Page 19 of A Taste for the Peculiar

He lights the herbal tobacco blend and inhales as if it will burn away the tightness in his chest. He never knows what to feel at these events. Exasperation. Hope. Madness. For once, he doesn’t have to bear the weight of others’ stares. No one is watching him. No one is whispering. On the other hand, seeing how readily strict society members fall into other roles makes him want to scream.

Don’t you see what you could have all the time? Don’t you crave the freedom?

A different question gnaws at him. He has started to show Avirin his world, but what good is that if she will never be a part of it again? Clearly, their lessons are nothing more than a detour. Avirin intends to follow the path set out for her by the ton, and Pye can hardly blame her. Until a few years ago, he never imagined himself among the upper class — at least, nowhere public. He led a completely different life with a barrage of added difficulty. He knows what that life would look like for her. He knows how society views “fallen women.” And yet…

Avirin would enjoy the places where Pye spends his time. She would thrive at the games they play. He can tell just from watching her. Despite the determination with which she approached him the first night, her breath caught when he guided her through the dance. No matter how she volleys with him, there was a look in her eyes when Pye instructed Samuel. It was as if her mind drifted elsewhere, sucked into the stream of Pye’s directions and eager to float along with his whims.

She would be brilliant without the constraints of society placed upon her. She would learn the ins and outs of “deviancy” in record time, a voracious scholar in pursuit of her desires, presented with options she’s never imagined. She would take to it well, and if Pye’s suspicions are correct, her submission would be spectacular. In the right hands, it would be a blessing.

A sudden cloud forms over his thoughts. And in the wrong hands, it will be a curse Avirin has to bear alone.

“You look deep in thought, Lord Riften.”

Her voice is so close, it sounds like another of Pye’s fantasies, but Avirin stands in flesh before him, dressed for anything but convention. Her coquelicot skirts shimmer with amber, the bodice and skirt covered in black detailing. The slightest motion makes the dress appear to flicker like fire before it returns to a burnt ember again.

Even her dress cannot hold a candle to her mask. A flock of paper moths have landed across her cheeks and brow, wings fluttering in the wind. Even in the dark, Pye recognizes the insects’ pattern: the skull on their backs, the mottled brown and yellow markings…

Avirin is a perfect replica of death’s-head hawkmoths gathered to a flame.

The bowl of the pipe singes Pye’s fingers. He puts it out, never removing his eyes from her. “You are…breathtaking, Lady Avirin.”

Her cherubic cheeks color-up. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“Not nearly enough.”

She bites her lip, swishing the skirts about her feet. “It took some doing, but the modiste called in a favor with the theater’s costumer.”

“I’ll be sure to send them both my thanks.” Pye extends their arm amid the dozens of eyes trailing Avirin. It seems Pye is not the only one who has noticed her. It should make him glad. Here is proof that their lessons are having the desired effect, yet Pye can’t swallow the unfamiliar bitterness in his throat.

The two of them begin their descent among the greenery. Avirin’s eyes latch onto a woman dressed as a sailor. There is something androgynous about her, her chest flat beneath bindings and a beard painted onto her face. She is joined by a voluptuous mermaid clad in little more than seashells and netting

Pye notes the way Avirin’s gaze lingers. She follows the pair with her eyes, staring for longer than simple curiosity. Pye leans in to ask Avirin why, but it’s as if her mind returns to her body, her gaze jerking away to settle on the scenery instead.

This is not so unlike the first night Avirin found him at the edge of the party. She stood out from the crowd even then, her eyes distant beneath that gritty decisiveness in her brow. If Pye had known then how close these lessons would bring them…

He clears the thought from his head and turns back to Avirin. “No trouble sneaking out tonight?” They whistle through their teeth. “My lady, you’re becoming a veritable rogue.”

“Not so roguish yet,” she muses. “Surely a rogue would not still be untouched.”

Pye narrowly avoids tripping over their own feet. Never has Avirin spoken so openly about intimacy, and certainly not with such cheek. It was Pye’s intention for her to grow more emboldened with their lessons, but tonight, she’s come out swinging like a prize fighter. They can’t help but be impressed. Perhaps this masquerade offers protection she isn’t otherwise afforded, much like the daily mask she wears over the black of her eyes.

Pye guides her around a group on the stairs, keeping her body pressed close to his. He lowers his mouth to her ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound disappointed.”

He should not encourage her. There is no reason for him to keep pushing, not when he is here to provide her with knowledge and nothing more. It’s a line he continually reminds himself not to cross. He must tamp out this flirtation before it spreads into something bigger, yet as with all things involving Avirin, he can never resist another turn.

She lifts her chin, denying him the gift of her gaze. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you never plan to show me what a husband does with his wife.”

Traitorous thoughts swarm the end of Pye’s tongue. Would that be so bad? To never finish these lessons? To draw them out eternally? To explore desire with you forever?

Pye clamps their mouth shut. Perhaps these weeks of taking their time have finally gotten to Avirin. There’s a fire in her now, and he can’t help but be taken with it. His mind fills with visions he should resist. How he would toy with her newfound rebellion. How he would make her repeat every saucy word while his fingers moved slowly between her legs. How he would spend hours denying her just to reward her at the end.

He could get lost in it if not for the shrieking laughter beside them. Pye and Avirin both turn toward it at once.

Costumes at the masquerade are always ribald, but this one is particularly obscene. A man is draped in an elegant gown from one of the beau monde’s parties, but when he turns away, his entire rear is exposed beneath a sign that reads “Enter here.” His wig clings haphazardly to his head as he swoops between attendees, spitting vibrant blue liquid into their mouths before he sucks it out again. When he circles the group, Pye makes out the kohl smeared over his lashes, the black dye dripping from his eyes, the oozing rash painted around his lips.

Everyone cackles when the “succubus” comes to feed from them — everyone but Avirin and Pye. Hot rage boils inside him. He steps toward the crowd before Avirin’s fingernails dig into his arm.

Her brown eyes are locked on the scene like an accident she can’t look away from.