Vane by Teshelle Combs

Author:Teshelle Combs [Combs, Teshelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-11-21T05:00:00+00:00

Eleven

Bath

The ice water sloshed over the side of the porcelain tub. Ima let her arms lay listless in her lap, her crystal slippers submerged. Her silver gown was soaked through, clinging to her body and revealing her in desperate ways.

She didn’t have to close her eyes to imagine Papu’s face. He wore a ready, crooked grin, his eyebrows raised and a dimple peeking from one of his cheeks. In her mind, he pressed his forehead to hers, until they were nose to nose, and he laughed.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked her, his eyes glittering in the twilight of the sky garden.

“It isn’t time,” she answered, wishing she could share his smile, his love for life. For even if he was ravaged by revenge, created to spill it onto the earth from his window, he held other things in him. From his heart came joy and strength. He was many facets, many faces. And she loved them all.

“When will it be time, Ima? Ten more years? A hundred?” The breath of his words tickled her lips.

“If we begin too soon, we’ll grow tired of each other.”

“You’re not afraid of time, Ima. You’re afraid Sirce will find out.”

Ima pulled away, her lips thinning, her hands grinding into fists. It was a familiar feeling. Hate.

“He will not let me go, Papu. You know this. Of all people, you know this.” Ima took a shaky breath.

“I don’t care.” He reached out, his hands scarred from the mischief he’d tumbled into over the years, and cupped her face, bringing her closer to him again. “I’m not afraid of the Accuser.”

Ima wanted to shove his hands away, to protect him. But she knew she never would. “You frighten me when you say that.”

“You should trust me.”

“You should trust me.”

Papu changed, his attitude shifting like a storm rolling in overhead. “He hurts you. You know that for that, I’ll hurt him back.”

She clutched his hands, pressing them into her cheeks, her eyelashes catching her tears. He couldn’t resist revenge. “Do not, Papu. Promise me.”

He smirked, disregarding her tears, unable to help himself. “Too late.”

“Papu, please—”

But he snuck a kiss on her lips. Then another. “Trust me, Ima,” he said again.

But in the bleak light of her present reality, the bathtub that held Ima’s stiff body was far removed from the garden rooftop, far from Papu and his lips and his promise to ruin her life on her behalf. In her bathroom—with its vaulted ceilings and flourished moudlings, with its ivory garnishes and its marble, with its dangling candle chandelier and its flickering white light—there was no warmth.

Sylphie, her little blue-skinned sprite, fluttered over, holding an earthen jar of boiling water. “I don’t mean to interrupt, Lady, but shall I heat the water for you?”

Ima didn’t answer, her pretty face hardened into a frown.

The sprite swallowed, unsure of how her mistress would react to her insistence. “You have been in here for quite some time. The cold must be biting you. It worries me so. Please, let me warm it for you.

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