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Sage clears her throat, pulling my attention back to her. It takes me a moment to recall what we were talking about, but when it comes to me, I seamlessly slip back into the conversation. “What’s wrong with how I look?”
She smirks, a slight chuckle lifting her lips. “Oh, honey. The last thing these men want is a kept woman. It reminds them of the royals, and everyone is here to forget their lives outside these walls. We just need to…”
Sage runs her fingers through my almost-curls, and my heart beats so hard against my rib cage I’m sure she can hear the thumps. I wait for her to comment on the ash. It stains her fingertips gray, needing to be wiped free on fabric, but if she notices the residue on her skin, she ignores it.
I try to remember the last time my hair was down in public and shudder. It was the night of the fires. Mother was so proud of my red locks. She said if a man was stupid enough to believe the color of hair made a girl a witch, then he was stupid enough to find out what would happen if he messed with one.
A singular man wasn’t the problem that night. We could handle a single man, but we never stood a chance against an army.
My uncle, Sutherland, on the other hand, was terrified of what my hair meant for him the moment I showed up on his doorstep, but because I was family, he was duty-bound to take me in. His hospitality came with rules. One of them being that my hair had to be pulled back at all times, usually in a dusted braid down my back or tight bun, because he didn’t want to take the risk of someone seeing the red.
But having my hair loose is freeing.
Sage reaches for the bottom of my corset and tugs at the material. My already overflowing girls nearly spill over their bindings. One wrong twist and my nipples will be out for the world to see. I fight the urge to recoil and yank my top back up. The only reason I hold my position is because her boobs are just as exposed as mine. The difference is that she islarge-chested, making the low-riding corset seem more dramatic compared to my itty-bitty girls.
“Now you’re ready,” Sage says proudly.
I don’t thank her, though perhaps I should. Sage’s hands on my body, her fingers lingering on my hips, attract the eyes of more than a few men in the room. I’ve always hated people looking at me. The fear ofwhyis overwhelming, but being desired might work in my favor tonight. It could attract Graves and make getting him alone easier.
“Do you have a name, new girl?” Sage links her arm to mine again, and we take a turn around the room. She doesn’t lock eyes with anyone who looks upon us. Instead, she flaunts our newfound friendship, caressing the skin of my arm, teasing onlookers with the possibility of having the two of us at once.
Many seem interested, even calling out, hoping we join them, but Sage pays them no mind. Her attention is on me like I’m the only person in the room who matters. I want to feel threatened by the intensity, but I can’t bring myself to be anything but grateful. Even my magic is calm, happily sleeping beneath my skin, without a care that someone has their hands on me.
I open my mouth, then hesitate. I thought through every step of my plan, prepared a tragically beautiful backstory, and have not one but three possible ways to kill Graves tonight, but I never considered someone might ask my name. I didn’t think anyone would care. I figured the women would view me as competition, and the men would see me as nothing more than boobs and a skirt. “I’m… um…”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. No one uses their real names anyway.” She nudges me with her arm.
I could see us being friends outside these walls if things were different. I have so few in my life. Letting people in is terrifying. They might figure out what I am. They could get sick, or hurt, or die. It’s easier to keep everyone an arm’s length away than to risk feeling the pain of losing someone I care about.
“Let’s call you Scarlet,” she says, gleefully. “I can’t remember the last time we saw a red witch in the Keep.”
“A witch?” I say through a forced laugh. I’ll be killed if even a whisper of the word falls upon the wrong ears. No trial by the court. No questionsasked. Suspicion is all that is needed to sentence someone like me to death. “Don’t curse me with such bad luck.”
"Relax, new girl. Most of the Red Keep's ladies pretend to be a Cerise at least once a night. The men want what they can't have, and a Cerise is the ultimate guilty pleasure." Sage touches my hair again and wrinkles her nose as she rubs the dust between her fingers. "You'd make a killing if you'd stop trying to hide that gorgeous shade. As soon as the men realize you're a Cerise, they'll be fighting over you."
"And then killing me," I whisper under my breath, but I consider her words. Perhaps, for once in its life, my hair can be useful.
"Let's have some fun. Yeah?" Sage smiles widely and leads us to a table of burly-looking men. Their beards are as scruffy and worn as the wools they wear, but all three of them seem friendly. Something I can’t say about my first table of the night.
"Sage!" one of the men says excitedly. He looks like all the others. Worn from days of monotony and the occasional scrimmage, aged by sun beyond his years, and drunk with hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. He holds his arms out for her, and she leaps into them. "I've missed you, my love."
The man nuzzles his face into Sage's neck, and she squeals in delight. "Harrison! Quit!" She says that last word with as much conviction as a drunk in a bar. She wants his attention and likely needs it to pay her bills.
Harrison peppers Sage's arm with kisses, showering her with affection. I blush at the intimacy, not used to such public displays of affection. If we were anywhere else, one could argue they were new lovers bitten by the bug of passion. But everyone in the room knows what they are to each other, and no one judges.
"When will you marry me and leave this torrid life behind?" Harrison croons into her neck.
Sage laughs and pinches her shoulder, cutting off access to her exposed skin. "That depends on when you decide to finally divorce your wife!"
Harrison grunts, displeased with her answer and turns his attention to his drink. Sage doesn't seem to mind the sudden shift in his mood. She strokes his arm and leans into his warmth, the wife a forgotten rift.
"Who's your friend?" a man with a scar running from his ear to his cheekasks before raising his mug to his face. It's an ugly purple mark that starts at his ear and stops near the edge of his jaw. Scruff grows on his cheeks and chin, but the scar is hair-free, making it stand out even more against his sun-stained skin.
He has another scar on his neck, a few inches below the other, almost as if the blade that struck him slipped from his attacker's hand. I take in the rest of his face, noting the sharpness of his beak nose and the angles of his jaw. They don't jump out at me, but so much time has passed since I last saw Graves. There's a chance this could be the man I seek. After all, how many people would have the same mark on their chest as the one I left him with?
I study the man closer, looking for the brand of a serpent on his wrist, just to be sure. That image is burned into my memories. It's always there, like how the sight of ash reminds me of burnt flesh or how the smell of cider brings back memories of Mom under the moonlight. I see that pale pink of that brand in my mind as clearly as I see my brother, Karter, drowning in his blood. And while my thoughts can recall every intricate detail of things I wish they would forget, my eyes don't find the mark. If that brand is on this man's skin, it's high up on his arm, hidden beneath the sleeves of his shirt and jacket.
"This one is too pure for your tastes, Rafol." Sage holds her hand for me to join her on Harrison's lap.
