Chapter 2
I finally discerned the faint outline of the shop's sign, its promise of six silvers luring me closer like a siren's call. My progress faltered as my gaze drifted to a lavish carriage parked just a short distance away, its elegant frame adorned with the unmistakable seal of the Vaneeri family. What business could Duchess Millicent Vaneeri have in Zalvanica? Surely, her attentions were required in her own grand duchy of Ivoryspire. Whatever, it was none of my affair.
As I approached the portrait shop, the carriage doors opened, and out leapt a boy, no more than four or five years old. The boy's laughter rang out as he dashed about, playing with a maid. His hair was stark white, but it was his eyes that truly held me captive. Crimson. White hair was rare but not unheard of. Red eyes, however, were an unmistakable mark of the Vaneeri bloodline. No one with a functioning mind could fail to recognize such a singular trait.
It required little deduction to determine his identity. This was Vincent Vaneeri, the Duchess's heir. The stories of her sudden acquisition of a son had reached Zalvanica some years ago. Whispers had swirled about his mysterious origins, though none had dared to question her outright.
Gossip about the nobility usually held as much appeal for me as a stale loaf of bread. My focus returned to the portrait shop until my wandering eye caught sight of a newspaper stall nearby. Bold letters leapt out at me: "Princess Charlotte of Landfox Is the First in History to Wed Another Woman!"
Alright, I admit it, I lied earlier. This gossip had my undivided attention. I fumbled for two coppers, thrust them into the stall owner's hand, and snatched the paper. Scanning the page, I found the second line in slightly smaller print: "The mysterious woman revealed to be twenty-two-year-old Cecilia Gorhan, a slave bound with Zar!"
Zar… the stone infamous for its role in crafting permanent slave contracts. Zar-bound contracts bind slaves for life, no matter how much parchment you tore. Worse still, the contracts could be split among multiple masters, turning the enslaved into commodities of shared ownership. A single flame could incinerate such a contract and, with it, the slave's very life.
It was a vile practice, outlawed in Ivoryspire under Duchess Millicent Vaneeri's edict, though the rest of the world was not so enlightened. Zar was still traded brazenly in markets here in Zalvanica. There was the less cruel alternative: Vessit stones. Contracts bound by Vessit could be torn, freeing the enslaved, but such kindness was rarely chosen when Zar was available.
Among the nobility, slaves were as common as porcelain, their servitude marked by a magic black seal on the front of their necks. It disgusted me.
I had been lucky. In my most vulnerable moments, I had been found by Kyle and not by a slave trader. Had fate been less merciful, I might have worn that black seal myself.
Back to the newspaper. My heart leapt with joy. Cecilia. She was beautiful, and I do not say this merely because we grew up together.
Jet-black long hair, a vivid contrast to her fair, porcelain-like skin. Her face was a vision of gentleness, an oval perfection with large black eyes, a delicate nose, and lips so full and rosy they seemed perpetually on the brink of a smile.
Cecilia was the anchor to my tempest. Whenever my temper flared, and it often did, she was there to soothe me with her calm presence and measured words. She did everything for me, and in turn, I did everything for her. There were no secrets between us. We ate together, bathed together, and at night, we would sleep in the same bed. For over a decade, we lived like that. We were each other's world.
How we ended up separated is a tale so tragic that it would no doubt inspire bards to compose overwrought ballads, twisting the truth for the sake of drama. They would sing of two lovers torn apart by cruel fate, embellishing every detail until our story bore little resemblance to reality. Shame on them.
"Miss?"
A voice jolted me from my thoughts. I looked up to find a man standing before me. His expression was one of cautious concern.
"Pardon me," he continued, "but are you quite alright?"
It was only then that I noticed the handkerchief he extended toward me. My gaze fell to it, then shifted to his face. "Huh?"
He gestured toward my cheeks. "You appear… distressed."
Confused, I blinked at him. It was only then that I felt the dampness on my cheeks, a sensation I had been too lost to notice before. My gaze dropped further still, and there, lying forgotten on the ground, was the newspaper I had been clutching moments ago.
My fingers moved almost of their own accord, brushing my cheek, where they met with unmistakable wetness. I lifted them into view. Tears. These were tears.