotion,” said Anatol. “Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it hurts. It’s always a gamble. As we grow up, it’s a thing we all learn to deal with. You’re just learning how to deal with it a little later than others.” Anatol paused. “I think you should stay, Evangeline, and face whatever may come tomorrow. We’ll be there for you.”

Yes, so he kept saying. She knew he meant it, but the world worked in a different way. Much harsher than that.

Not telling him what she really thought, she smiled at him and looked out the window. The rain was coming down heavier now, making thick rivulets down the pane of glass. It was a good thing they’d arrived at the hotel when they did. “I’ll stay,” she said finally. “I need the answers to many questions; questions I never knew I wanted to ask before the revolution. I want to know what happened when I was a child and whether or not they truly cared for me.”

“And no matter what happens tomorrow,” said Gregorio, who had come to stand beside her, “we do care about you.”

“With all our hearts,” said Anatol.

Anatol pulled her against his chest and she snuggled into his strength and heat, watching the rain come down while the fire crackled and snapped in the hearth behind them.

 

 

Gregorio sat in the chair near the sputtering fire in the early hours of the morning, while Anatol and Evangeline lay tangled together on the big bed. Evangeline had finally fallen asleep laying in between them, though it had taken her a long time to free herself of the anxiousness of her thought patterns.

He couldn’t sleep at all, worrying about tomorrow on Evangeline’s behalf. She seemed so fragile. Any rejection she received now would be devastating to her. Everything that Gregorio had read about her family pointed to a situation like Anatol’s, but they wouldn’t know for certain until tomorrow. He was nervous because she was nervous.

Anatol tightened his grip around Evangeline’s waist and nuzzled his nose into her hair. Evangeline and Anatol had a bond that he would never share. The experience of being taken from their families at such a young age and being raised at Belai had given them a special link. Gregorio had grown up in a warm household, raised with love and caring.

His family was very proud of him. He’d grown up in a hardscrabble part of Milzyr, in the shadow of Belai. His family had been poor, yet noble-blooded, giving them a highborn surname. What his family had lacked in wealth they’d made up for with strong, solid minds. His father had always encouraged Gregorio and his sister to get a good education, and any extra money they’d been able to raise had gone toward this purpose.

His sister had received a good education just as he had, something poorer families normally didn’t provide for their female children. Their father and mother had always encouraged them to think for themselves, to challenge authority, and to always believe that their lives could be better through hard work.

Most importantly, their parents had taught him and his sister to dream.

Thanks to his father, Gregorio had been able to go on to the university. He’d gone on to teach, at least until the royals had caught wind of his democratic leanings and fired him. After that he’d written books, handed out leaflets.

Started a revolution.

He passed a hand over his face. His father was so proud of him—executions and all.

His mother was gone now, from a sickness that had taken her a few winters back. She’d never lived to see the revolution he’d helped to incite, but she would have been proud, too. His sister, Sophia, was married to a scholar who enjoyed her outspoken and educated nature.

In many ways, Evangeline reminded him of his sister. Evangeline was very intelligent—if not educated, though she seemed keen to learn—and very outspoken. He’d known only a few women in his life who would tell him exactly where he stood instead of mincing words and prancing around the truth in order to try and please him. That was one of the reasons he was so attracted to her and had been from the first.

Evangeline woke a little and poked her head up, eyes drowsy and hair lusciously tousled from their hands. “Gregorio, come back to bed.”

He went to her, snuggling in against her other side. Her body was warm, soft, and sleepy. She molded to him so sweetly.

“I wanted to tell you,” she whispered, “I’m reading your books.”

“You are?” He kissed her temple. “I thought you said you never would.”

She smiled. “Things change.”

“And what do you think of them?”

Her smile widened in a teasing way. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty to discuss when you’re through,” he replied wryly.

“Oh, you can be sure.”

Then she settled against his chest, her ear near his heart, and closed her eyes. He curled his body protectively around hers and drifted off to sleep.

The hired carriage let them out at the end of a long, dusty road lined with painted wooden fences. Cows grazed in the pastures stretching to either side.

Evangeline had chosen a dark green velvet dress that buttoned well above the swell of her breasts. She wore a pair of sturdy black button-up boots—happily, since it looked like they were going to be walking quite a ways. An emerald that had been a gift from Gregorio nestled in the hollow of her throat, just above the first button of her dress. For a moment she stared up the road at the buildings she could see in the distance and trembled. Then Anatol took her hand and they started to walk, Gregorio on her other side, and she relaxed a little.

As they approached the first of the dairy barns, she could see scurrying milkmaids wearing aprons and carrying pails. All of them had strange looks to give them, but said nothing as the three of them made their way up the lane toward the main house in the early afternoon sunlight, following the neat, even white fencing. She wondered if they were all hired hands, or if one of them was Arabella, her supposed younger sister?

The house was a large brick affair with porches all around the outside. It was nothing like she’d ever imagined. Throughout her years at Belai, when she’d even bothered to think of her family, she’d imagined pigs and squalor—but warmth and love as well, though that was something she never would have admitted out loud.

In actuality, there was no squalor at all. This seemed like a well-run farm, and a profitable one at that. And there wasn’t a pig in sight.

As they walked toward the front porch of the house, she tried to imagine growing up here. Would she have been happy? Would she be, even now, hurrying around with those milkmaids in the barn, trying to get all the cows milked before twilight?

An older man came out of the house before they’d even stepped onto the stairs. He was tall, sunshiny in color—just like Evangeline—and reed thin. He walked with a limp.

Evangeline’s breath seized in her throat and she went still, staring up at him.

“Can I help you?” the man—her father, she was sure—asked with a scowl on his face. “Got no milk to sell to travelers. It’s all promised to businesses in Malbask.”

Evangeline tried to speak, but emotion stopped up all her words in her throat.

Anatol spoke for her. “Are you Ban Donnelson?”

“I am.” He smacked his lips together, examining them up and down. “Who wants to know?”

She steeled herself and forced the words out of her mouth. “My name is Evangeline Bansdaughter.” She meant to introduce Gregorio and Anatol, too, but she found she suddenly couldn’t speak again. Her throat was too tight.

“Bansdaughter?” He squinted down at her. “Evangeline?” Realization overcame his face. “
You
,” he breathed.

“Evangeline
.
”
Anatol’s voice held a hint of warning, but she ignored him.

She nodded, licked her lips, and started walking up the stairs toward him. This was her
father
. Her mind whirled.

He held up a hand. “Don’t you come any closer. Not a step closer to me, do you hear?”

She stopped on the stairs, confused. He sounded frightened. His emotions
felt
frightened, too. They broke through her excitement as if she’d been pelted with ice cubes.

Anatol started up the steps after her. “Evangeline, come back down here.”

Just then a woman came out of the door behind him and went still, staring at her. When Evangeline had seen her father, she’d assumed instantly that’s where she’d gotten her appearance, but she’d been wrong. This woman, her mother, most assuredly, was the parent from whom she’d received her looks. Evangeline was her spitting image.

“Oh, sweet Joshui,” her mother breathed. “How can it be?”

Evangeline took another step up the stairs, a flash of a memory whizzing through her mind—playing on a rug with wooden blocks while her mother bustled in the kitchen making dinner. Being held in her mother’s arms when she’d been sick as a child, feeling warm and safe and cared for. These were memories triggered by seeing her face.