Page 39 of To No End

In the early morning, I awoke with an idea burning in my mind. Another item to check off the list. I rushed to make myself presentable, hoping that Versa would be willing to go along withmy bold proposal. I knocked on her door and was shocked to find her still in her bed, hardly stirring. A few beams of light seeped through the window, drawing lines across her bed and the floor. She had always been much fonder of mornings than I.

I cozied up beside her and whispered playfully in her ear, “I have an idea, if you think you’re brave enough.”

She rolled over to face me. How is it possible she looked this pretty in the morning? Did I look even half this lovely in the early light of dawn? She nudged me and replied sleepily, “I’ve always been braver than you.”

“Prove it,” I said, pushing aside the memory of taunting Trace with the very same line.

“Get up,” I continued, standing to rip the covers off her body.

I walked over to the window sill, yanking the drapes open wider to let more light canvas the room. I recollected the number of times she had done this to me, and I had to admit, it was amusing to be on the other end of it.

“We’re getting marked today,” I stated plainly. Versa sat up abruptly in surprise.

“What! A tattoo? You’re kidding, right?” she exclaimed.

“Why not? I’m going away. You’re starting a new life with your fancy husband-to-be. We should mark the occasion. Permanently.” I turned to her with a mischievous look.

Tattoos weren’t considered very becoming, especially for High Ladies like ourselves. My mother always showed distaste for my father’s: a small symbol showing his allegiance to the merchants guild. I thought he liked to pretend it was more serious than it was.

I was solidly convinced they all got them while drunk and abroad, then had to find some cover story to tell their spouses. I didn’t mind it at all—in fact, as a child I found myself envying my father for it and wanting my own to match.

It was on the inside of his wrist; a small anchor with a Seafarer’s knot tangled around it, and at the top of the anchor was the letter N for North. It irritated him when someone pointed out that the N was not directionally aligned with a real compass. He’d explain that the N was figurative, meaning true north. It was a reminder that no matter how far away from home his travels carried him,wewere his true north, his final destination.

I adored the meaning and was shocked he’d even come up with something so thoughtful. He wasn’t the overly sentimental type.

Versa didn’t take much convincing. At breakfast, we were extremely nonchalant about our intention to head into town that afternoon. My mother tried to insist on sending an escort with us, but when I gave her a look, she did not put up any further disagreement.

When we entered the stable to gather our horses, the hand didn’t miss a beat. It was the first time I had seen my crested saddle atop Rain in days. I gave him a small wink of gratitude and headed toward the town with my sister at my side. By the time we arrived at the artist’s shop, I had still been waffling about exactly what I wanted.

She and I sat nervously in the front of the shop, trying not to giggle at the absurdity of what we were doing. My mother and father likely cared little for anything I’d do with my body. But, Versa, on the other hand, was about to be on display at her wedding in front of many well-to-do nobles.

An extremely tall and very slender female approached us. Her black hair was short and choppy, not a style you’d commonly see on females. Her appearance was a bit androgynous; attractive, in any case. Tall cheekbones and all sharp angles. She had a bare midriff, seemingly uninterested in the current styles.

Perhaps the oddest aspect was that we were supposed to believe she was the artist who would be tattooing us when every inch of her greatly exposed skin was devoid of any marks. Not a single tattoo in sight. I was becoming more anxious with each passing minute.

“Are you…are you the artist here?” I muttered.

“Don’t look so disappointed.”

Before I could even get the words out, Versa chimed in with the same thing I had been thinking.

“But you don’t have any tattoos,” she said with a concerned look.

With an indifferent tone, the female said, “I’m covered in tattoos, maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

My eyes widened with her admission. Was she glamouring us? That was the only way to explain her claim.

She waved us toward the back of the shop with a look of annoyance, like she’d had this discussion many times before.

“My tattoos are for myself, and those I choose to let see them.” She pointed at the chair.

I eyed Versa, trying to give her a look that said stop staring.

“I’m Taran. Now that the pleasantries are over, what are we doing today?”

I could hear Versa snort at the curt introduction. I supposed she had the personality I’d expect from someone who had to deal with all kinds of unique patrons.

I tried to sound confident in my decision. It had only come to me a short moment ago, and already, I was beginning to doubt myself. I really should have spent more time thinking it through.

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