CRELLA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You will do this, she ordered herself, and your torment will soon be over.

Her every muscle ached as she stood on her perch several feet off the floor, her whole body tensed. A vile moisture began to gather on her skin, threatening to turn to droplets of sweat. You must not remain here another night.

The memories of her life spent at her uncle’s estate were mostly shrouded in darkness. She had no misgivings about her feelings toward the man—she’d always known she hated him—but she had refused to remind herself of why. That Cassen had reawakened her burning abhorrence for all men of power only served to strengthen her need to be gone from this place.

You should have run long ago, she scolded herself. You should have taken Ethel far from this kingdom. The thought of her daughter having to persist without her was sickening. There was pride to be had in the strong woman Ethel had become, in the face of her hardships, but the scorn her peers showed Ethel would not be shared by the kingdom’s new ruler. How long would it be before Cassen tired of Crella and moved on to her daughter? Lyell seemed a saint now by comparison.

Crella squeezed her eyes closed, willing the memory of the night Cassen had spoken of to return with more clarity, no matter how painful. Was Stephon truly the first miscreant of my creation? she wondered. Or am I to blame for Cassen as well? She did not recall the night of her uncle’s death quite the same as Cassen had recounted. She did not remember having escaped that night without torture, only that she had awoken to find Calder dead at the bottom of the steps in the morning.

Her legs wobbled, but she kept herself from toppling. There was no reason for it to be so difficult to remain standing where she was, upon this trunk she’d dragged toward the door. Crella breathed deeply and steadied herself. She would see this done, and properly. They had been so careful to clear the room of all the implements that could be used to end a life. There was no crystal, no silvered glass, no lacings or ribbon. How ironic it was that the thing she had found was the very item that almost killed her husband. Huge porcelain vases yet remained, and Crella had broken one to find it produced edges sharp as any glass. And with a piece of cloth wrapped around it to serve as a handle, she had fashioned a rather viable weapon.

Should it be a servant or Cassen, it does not matter. Whoever passes through this door next will die. From upon her trunk she would have height and momentum to her advantage as she plunged her makeshift blade into the neck of that unlucky man. Let it be Cassen, she thought. Her chance of success attacking Cassen was far less than her latest weakly servant, but still she hoped for it to be her tormentor who next arrived. She shuddered thinking of his repulsive touch. I will make him a eunuch in truth.

But revenge was not her only goal; it was escape. She’d forgone her bath to have enough water to wash the blood from the clothes of her victim—the clothes she would then don herself. The likelihood of walking past the guards unnoticed was not good, but there was a chance. Guards paid servants little notice, and they did their best to avoid eye contact with men of high station. They would not notice she’d escaped for hours, giving her enough time—she hoped—to find Ethel and flee north.

A droplet of sweat fell from her nose and splashed on her foot. It would be so easy to step down and bathe herself in the cool, inviting water, to wash the filth from her body. It would be easier still to use her porcelain blade to cut her thigh as she rest there, and drift peacefully to sleep. I will do no such thing, she resolved, readjusting her grip on her weapon. They have not beaten me.

Crella caught her breath and cocked her head. She strained to hear. Her pulse quickened and her head began to throb as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was no servant.