The Cogsmith's Daughter (Desertera #1)(23)

*



Once Aya reached the statue of Queen Hildegard, she allowed herself to glance back over her shoulder. King Archon had not followed her. A laugh echoed through the corridor, and Aya saw a small group of nobles heading toward her from the direction of the throne room. She ducked down the hallway.

Aya walked past Lord Varick’s estate, purposefully avoiding meeting the eye on the door, to the doorway that led to the Rudder’s stairwell. After a quick look to ensure the hallway was empty, Aya sat down on the floor next to the door and began to cry. She felt stupid for sobbing, but the king’s swift rejection made her feel like a child, and being the object of his scorn and stubbornness—again—made her feel like the girl who had watched her father dragged away.

Slumping over, Aya buried her head in her arms. She didn’t know what she would say if someone came by, but she hoped a passerby would have the decency to let her cry in anonymity. As the tears slid down her cheeks, Aya tasted salt on her quivering lips.

Salt water, she thought. We’re all filled with salt water.

After a few moments, Aya took a deep breath and tried to think logically. Yes, the king had scorned her, but all was not lost. By refusing to apologize, she had maintained a scrap of dignity. Surely, a nobleman would respect that. Surely, she had increased her mystique, at least marginally.

As her tears slowed, Aya heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. Knowing she did not have time to avoid an encounter, she shuffled down the hallway a few feet, hoping the stranger wouldn’t notice her. She hid her face in her arms again. The door creaked open. The stranger took a few steps, paused, and walked toward her. When the footsteps stopped in front of her, Aya knew she had to look up. To her humiliation, Aya found herself staring up into the eyes of a man—of, frankly, a rather gorgeous young man.

She put her head in her hands. “Shit.”

Aya stayed hidden for a few moments. She hoped that, if she just kept still, the man would lose interest or begin to feel awkward, the way most men did around women displaying emotions, and walk past. However, after a few moments, Aya still heard him breathing above her. Feeling even more ridiculous than before, she started crying again.

The young man chuckled. “If you need to shit, I can escort you to a toilet.”

Aya’s head snapped up, and her jaw dropped. But fortunately, her tears ceased. “What a vulgar thing to say!”

The young man laughed. Aya had to admit she liked the sound of it. Deep and sincere.

“I could have said the same to you, miss.”

Aya blushed.

The young man sat down cross-legged in front of her. Aya looked around the corridor to ensure that no one else was watching them, two grown adults seated in the hallway like insolent children. When she was sure they were alone, she returned her gaze to his face.

From this direct angle, Aya could examine him more closely. He had lightly tanned skin and dark brown hair. His jawline was pronounced but still soft, unlike the king’s pointed chin. Tiny black hairs speckled his jawline and cheeks, not enough to make a beard, but enough to create a handsome shadow on his face. His eyebrows were thick, which gave character to even his subtlest facial expression. Then Aya noticed his eyes. They were the color of the desert sand at sunset with rings of gold and green circling the pupil. Aya looked down into the black folds of her dress, wishing that Lord Varick’s family colors were more flattering.

The young man touched Aya’s chin, tilting it up with his fingers. It felt as if a lightning bolt had issued from his fingertips, striking in her jaw and crackling down her neck and back.

“If I may be less vulgar but equally rude,” he began, “why are you sobbing on the floor?”

“It’s nothing.” Aya looked away. “I just—I did something foolish.”

The man let his hand drop from Aya’s chin to rest on her knee. In other situations, Aya would have recoiled from such an intimate touch from a stranger—from a non-client stranger, anyway. However, after the king’s rejection, being comforted by a handsome man reassured Aya that she must be somewhat attractive.

“We all make mistakes. I am sure it was nothing you cannot reconcile.”

Aya shrugged. “I hope you are correct.”

“I know I am.” The man smiled, pulled his cream pocket square from the front of his jacket, and handed it to her. As Aya wiped the lingering teardrops from her cheeks and neck, the man fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “These are Lord Varick’s house colors, are they not? I did not realize he had taken a new wife.”

Aya jerked, causing the man’s hand to slip from her knee. He didn’t replace it, returning it to his own knee. Aya’s chest deflated, and she handed his pocket square back to him. “No, absolutely not. I’m his ward, an orphan. Lord Varick took me in off the streets of Sternville.”

“My apologies.” The man tucked his pocket square back into his jacket. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” Aya bit her lip. “I was more concerned that the potential of a marital attachment to me would offend Lord Varick.”

The young man placed his hand back on her knee. “I don’t think any man would take offense to the possibility of being married to such a beautiful woman, no matter what her status.”

Aya’s eyes widened. She had never been called beautiful before, at least, not by anyone other than her father. Her clients had never needed to show such kindness, and suitors, well, there hadn’t been any. No self-respecting man, not even a wellman, would court a lady from the Rudder.