Page 8 of Veiled in Stars and Silver
After being a whore, that was.
My next throw hit the bullseye. I straightened, a small smile coming across my face. “You’re dead, Captain.”
The only way I’d convinced Uncle, the esteemed naval commander, to agree to train me was because I behaved better when he let me fight. Not even the threat of sending me away to finishing school had gotten me in line. It would only be another place where I’d embarrass Uncle and most likely get kicked out. He’d tried using the lash on me when I was younger to control me, but despite the horrid pain, I’d seen it through. It had become our deal. He’d teach me to fight, and in return, I’d put up with parties and prospective suitors—be the perfect, controlled lady in society.
That meant giving up my friends and those that he deemed unworthy of our elevated station, which in either a logical or sadistic sense included getting rid of Nana.
Even though I still lived in my childhood home, when Uncle came along, he’d uprooted my life just as thoroughly as if he had moved me across the country. I flipped the next knife in my hand. It was a worthy trade. I’d primp and preen and be whatever he wanted as long as he let me train.
A shadow loomed behind me. Needles pricked my skin.
Uncle was watching.
Releasing a slow breath, I focused on the target, pulled back on the blade, and released. Another bullseye.
“Throw the last two with your left hand.”
So I did. They landed wide of my mark. Disappointment gathered in my gut. I wasn’t as good at throwing with my non-dominant hand. When I turned to face Uncle, his large form towered behind me. A clicking sound made me freeze as he lifted a revolver, the end of the barrel an inch from my face.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Uncle’s eyes glittered with blackness.
“Do you realize how easy it would be to stage your death?” he asked, his voice cold, emotionless. “Stupid, careless girl gets in the way, in a training accident. That’s all it would take, and everyone would believe me.”
I trembled. It would be too easy for him. He could do it right now, and who would care? Who would miss me?
The pistol didn’t waver. “This is your last practice. I’ve arranged for you to marry a war friend of mine who lives in St. Ives. Joe Rafferty is his name. I’ve spoken with him at length. He assures me he will keep you in line.”
My tongue had gone dry, and a sour taste rose into my mouth. Uncle’s gaze held mine. “What will you do?”
Nausea roiled in my stomach. “Uncle, I’m sorry. From now on—”
“It's too late for that. I’ve given my word. Did you think this deal between us was going to last forever? It’s time you take your place in society. What will you do?”
The look on his face told me there was only one answer.
“I’ll accept.”
He lowered the gun, and I sucked in a breath of relief, my eyes burning. I pressed a hand to my chest as if that would stop its erratic beating.
“Good girl. We leave tomorrow following noon tea to travel to St. Ives. Come. We’ll return to London for your last night.”
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or simply voice my objections, but the revolver at Uncle’s side kept me silent during the entire journey back to London. I wasn’t sure if Ezra saw Uncle pull his gun on me, but he was quiet, too. Perhaps he sensed the tension or was smarting over his beating and didn’t want to set off Uncle.
Perhaps he was irked at me for not taking the fall.
I didn’t care. Ezra didn’t hate me. But he’d never stand up for me, either. Another thing I’d learned in our close to seven years of living with Uncle Reuben’s cruel tendencies.
When we returned to my home, I raced up to my room and shut the door. The old nursery was both comforting and filled with painful memories. After my brothers were taken, my mother had sat in there day after day, staring out the window, wasting away.
Until the day she died.
My father had followed not long after.
Swallowing the pain in my throat, I stepped up to the toy soldiers that guarded the window. I touched the smudges of dirt on their smooth painted wood that my mother would never again clean.
My fingers drew into fists. I couldn’t leave London. It was the only place that had a black market where I had hope of finding fairy dust. Or had a chance of Peter returning to me. So many years of planning and training. This couldn’t be the end.
I looked around the room at the paintings on the walls—of stories I told as a child.
