Page 8 of Tangwystle
“Go to the Council,” I whispered into the night.
She frowned, her cheek rubbing against her pillow.“The contract,” she replied sleepily.
“Signing a contract doesn’t mean you’re bound to take his punishments.”
Her mouth moved, and part of me wondered if she even understood that our conversation wasn’t a dream.
“Normally it’s just a little punishment before the pleasure,” she whispered. “A little bit too far.”
Scalded. That’s how hot my cheeks went.
“D-did he?”
“It’s okay, Tangwystle,” Gretel said, her eyes still closed.
The memory of Clinemell spanking Gretel came to my mind. Is that what she meant by too far? Had his spanks, which she’d clearly enjoyed that day, turned into something more sinister?
It wasn’t okay.
But while she could go to the Council and complain, I knew it would do no good despite just recommending it a few minutes earlier.
“Tangwystle,” she sighed again in the night. She scooted over, one leg clumsily climbing on top of mine. Her handsnaked out from where it’d cradled her cheek and landed on my stomach. Her naked body pressed to mine.
The next morning, when my eyes blinked open, I found myself in a pantry stocked with flour and onions but no Gretel.
She’d gone back to Clinemell.
It’s not like I could’ve kept her hidden in the Blackwell Manor pantry forever. And if she’d run, it’d only bring the law after her. Clinemell seemed the type to extract the terms of his contract no matter what.
Being gone several days, most likely had already pushed his temper despite the destruction he’d done to her.
I saw her three weeks later at the market.
“Good morning, Tangwystle,” she said, flashing a bright smile. Every time she saw me she always smiled.
But it occurred to me that morning, as I climbed back up the hill to Blackwell Manor with Baz’s breakfast, why Gretel reminded me of him. It’s not just that they smiled, their whole faces breaking into sunlight as they did so.
But that they smiled at me—the girl who never did so.
three
I foundBaz still in the kitchen when I arrived back home, tumbling through the side door.
“Let me take that.” He scooped the wicker basket from me, lifting it with ease.
I tugged out of my cloak, hanging it on the hook, biding my time so I could try to get my breathing under control. My lips itched, my skin dry after the trek. I fought the urge to finger-comb my long locks, knowing I hardly appeared presentable.
With a mug on the kitchen table, and the hearth kindling and the soft scent of cloves, I found myself reminded of why Blackwell Manor was my safe place. Though Master Blackwell would’ve never dared come to the kitchen.
“There’s the dining room,” I told Baz. “Or the parlor. I can make a tray and bring it up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded so sure of it that I didn’t put up a fuss when he unpacked the basket. I simply whirled around, placing the food items in their designated spot.
Baz had put on a fresh shirt. White, with his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were muscular, but my eyes kept going to the collarof his shirt. He’d left several buttons undone, and my fingers twitched, wishing to fix them.
Or perhaps to unbutton the rest.
