This is actually the last part of a series of short stories. There are about six installments planned, but only the final bit is anywhere close to being finished.
This story was originally written in the style of "Hills Like White Elephants," by Ernest Hemingway. Since receiving some feedback, it's been reworked into something less vague, but perhaps less elegant.
The name in italics is who the story is being narrated by - different stories in this series will be narrated by different characters, all in first-person perspective.
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Silas
I hear the clack of shoes on tile long before she appears behind me. The kitchen has a wooden arch instead of a doorway leading to the corridor, but I still expect to hear the guilty squeak of hinges and the click of a door's mechanism. She stands just feet away from me, so quiet I can hear her breathing. My muscles begin to tense. A bubble of anger rises in my throat, but I won't release it. Not now. This is not the time.
Of course it's her - who else would it be? The cook isn't to start on breakfast until dawn, her daughter tends to wake even later, and the servants have been ordered not to enter until we're well and truly gone. I breathe a heavy sigh as I reach for an apple tart in the cupboard. I had not been totally aware of the kitchen's silence before, but now it's settling inside me, touching my bones like the grippe.
"It'll spoil." She speaks, at last. I clench my teeth and my fist, setting the tart on the counter. Sticky apple syrup coats my fingers. I'll need something to wrap it in so it doesn't ruin the rest of the food I have to pack.
"I'll eat it later today," I mutter, barely parting my lips. I have to control myself. With my back to her, I walk towards the row of overhead cabinets, carved of rosewood with glass doors. Her family had bought them from a merchant in the west. I try not to think about how I'll miss them. I pull one of the smooth, imperfectly-shaped knobs and grab a roll of paper from inside.
"You... should take something that will give you strength," she says - as though she could care about my health. The clacking of her shoes moves across the kitchen. "We won't have feasts anymore."
So that's what she's concerned about - the feasts. I almost laugh. "All the more reason to take something I love." I set the roll of thin paper on the countertop and open a drawer underneath it. An arrangement of kitchen implements, organized by the servants, sits on a fine cloth - but the shears are absent. "Where are they?" I mutter, mostly to myself.
"What?" She steps closer.
"The kitchen shears. Where are they?" I pull another drawer open - the cutlery drawer, apparently. I shake my head. If the servants have misplaced something again, I don't know what the cook will do this time. According to what I've heard, it's been ages since she's whipped anyone, but I've also heard her temper's gotten shorter over the years.
"I don't know," she says. I hear her swallowing hard. I feel some sort of pleasure - she's guilty. Even if she's too proud to admit it.
Silence. I give up on the shears and simply tear a section of the paper off, leaving a ragged, uneven edge. The cook will not be happy, but she won't be able to yell at me after today. I place the tart on the paper and wrap it up.
"It wasn't my fault, Silas," she whispers.
My hands shake and clench and I nearly drop the tart. A heavy sigh runs through me. "Not now. This is not the time."
"You won't even look at me!"
I whirl around and meet her eyes, shining with melodramatic tears. White-hot anger flares inside my lungs, looking at that face. That pitiful, pathetic face. "There. Are you going to pack, or not?"
She recoils from my glare, hands held up as if she thinks I'd strike her. "I... yes. Yes, I will." A whirl of skirts, and she's walking toward the breadbox. "Just... not now."
If she thinks I want to speak to her, she's gone mad. I slip the wrapped tart into my pack, and glance at the casks of wine in the corner. It's for cooking, I know that much, and it tastes absolutely vile. They haven't given us access to the cellar, where the finer liquor is stored.
But she speaks again. "I didn't want to do it."
An ache settles between my shoulders. I head over to the wooden crates in the corner and pull the lid off one with a groaning squeak. I take a small cloth bag from my pocket and take as many dried pears as I can.
I hear her sigh. Her voice is quiet. "She told me that if I... if I stopped, she'd reveal it."
I roll my eyes. Whether or not she speaks the truth, I won't be drawn in by her pleas for sympathy. "That worked out well for you, didn't it?"
"Silas, it wasn't my fault," she whispers.
I chuckle at the way she tries to shift the blame. "So she made you do it."
Her voice suddenly rises to a shout. "You don't know what she did!"
I lean against the crates, a hand pressed to my forehead. "You can't excuse this, Catriona." I look up and see her standing before me, desperation present in every inch of her body.
"Silas, you've seen her. She could tempt anyone!" Her cheeks flush a bright pink - whether it's from shame or the... the memory of her, I don't know.
I have seen this woman. She is quite exotic - red hair and green eyes, like the people from up north - but she's no succubus, and just remembering her face makes my heart seize. I raise my head and stare Catriona in the eyes again. This time, she does not flinch, but holds my gaze. "You gave in."
"I had no choice!" Catriona balls her hands into fists, entire body shaking.
"You had plenty of choice," I shout back. "Catriona, you knew what would happen if you went to bed with her. You knew you were betraying your bloodline. You knew you were betraying me!"
"Silas..." Her voice is quiet again, quivering. She keeps on snapping back and forth between shouts and whispers, as if she isn't sure how to feel or what to say.
Or maybe it's me who can't make up my mind.
I - we - hear someone else coming into the kitchen with the authority and strength that could only belong to one woman: the cook. She isn't supposed to be working yet, and I realize that we've probably woken the entire house.
"Poor boy," she mutters, shaking her head. I'm surprised - the cook's never had much sympathy for me. In this moment, the lines set in her face seem softer, her eyes brighter, like a kindly old matriarch.
Then she turns to Catriona, and everything about her hardens. I watch Catriona shrink back, looking smaller than I've ever seen her.
"You filthy rat," the cook snarls, spitting at Catriona's feet. I can't even fathom how I could react to this - this is a sign of ultimate disrespect from a noble family's servant.
Or, at least, it would be. But I remember that Catriona isn't really a noblewoman anymore.
The cook continues, getting angrier by the word. "I fed your fat-pursed family for years, and this is how you show your gratitude? Gods know what you've been teaching my daughter! You know she practically idolized you - has she learned to lie, to betray her family, to go around sleeping with other women?"
Catriona just stands there, but I can see her hands quivering. She doesn't even try to defend herself, to justify it. Maybe the last traces of her pride have finally been washed away.
"I hope the wolves get you. You're being thrown into a far better fate than people like you deserve." With that, the cook turns on her heel and leaves.
When the last of her footsteps recede into silence, I hear a soft whimper from Catriona. It takes me a moment to realize that she is crying.
Not tears cried as a plea for sympathy. These are genuine.
I find myself thinking that she's gotten what she deserves... that she's finally realized what a mess she's gotten us into.
"We're going to die," she sobs, shaking her head and wringing her hands. "We're being thrown out to live among the... the commoners, and everyone will know who we used to be... no one would hire us for work even if we had any peasant skills."
She looks up at me, face red and wet, no dignity left inside her. "We're going to die," she repeats.
I want to ask why she didn't consider this before, but I don't. I... can't bring myself to criticize her anymore. Instead, I reach over and lightly touch her on the shoulder. "We're not going to die."
"How can you say that?" She sighs, looking at me as if I'm insane. "They don't call exile a death sentence because we haven't killed anyone, but everyone knows what it is."
"My family still has an estate. They might accept us into their house - I am their son, after all," I say. It's true - my family is less strict than most, and as long as we leave the details of our exile obscured, we shouldn't have much trouble.
Catriona scoffs in disbelief. "Have you forgotten how far your family is from here? They live in Elcaro - that's--"
"--across the Stasian Border, I know. But what chance do we have here?" I know the Border well - I've gone across it many times. It is a river, splitting the land in two. There is a bridge... but only nobility is allowed passage.
Catriona's stopped crying. I watch the last of her tears roll down her cheeks as she takes a deep breath. "I... should pack." Her voice carries a note of defeat and weariness.
She turns away, doesn't look at me.
I wonder if she's giving up on us already.
