Chapter Text
Patience has never been one of her virtues. That would require having virtues. Esma's past the point of instinctively reaching for a glass every time that horrid little voice slithers out from wherever it hides when she's at her strongest.
She's rarely at her strongest, and Brisby, for all he claims she'll want for nothing, denies her requests for wine. Be honest, Esma, they're pleas.
No, they're not pleas. She may not have the strength to silence that horrid little voice without the aid of wine, but she does have the strength to endure it. She will not beg Brisby for anything.
As if there's a difference between requesting and begging. Be honest, Esma, and of course the voice sounds more and more like Waverly with each word.
"Be honest yourself!" There is a difference. It's a very fine one, but still. If that horrid voice insists on sounding like Waverly, it will have to allow for fine distinctions. Waverly's an artist when it comes to crafting the finest of distinctions into a trap, one her prey doesn't notice until long after it's been tripped, and by then it's too late. It's always too late once Waverly set her sights on something.
Just as it's always too late once she set her sights on something. Her desires and methods may be different than Waverly's, but Boyles always get what they want. And what she wants this very moment (even more than a bottle of wine to silence that horrid voice) is to rip Brisby open and show him that no man can ever own—will ever own—her.
How long will that spirit last? He's already got you mewling in pleasure like one of the whores at the Golden Cat.
Esma chokes on something between a sob and a laugh. Not quite like one of the Cat's whores. She's better kept, and not as practiced at faking pleasure. She's a Boyle. Why would she bother with a lover who can't thoroughly undo her?
Brisby can undo her. The bastard's studied her well, and when he forces himself upon her, her mind and body become two separate things, so it's an easy matter for him to pry the responses he wishes from her flesh. She should make it harder for him.
And deny yourself pleasure? Can you? The horrid little voice laughs, high and cutting like Waverly, and then it drops to end with Lydia's low, secretive chuckle. You'll welcome the attention soon enough. Or your mind will decide to linger in the Void, and then it won't matter what he does with the rest of you.
Esma can't muster a protest. That doesn't mean she agrees. It just means she hasn't thought of a cutting enough response to send that horrid, horrid voice scurrying back to its hiding spot. But she will. Eventually.
Oh, Esma. The voice doesn't sound quite so horrid. You have to escape.
Yes. She's done waiting for her sisters. And Hiram, though since she should be honest, she never expected him to free her. When she'd imagined her rescue—how many days now since she stopped?—it always came at the hands of her sisters' agents. Of course they're searching for her, and of course, if she waits long enough, they'll find her. But she's tired of waiting. She's tired of Brisby, tired of the silks and the jewels she can't flaunt, and tired of the way her stomach tightens when she hears the slide of the key in the lock. She can't tell if the feeling is dread or anticipation because there's no separating them now.
Waverly and Lydia will just have to forgive her for securing her own escape. As that horrid little voice says, she has to have virtues for patience to be one of them.
* * *
In order to escape, she needs to know where she is so she can start stashing away the appropriate supplies for her journey back to Dunwall. Brisby won't tell her where they are. She's demanded, requested, and finally asked (which still isn't begging, but not by much), and his reply never changed. "You're with me, Esma my darling. That's all that matters."
So, time to try a different tactic. If he won't tell her, she'll have to trick him into showing her. It's not healthy to be cooped up inside all the time. Perhaps he could take her on a short walk? Just around the estate. She's certain it must be as grand as her room. And (but only if she needs the argument), a stroll through the garden would be romantic, wouldn't it?
There's just one problem with her plan. Brisby's most pliable after what he deems their lovemaking. Immediately after. So she'll have to...she'll have to keep herself together or risk losing her best chance at...
At implementing the first step of your plan.
Yes. At that.
Oh, Esma. You can't falter now.
She liked that voice more when it was a horrid little thing. Now it sounds too much like Waverly. And Lydia, but mostly Waverly, because Waverly is who she needs right now. She's scheming, after all, and nobody schemes like Waverly.
Just like nobody fucks like her. Brisby thought he'd seen the full extent of her body's skills? Well, in one sense, he has. Now she'll show him what it can do with something more than instinct guiding it.
"Esma, my darling." Brisby sets a pair of covered plates down on the table and removes hers with a flourish. "I've got a treat for you tonight!"
A plump game hen with golden brown skin paired with a generous helping of cooked carrots and—oh, perhaps she'll allow him one honest smile—a baked apple stuffed with walnuts and a soft cheese. "This is a treat." She reaches for the fork at the side of her plate. A full game hen. "Thank you..." She hates to say it, but best to start mollifying him now. "Timothy."
He smiles, and it's infuriating, but also exactly the smile she wants to see, wide and triumphant, like he believes she's coming around to his way of seeing things. She looks away, focuses instead on her food. He does feed her well, better than she'd been eating in Dunwall, that last party of theirs aside.
Better than she'd been eating in Dunwall. Esma sets her fork down. They have to be past the blockade for this and all the other meals. Hearty stews. Leg of lamb. Jellied ox tongue. They aren't just past the blockade. They're on Morley. The bastard's brought her to Morley. No wonder her sisters haven't found her yet.
"Is something wrong with the hen?"
"No." She spears another bite. "Nothing except it will be gone too soon."
"If you enjoy it that much, we'll have it again."
"Perhaps with some effervescent wine? A Saggunto white would go quite well with this dish."
"Perhaps," Brisby says in that tone that means no, but since she's behaving so well, he won't outright refuse her.
No matter. He believes her reply, so she can keep her new knowledge a secret. They're on Morley. Which part?
Dinner is over much too soon. Brisby rises and crosses the room to feed a card in the audiograph player. The opening notes of a waltz follow him as he comes to her side and offers her his hand. "Perhaps you'll enjoy a dance."
Foreplay. How very like him. "Perhaps."
He pulls her much too close for a proper waltz, but what's the point in propriety when he's holding her captive? "This shade of blue suits you so much more than white," he murmurs in her ear.
"I like white."
"It makes you look so severe."
"That's why I like white." That and she can afford to have it cleaned.
"The blue suits you better."
When she finally escapes, she'll never wear blue again. Well, at least not this shade, the same pale blue of a clear spring sky. She might bring herself to wear one of the darker shades, like the inky blue of the Wrenhaven at twilight. She does look stunning in a nice, deep blue. No need to let Brisby ruin the entire color. Just this shade.
He pulls her closer and dips his head to kiss the side of her neck. The edges of her vision flare white and the strains of music fade away, replaced by a soft, high squeal deep within her ears. And then even that starts to fade as she—
Esma!
No. She can't falter now.
But she can't stand the moist heat of Brisby's breath on her neck. She shudders. He obviously mistakes it for pleasure, because he makes a low, satisfied sound and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, his tongue circling her pulse point, and—
No. She can't falter, but she can't stand this, and she knows they're on Morley. Rage lances down her spine. Fuck her fucking plan. Fuck it straight through the Void to whatever's beyond, so the Outsider can't curl his clammy fingers around it and offer it back to her, more twisted and wrong than it already is.
Her pulse floods through her, sounding so much like the relentless pounding of waves against the face of Whitecliff. The skin along her arms and the back of her neck prickles like she's caught in a storm.
No, like she's the storm. "Timothy." Her voice sounds low and distant and deep. It's commanding enough that Brisby stops kissing her neck and lifts his head to meet her eyes.
She smiles, wide and wild because yes, she is the storm, and Brisby is alone on the open sea and so, so far from land. She slides her hands along his bony shoulders. "It's my turn to give you a treat."
She leans in. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she rises up on her toes and brushes her lips against his. He lets out a breathy sigh, and she opens her mouth, lets him think it's encouragement to press his advance. Her hands creep to his throat, but she doesn't squeeze yet. He's not quite snared. It won't do to spring the trap early.
His tongue slides into her mouth. Almost. He's almost snared. Esma ignores the smell of him, the taste. It won't last much longer. He presses in further. Almost snared. Almost.
There! Esma bites. Brisby yelps and tries to push her away, but she's the storm. Her hands close tight around his throat. His tongue gives beneath her teeth, and the taste of his blood bursts coppery sweet on her tongue.
He screams, or tries to. It's a wet, gurgling sound, a beautiful sound. He claws at her forearms, tries to break her grip, but she is the storm.
She is the storm, and her rage won't be spent until he's dead. So he can scratch at her all he wants, strike her with what's left of his might, can even try to pull back from their glorious, glorious kiss, but none of it will change her course.
Brisby's gurgles trail off. He claws at her arms again, but there's little force behind each swipe. And then his hands fall. His weight drags them to the floor.
Esma doesn't stop until the pounding ocean in her ears recedes. Brisby is still beneath her. His face is twisted and mottled, and the blood at his mouth is so red. So red. She spits out his tongue, wipes her mouth, and rises.
He deserved a slower death.
Yes, well, it took as long as it needed to. And she still has plenty of strength. She'll need it to make her way back to Dunwall.
* * *
The manor is old, poorly maintained, and even more poorly staffed. Esma doesn't encounter anyone in the hall. A thick layer of dust blankets everything, and the only footprints in the hall are the same set over and over and over. Brisby's.
She stops in the dining room. There's a clear spot on one of the long buffet tables lining the wall. Multiple spots, now that she's looking, like someone had come through and removed a series of trinkets. She runs her finger along the edge of the nearest table. The clear spots don't match the dimensions of any of the trinkets in her room, and they look freshly cleared. The only things Brisby's been bringing to her recently are her meals and the clothes he wishes her to wear the next day.
Has Brisby been plundering the manor's treasures for funds? No. Brisby can't match Waverly when it comes to scheming, but he's still—or had been—a meticulous planner. He'd have squirreled away enough coin to finance them for two lifetimes.
She has a clever, clever intruder. One set of footprints? Try two, the second right on top of Brisby's. Esma brushes her hand clean and smiles. With luck, her clever intruder will still be here, and she can learn exactly where here is.
She finds her intruder on the second floor, in the suite of rooms Brisby had clearly claimed for himself. Her thief is at the safe, methodically trying combinations.
"Try three one nine," Esma says. Her birthday.
Her thief doesn't flinch, doesn't pause, just finishes her current combination. "I did. Didn't work."
"Two eight seven." The night...the night of her party.
"Already tried that, too. Along with seven seven two, five one eight, and six four one."
The unfortunate day she first met Brisby, the first time she very publicly refused him, the last time she very publicly refused him. Her clever intruder is quite well informed.
But not well enough informed. She lets out a shaky breath. "Seven zero five."
Her thief hesitates, then tries the combination. The safe's lock releases, and the door swings open. Of course. Brisby would use her daughter's date of birth. And death. Just one more layer to his cruelty.
He deserved a much slower death.
Yes, but there's no changing the death he got. It hurt. That will have to be enough for that horrid little voice. And her.
"I'll take half for cracking the combination for you. I don't care about the trinkets you've taken." She doesn't have the faintest clue about how to properly go about selling them, so best to leave them to the professional. But coin, coin she knows.
Her thief turns. She's a young thing, probably not as bulky as her leather coat makes her seem, but certainly not some waif. Esma takes in her dark skin, dark hair, and even darker eyes. Probably some Pandyssian in her, though the somberness in her expression, that's pure Gristol.
"You look like you should be interested in the medicinal herbs." Her thief bends down and fishes a small canister from the bag of spoils at her feet. "Here."
She tosses them. Esma catches the canister. The impact, small as it is, strums straight to the scratches on her forearms. They flare to life. Esma holds out her left arm, stares at the deep gouges, surprised, for a moment, that Brisby had managed to hurt her.
The scratches throb in time to her pulse. "I am the storm," she murmurs.
"From the looks of it, the storm's passed." Her thief turns back to the safe.
"Half!" Esma surges forward. "Half of it's mine!"
It should be all of it, but...
But she hates everything about this place, including Brisby's money. So she doesn't want it, but she needs it.
"Not a chance." Her thief hesitates. "A quarter."
There's stacks of ingots. Stacks and stacks of them. "A third."
Her thief's shoulders tighten. "Fine, but I keep everything else."
Esma laughs. "Better in your hands than mine. I don't know the first thing about selling stolen goods."
Her thief snorts and finishes taking two thirds of the ingots from the safe. "That's the most sensible thing I've heard an aristocrat say."
"Yes, well, maybe you're mistaking me for someone else."
Her thief gives her a long, considering look. "It is storm season here. A wrong bolt of lightning could burn what's left of this place." She pulls out bottles of processed whale oil from her bag of spoils and sets them on top of the safe. "Might be easier than cleaning up after the last storm."
Esma nods. "Where are we? And don't say Morley. I know that much."
Her thief gives her a ghost of a smile. "North of Fraeport. Village's small enough it's not on most maps." She hefts her bag over her shoulder, and then she just...disappears.
Esma blinks and turns around and around and around, but her clever, and quite well informed, thief is truly gone. Had she truly just seen...? No. Maybe. Who knows how many people bear The Outsider's mark, know his magic? She doesn't, so how can she know what she did or didn't see?
Esma stares at the open safe with her share of Brisby's coin, at the two bottles of whale oil, at the promise of a fire hot enough to burn Brisby clear to ash.
It's better than he deserves, but it will give her true freedom. So she gathers her coin, two warm changes of clothes, and what food she can fit in a rucksack. The she sets the place ablaze.
She doesn't stay to watch it burn.