Chapter 89
We were mere inches from the door of Millicent's study when a voice echoed down the corridor.
"Florence?"
At the sound of it, a violent swell of bile surged up my throat. I swallowed it down.
Millicent turned toward me with a radiant smile, utterly unaware of the darkness that voice conjured in my veins. "My mother has been beside herself with worry since your departure," she said gently.
That witch? Sure.
Annette swept toward us, the very picture of maternal joy, as though I were some long-lost daughter returned from the grave rather than a woman she once quite literally imprisoned. Her green eyes glistened with such skillful imitation of emotion that had Millicent not been present, I would have gleefully rewarded that face with the back of my hand.
"Oh, dearest girl," she whispered, cupping my face with trembling hands.
Trembling hands, is it? Must be the weight of past sins catching up, you vile creature.
I swallowed the urge to recoil and instead offered her a smile.
"Why did you leave us without a word?" she murmured, her voice quivering with false heartbreak. "I was with grief."
And, damn her, she even managed a single, perfectly-timed tear. A tear!
"Mother," Millicent said, "she is here now. Let us not dwell on what is already behind us."
"Ah, yes. Quite right," Annette sniffled, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that I'm certain had never been used for anything more strenuous than theatrical gestures. "Let us celebrate instead. Florence, you must join us for luncheon. I should like to cook for you personally."
Millicent chuckled. "Mother, you've never cooked a day in your life."
"Well, I am starting today! This is a joyous occasion. A cause for culinary endeavor!"
And with that, she flitted off, no doubt to instruct a servant to poison something on her behalf.
I turned toward Millicent with a placid expression, but internally, I was preparing my will.
Millicent watched her mother's retreating figure with a softness I could not, in good conscience, mirror. Her expression was tinged with fondness and then she turned to me, offering a nudge.
"Mother has missed you," she said softly, "nearly as much as I."
Mm. I shall take your word for it.
I offered a smile in reply. I did not wish to taint her moment with my justified disdain.
"Come," she said, opening the door to her study.
The instant I stepped inside, memory surged forth with full force. This room had once been our haven. Annette and her theatrics vanished from my mind as though swept out with the tide. She was not worth the space.
I dropped my cane and flung my arms around Millicent, burying myself in her warmth.
"You have not changed a single thing," I murmured into her shoulder.
Her arms encircled me in return. "If you wish to rearrange anything, the room is yours as much as mine."
"No. Let it remain just as it is."
"As you wish." She kissed my cheek and then guided me to the familiar, lavish sofa by the hearth.
"Wait here a moment," she said, before vanishing through a side door.
Moments later, she returned with a scroll of parchment in one hand, and in the other, a small white box.
She took her seat beside me, placed the scroll in my hands, and let the box rest in her lap.
"Though Zar stones are prohibited," Millicent began, "their magical properties remain very much intact. Years ago, I assembled a discreet team of alchemists, some of the finest minds I could acquire, driven by a single question. What else might they be capable of, if not enslavement?"
Her eyes sparkled, and I could see the satisfaction brimming. "Florence, after years of study and experimentation, we discovered that Zar stones, under precisely controlled conditions, may be used to heal."
"Oh, Millicent!" I all but squealed, tossing the parchment onto the sofa beside me and seizing her hands like an overly emotional governess who had just heard her favorite pupil had married well. "This is revolutionary! With such discovery, your duchy shall thrive for generations! Nay, centuries! Gah! I am positively vibrating with pride!"
She chuckled softly then retrieved the parchment I had so rudely abandoned. "Do roll it out."
"Gladly," I declared, and with great flourish, I unfurled the parchment at once.
What greeted me upon that page was not celebration. It was doom.
There it was: my name, in neat, binding script. Florence Lorynthall. And beneath it, etched in the page like some vile brand of ancient sorcery, a seal. No, not just any seal. A glowing ring, pulsing in a soft, smoky violet hue that practically whispered you are cursed in seventeen forgotten languages.
It moved. It breathed. It was glowing. Why was it glowing?! Paper is not meant to glow!
I dropped the parchment with a horrified yelp, recoiling as though it had grown fangs and bit me.
First of all, how dare a piece of stationary behave in such a demonic fashion. Secondly, why, why was my name on what was unmistakably a servitude contract? Was I being sacrificed? Sold?!
Panic took me. I slapped my hands to my neck in terror, fully convinced the wretched slave seal had already branded itself there like some fashionable execution order. My eye locked onto the mirror across the room, just far enough that I couldn't quite make out the angle of my collarbone but near enough that I was ready to sprint.
Before I could leap up and examine my neck like a madwoman, Millicent reached over and firmly pulled me back into place beside her. She retrieved the parchment once more.
"Florence, I must ask that you refrain from panicking and allow me to explain," she said, laughing. "This is a contract, yes, forged using half of a Zar stone."
Then she opened the small box resting in her lap.
My fear dissipated for a moment, clouded over by awe. Nestled within was a violet, polished, and carved into a perfect half-moon gem. It had the same eerily elegant smoky hue as the seal on the parchment.
"It is beautiful," I murmured. "Positively cursed-looking, but beautiful."
"This," she lifted it, "is the other half of the stone."
I braced myself for a thorough, scholarly explanation. Instead, she reached out and pulled up the hem of my dress.
I squinted at her. "Millicent… are you becoming aroused whilst explaining magical contracts?"
She smirked. "I believe you are the one projecting, for that was the first place your thoughts wandered."
She lifted the fabric to my lap, revealing the tops of my thighs, and with them, the ghosts of old wounds. Scars, burns, angry remnants of a history I had cast aside. Her crimson gaze faltered, and in that instant, I knew where her thoughts had gone.
Guilt.
"Millicent," I sighed. "Spare me the tortured look. I have told you, let the past remain where it belongs. We have both carried it long enough."
She turned her face away, her voice quiet. "Yes. Forgive me."
I would not allow her to spiral. So, naturally, I chose the path of least emotional resistance: teasing.
"Well then," I said brightly, "why did you lift my dress? Are you preparing for another round of unscheduled affection? If so, I should like time to stretch first."
That coaxed a laugh from her. "You," she muttered with fondness.
She turned back to face me, and this time her smile was steady. And I, of course, beamed right back.
"You are utterly impossible," she said softly, the corner of her lips tugging with affection. Then, she turned her attention to my left knee. She leaned down and placed the faintest kiss upon it. The parchment followed, carefully aligned to the skin. And then, as she moved the half-Zar stone toward the smoky circle upon the page, understanding struck me.
My breath caught. My heart began to race.
"Florence, this is a permanent contract."
She smiled, pressing the paper to my knee with practiced precision. With the same care, she placed the stone upon the smoky circle.
"We have found a way to turn the cruelty of the stone against itself. From this moment onward, your injury is no longer yours. This contract has seized it and now holds it hostage."
The stone began to shrink. The swirling smoke deepened in shade, then collapsed inward, as if devouring the stone's very essence. The glow pulsed once, twice, and then faded into stillness. The stone vanished and the parchment stilled.
Millicent lifted the paper away. Upon my knee, etched in obsidian ink, was the seal of servitude. She rose gracefully and extended a hand to me. My fingers curled around hers, and I stood. My heart beat so violently surely she could hear it. Surely the world could.
I took a step.
No limp.
I took another.
No falter, no weakness, no pain.
Three more steps. Four. My body obeyed, like it had been waiting for this very moment to be whole again. Emotion surged in my chest so swiftly I could not contain it. My lips quivered. My throat tightened. My eye blurred by joy so sharp it cut. I collapsed into myself with a soft, strangled sob, covering my face with trembling hands. Millicent wrapped her arms around me as I crumbled against her.