Chapter VI
~ Crimson and Tor ~
Early in the morning, the countess was up, not because she wanted to capture the day, but because a caretaker woke her with news that Sena was deathly ill. She rolled to her side to find Tor was already up and about.
“Ill?” the countess asked peeling open her eyes.
“Yes, my lady. She’s very hot and her face is pale.”
“Very well, get my robe and bring me some tea. I will see what’s wrong with this girl.”
“One other thing, my lady.”
“What?” the countess asked agitated as she sat up in bed. “What is it?”
“The other one, the one named Crimson, she is not in her quarters.”
The countess’s jaw tightened. She mumbled, “He had not better be…” as she looked at the empty spot where her husband should be.
“Shall I instruct the guards to begin a search?” the caretaker asked.
“No!” the countess barked, “No! Don’t do a thing! I will find my husband and I’m sure I will find Crimson, too. Tend to the sick girl. I will check on her later.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The countess pulled her robe roughly onto her shoulders and cinched it across her mid-section. She stomped out of her bedroom and made her way to Darya’s room. She opened the door to see Darya sleeping. She silently closed the door and stomped down the long hallway. Her breaths raged from her body in huffs and puffs. She stopped near the courtyard exit, thinking where they might be. The courtyard maybe? No, far too cold. The stables? Tor wasn’t that patient. Then she knew and went directly to the bathing pool.
She slowly opened the door. The warm air touched the soft skin of her face and vapor sat on the surface of the pool water like fog. She quickly and silently closed the door behind her and waited until her eyes adjusted to the nearly dark room. Moisture that had collected on the ceiling dripped in drops onto the stone floor and water, a pitter-patter of gossip the countess thought. She eased around the left side of room and heard the muted sounds of sex. She snuck along the wall until she was almost at the storage room and stopped, listening intently.
Tor was making shushing sounds. His requests were quiet, guilt driven and barely audible over the muted protests of Crimson.
The countess peeked around the doorframe and she saw them, her rotund husband between Crimson’s legs as Crimson tried to push him off and made silent squeals. His hand was over her mouth and he whispered shush over and over. Crimson saw the countess and fought even harder, punching Tor on the shoulders and back.
Tor shifted position on his knees so that he rested his full weight on the petite girl and kissed her forehead. His breaths became labored as he continued to push into her and take the brunt of her punches.
The countess brought her finger to her lips and Crimson understood.
Tor never saw his wife come from behind with the heavy porcelain vase raised over her head. He heard it, though, only for a briefest of moments, as she swung it through the air and its open mouth caught the wind like someone playing a reedless wind instrument. It made a musical note of disaster and crashed into the back of his skull.
Tor was instantly unconscious, his limp body draped like a wet blanket over Crimson, who let out a scream and struggled to push him off her. She sat up and slid across the floor toward the back wall. “Is he dead?” she asked.
“Not sure,” the countess replied as she pushed the shards of porcelain away with her feet and knelt beside her husband. She pushed away the thick mat of hair on the top of his skull. There was no blood, but a nice bump was already developing. She watched his chest move up and down and could hear his heavy shallow breathing. She stood, grabbed a towel and tossed it over his naked body. “He’s fine. He may wish he were dead, but he’s fine.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Crimson said as she looked at Tor’s body.
“It never is. It never is,” the countess repeated as she pivoted on her toes and left the room.
Moments later, two caretakers arrived. They dumped a pitcher of cold water on Tor. He roused, sat up, and was pissed off at everyone, especially those nearby—the caretakers and Crimson. He rubbed the knot on the back of his head, studied the broken shards of porcelain that lay around him, and spat in Crimson’s direction. The spit landed near her feet. She moved away. “You bitch,” he grumbled, “you hit me with a vase?”
“No, I didn’t,” Crimson defended as she stood and sought shelter behind the larger caretaker.
“If you didn’t, then who did?”
The countess peeked around the threshold, “I did, Tor.”
Tor looked at Crimson; his look was scornful as if she had broken a secret between them. He managed to get to his feet, wrapped the towel around his mid-section, and pushed past everyone. The countess followed him, right on his heels, berating him. They shouted at each other as they exited the bathing room.