A Dark and Deadly Beauty

The Tidy Cottage

Her trip to the market had been an absolute waste of time.

Despite the full basket of goods on her arm, Electra opened the door of her cottage feeling irritated and defeated. Sure, she had bought plenty of food to stock the larder, and the tender, feminine part of her that delighted in frivolous indulgences was slightly pleased with the cake of rose-scented soap and little pot of earthy-red lip paint she had found. But the entire reason she had gone to the market this afternoon was to find silk for a new shirt for her selfless brother.

And even as she was feeling and examining each bolt of fabric at the merchant’s shop, she couldn’t find a single stitch good enough for Colm. There was no thread fine enough or rich enough to even consider. Even the needles in the shop felt too crude and clumsy to use for the magnificent tunic her brother deserved.

Electra hadn’t been so choosy when she made the first garment. But, that was before.

Before he had almost died.

Before the remnants of the tunic she had sewn him had to be picked out of the blackened waste of his back.

Before a madman with a portal-maker shattered the security Colm and Electra had just started to rebuild.

In the days following the attack, Electra fluctuated between rage and guilt. That attack had been carefully orchestrated by the man she had let slip through her fingers in the forest. And that ate at her like acid.

But worse was the guilt she had for taking Colm for granted.

When he had been cursed, he lived in agony. Hidden away in their cottage and wrapped in linen strips, it was a pitiful way to exist. But at least she knew he would live.

Seeing him lying in the grass, still as a corpse and hardly speaking…for the first time in her life Electra realized what it would be like for Colm to die.

She wasn’t scared of death. She was a warrior woman, and a good and bloody death would be the natural end to her violent, purposeful life.

But Colm…once upon a time she had pledged to end his suffering if Emilia’s magic couldn’t cure him. But even as she promised, she refused to believe it would come to that. She refused to think of the consequences if the Crimson Princess failed.

And once he was free of the curse, Electra pictured him living a simple, wholesome life. After all, he was a mild-mannered gardener. He was supposed to spend the days of his long life wrist- deep in potato patches and soaking in the sunshine. He was supposed to grow old, so old even the near-immortal fay would whisper about his vitality.

It was foolish of her to never imagine her brother could die gruesomely and viciously as she expected for herself.

Yet, she had. And now she looked around their little cottage. At the thread-bare carpets, the chipped mugs, and the frayed blankets carelessly strewn over the back of the settee. Something had shaken loose inside of her and she saw the home she had provided Colm and was struck by how it wasn’t enough.

Colm was a miracle man, and a hero.

He may not have a nobility title, but the blood in his veins held more honor than any nobleman Electra had ever met.

He deserved the finest comforts money could buy. And she was determined to give him those comforts.

She huffed into the empty room. She had hoped to have the better part of the shirt done by the time he came home in a few days. But she had no thread and no material…it was an afternoon wasted. There was so much to plan to get her guild prepared for her long absence during the Royal Tour, and she still hadn’t finalized the list of who she was going to assign to travel with her.

Claris would go, of course. Her talents would be invaluable. And Sesto. Since his brush with battle against the fire elemental in that cold autumn wood, Electra had seen a change in him. He was the same cocky, arrogant prick as always when he was in the mess hall or trying to smooth-talk his way between some poor maid’s legs… but on the field, in the training rooms, he was focused and serious. Though she didn’t relish having to keep him on a short lead to make sure Sesto didn’t leave a swath of pregnant barmaids and broken hearted merchant’s daughters in his wake, he had proven he could be an asset.

The trick was bringing folk who had talents outside of their war powers. Claris grew up on a farm and could tend horses, posing as a groom in the royal retinue. Sesto, surprisingly, had immaculate penmanship. He would act as a scribe, writing accounts of each town they passed. This would not only disguise him, but allow them to keep meticulous notes on what they discovered. As for Electra, she would act as a seamstress, mending torn stockings and taking in waistbands.

There were a few others she was considering… an archer with an aim as deadly as a viper, a plain-faced widow who could summon darkness, a fleet-footed young man who could cross a league on his hoofed goat legs in the blink of an eye. All had a purpose, all could be an asset. She would have to make her decision soon.

At least she didn’t have to worry about choosing someone to manage the guild in her absence. Since the day she had arrived at the guild hall as a novice, in the simple cotton dress she had been wearing when her mother had set her off on the road to the Capitol and gaping at the sights and sounds of the bustling palace grounds, Tamarii had been there. He had taken one look at Electra’s rustic garb and backwater manners and decided this small, black-haired slip of a woman was worth befriending.

He had slipped from the shade of the guild hall’s imposing shadows and offered her directions to the female dormitories and a curious stare.

His calm voice masked something ferocious, and his slow and even movements reminded Electra of a predator walking through its territory. He was bald headed and willowy, with deep skin that seemed to shine from underneath with the riches of the earth. And his eyes were wholly alert, soft brown and always assessing.

He did not need the bluster or bragging of the other males, so desperate to prove their courage and strength that they seemed more like muscled peacocks than warriors. Even being so young and fresh, Electra could tell that Tamarii was a man who knew his own mind.

Tamarii proved Electra right.

Agile and nimble, he could scale walls with just the tips of his fingers and the toe of his shoes. He feared neither heights nor foul weather as he trained with the other agility-gifted warriors, scampering up tall pines and balancing on the eaves of buildings. His emerald green prehensile tail, long and scaled like a lizard’s, acted like a counterweight, as well as an extra hand.

But Tamarii impressed Electra in more substantial ways.

He was clever and assertive, cunning and observant. In the years they spent together as students, she had watched him always share words or guidance with the new folk or quietly listen when someone needed to talk about missing their home. He would climb to the roof tops and feed sparrows from his hands.

Though she couldn’t say Tamarii was a friend, Electra certainly grew to view him as a peer. So when the day came she was made the Guild Master of Warfare, she knew when she needed to select a consultant that Tamarii would rise to the occasion.

He filled in the gaps where Electra’s leadership lacked. She was stern while he was approachable. She was quick to anger while he remained steady. She devoted her time outside of the guild to her brother while he spent his evenings in the Guild hall and nurtured relationships with its members. They were a good team, and she felt confident he would keep the home fires burning.

Stewing, she unloaded her shopping onto the kitchen counter. Honey, its comb soft and delicate inside the clear, corked glass jar, was set beside the small sack of rye flour she had bought for a few pence. Dried sausages made of apple and wild boar meat were hung in a bundle by the stove. There was a paper sachet of tea leaves, a half a dozen fresh eggs and a sack of barley. She had bought parsnips and potatoes, and a few crumbly bran biscuits to go with a new jar of plum jam.

Lastly, she pulled out her soap and lip paint, running her thumb tenderly over their wrapping as she pulled them free of the basket and smiled to herself. Some folk would say she was a difficult woman to please, but the truth was she was still a country woman, whose heart was made happy by small luxuries.

But a steaming wash with her rose soap would have to wait until later.

Electra had become so accustomed to having Colm keep the cottage spotless. Now that she looked around, she groaned at the mess she had created. She adored a clean home, but loathed cleaning.

Still, she couldn’t let Colm come back to a filthy sty covered in muddy boot prints and dust. So she filled a bowl with water from the large barrel of fresh water she kept in the corner of the kitchen and found a tin of soap scouring paste.

With her bowl and a rag she got to work, wiping away weeks worth of powdery dust from the table and mantle and windowsills. She cleaned the stains on the settee, particularly the area where she had fallen asleep with a trencher of gravy covered lentils in her lap and didn’t wake up until her lap, and settee, was thoroughly soaked.

Wash and rinse, dust and polish. The afternoon was fading to a bleak, watery dusk as she finished up. She wiped loose hairs away from her face and surveyed her home. It wasn’t perfect, but it was tidy. As long as she didn’t muck it up again too badly before Colm returned, he would find things largely how he had left them.

The dust and dry heat from the fireplace had made her thirsty. Terribly thirsty. Her throat felt coated in grit and her mouth was as dry as an old book.

So she abandoned the wash bowl and dirty rags and strode to the kitchen, seeking the bottle of sweet blackberry wine she had stored in a cupboard.

She dipped a cup into her water barrel, filling it halfway before topping it off with the thick, dark wine. She swirled it once, nearly sloshing the drink onto her freshly scrubbed floor. She brought it to her lips and nearly sighed at the first sip hitting her tongue.

Just then, a short and formal knock sounded at the door.

Electra’s mouth never left the glass. She simply marched across the room, still guzzling mouthfuls of her diluted wine and wondering who the hell would be bothering her.

If it was Colm coming home early, he would just walk in.

Tamarii would only disturb her at home if it was an emergency…and if it was an emergency he would be pounding the door nearly off its hinges, not knocking politely like a delivery boy.

She supposed it could be Jacinde or Emilia, but she had seen both of them earlier that day and neither had mentioned dropping by.

She wasn’t expecting a parcel or any messages.

It had better not be some fool student come to pester her about the training rotation…

Another chug of her drink, and she opened the door, half prepared to snarl at whoever was standing there.

But it wasn’t a courier or a student, it wasn’t a Princess or a healer.

Wrapped in a woolen doublet the color of evergreen nettles, grinning like a cat who had stolen a fish, was Beckett Reed.

Electra lowered the cup from her mouth and hurriedly wiped her lips on the back of her hand, not realizing the wine had already stained her lips dark purple.

“Hello, Lady Electra,” he leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed.

“Mr. Reed,”

“There’s a bard in the Capitol this week, bloody amazing voice. Some even swear she’s half siren. She’s at the Dancing Crow this evening and I thought to myself…’Electra might like to hear a half-siren and eat some questionable soup.’ So here I am. Want to join me at the tavern for some music?”

The house behind her suddenly felt so empty. There was no brother puttering in his room, no sounds at all but for the snapping of the fire.

Electra looked down at herself, at the dirty knees of her breeches and the tangled braid that fell over her shoulder. Her stockings turned grey as slate from sweeping soot and the dry, chapped skin of her hands. She was in no shape to be seen in public…

But the house behind her felt so empty.

So she opened her door to him and said, “I’ll need fifteen minutes.”