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Lily snuck away from the merry-making and dashed down the back steps of the manor. Having been near an open window, she had heard the piping trill of a strange bird even over the sound of the orchestra. That meant only one thing.
Chayton.
Lithe as a deer, she skipped through the gloaming garden to the edge of the wood but dared go no farther than a step within the shadow of those looming trees. Peering into the darkness, she listened for a whisper of sound that would give him away.
"My lady."
The voice was directly in her ear. How he managed to move so silently in the dense underbrush, she would never know. Turning to reprimand him for sneaking up on her, Lily gasped at the sight of him.
Chayton bowed demurely. Gone were the threadbare breeches and soiled linen shirt. He was dressed head to foot in an expensive suite of clothes and looked nothing less than a prosperous British merchant. A ribbon even adorned the thong he wore to hold back his long, black hair. He took her hand as he bowed and pressed it to his lips, fine white lace at his cuffs falling heavily over the deep tan color of his wrist. When he raised his dark, lustrous eyes to hers, she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, be shrouded in the folds of the fine coat, feel the cold press of the gold buttons against her cheek and the warmth of his strong body beneath the cool silk of his waistcoat.
Instead, she took the heavy folds of her gown and spread the fabric for his admiration as she dipped into a deep curtsy in response. How the shining, blue satin complimented the deep velvet azure of his coat! The nacre of the beads around her bodice just seemed to mimic the tiny seed pearls dotting his vest; the lace that stretched against her décolletage nearly as white as her fair skin.
Lily didn't ask where he'd gotten such finery. The simple fact that he had dressed up in such for her, knowing how he loved his own native costume and the freedom of movement it gave him. The thought caused a lump in her throat, that she could not speak around. Distantly, the strains of "My Bonnie" reached them from the house. Hearing one of her favorite pieces, she shook back her russet locks, smiled brilliantly at Chayton and held out her hand to invite him to dance.
A tiny clearing surrounded by climbing ivy served as their boards; the dying sunlight and the distant music the only thing that reached them as they moved together. Lilly thought Chayton must have learned the simple steps of the dance at one of the boarding schools that failed to hold him. He was made of a wildness that could never be contained. It vibrated even now just below the surface of this finery; an untamed stallion stilled for just a moment by the delicate butterfly that landed on its nose.
His eyes never left hers as they moved. Near the end of the piece, the dancers were to subtly come together, just barely touching their outside shoulders. It was too much for Lily. She slipped an arm around his neck and stood on tiptoe to press her mouth to his. Chayton's arms were around her, pressing the warmth of her body close but not crushing her; treating her as a fragile thing he cherished in the savagery that was his life.
So lost was he in the moment, in the wonder of her mouth and feel of her hair against his fingers as he brushed it away from her face, the slight sound from the dark did not register until it was too late. The low, sudden vibration of a loosed bowstring hung in the air as Lily was pushed hard against him by an impact. The arrow pierced her heart, then embedded itself deep in Chayton's left lung, the fletching protruding from beneath her right shoulder blade the only evidence of what was now a lethal embrace. She only had time to look up at him in surprise before the light in her eyes blinked out.
Shock and horror dropped Chayton to his knees, Lily's body crumpling with him, a billow of blue satin against the dark of the fallen leaves. It didn't matter that he couldn't seem to breath, that his heart was pounding too hard and he tasted blood in his mouth. All that mattered was that the woman in his arms was dead.
"You just don't know how to take advice, do you Red?"
A man walked casually into the clearing, pulling a revolver from a holster inside his coat.
"Old Montock here agrees with me, I think."
Another person came through the brush, knocking an arrow into his bow as he advanced.
"No, no," the first man cautioned when Montock would have loosed the bolt for a killing blow. "We have to do things right. The boy can't shoot himself in the head with his own arrow."
The cold barrel of the gun pressed against Chayton's forehead and the man pulled the trigger.
His first thought was that the smell was familiar. It was the settling scent of a fire that had consumed more than wood.
Blinking eyes that were so dry (from smoke?) that the brush of his eyelids felt scalding. Soon his vision cleared, and he saw stars winking at him through black branches. He felt stiff and deeply sunk in the dirt. It was as if the earth were embracing him, inviting him to stay. Jerkily, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, feeling like a puppet fighting its own strings.
Ashes smoldered nearby. It had been a large fire, well built, hot enough at its core to burn even the most reluctant material.
A crow landed in the dust beside him. It studied the pile of ash for a moment and then looked squarely at him, locking him in its fathomless gaze.
A hot blast of darkness. The bump and catch of being dragged along the ground. The sight of something billowing blue floating following (crunch of heavy footfalls like ice cracking no stealth staccato). Wood in a pile the sharp scent of kerosene flames leaping as if away to not touch this. Her dress flared like cobweb caught ("Close his eyes or something. Even dead I don't like the way he looks at me").
He comes back with a cry, falling again to the prone position, his bones aching for rest. The crow caws harshly, the sound ringing in his ears. It hops to the edge of the ashes and scratches forth a beetle. The insect must be mystical, for it is white and clacks a hard sound in the bird's beak. The crow flips in his direction, and a pearl comes bumping through the leaves to knock against his fingers. He touches it and
satin in his arms. They turn a circle and his fingers graze over the small, opalescent jewels and the warm silk that hugs her figure so close.
He jerks upright as if he can physically push himself out of the vision. He falls, puts out his hands. They are buried in warm ash.
My bonnie lies over the ocean...
He wants to put his hands over his ears, but it is not physical sound that comes to him.
Oh, blow ye winds over the sea...
He is not sleeping. Deeper, the ashes begin to burn his fingers.
...last night ... I dreamt my bonnie was dead.
He clutched two fistfuls of the still-warm ashes, shaking so that whatever battled for release looked as though it would pull his very being apart. The sound that was ripped out of him was beyond human grief.
He didn't weep. He howled. Long, piercing screams that tore the night to shreds.
He smeared his face and hair with the ashes, gouging his own skin with his nails like one demented, leaving bloody gashes that bisected his eye and trailed down his cheeks - a bleeding frown.
The crow pecked sharply at his knee to draw him back. It cocked its head to look at him askance, studying him. Seemingly satisfied, it looked to have come to a decision. The crow stared pointedly over the stubbly field that spread outbefore them. It cawed a challenge to the stars, spread its ebony wings and flew into the night.
Chayton stood and followed.