Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(47)
Olivesse’s color came back, and she winced as if pained by something. She took a step back.
“Please don’t come here again. I . . . I don’t have anything for you.” She took another step back and shut the door.
Jasminda swayed on her feet. For just a moment, heartache swelled, but then her anger rushed in full force. She banged on the knocker again, rhythmically, for so long her arm began to hurt. When that produced no results, she started hammering away at the door with her fists until they were raw and pulpy.
She cradled her arms to her chest and turned to see the driver in the front seat watching her curiously. Hitching up her chin, she turned back to the house, walking backward a bit to peer in the windows. They were all covered by curtains, offering no glimpse inside.
“I’ll be right back,” she told the driver before taking the path to the driveway. Beyond the house, the gravel drive slanted down quite steeply and ended in a quaint carriage house. The main house had a small backyard with a well-tended garden, each row completely free of weeds and labeled with little white wooden stakes.
She stood trying to imagine her mother here learning to garden from that woman inside, who was the storybook picture of what a grandmother should be, except, of course, for ignoring her grandchild. The windows in the back of the house were all shuttered or draped except for the glass doors leading to the garden.
Jasminda approached cautiously and peered inside. Dark hardwood floors were visible beneath finely woven rugs. Heavy, expensive-looking furniture sat atop them in rich colors and brocades. Her shoulders sagged as she took in what she could from her limited view. She did not bang on the door to request entry. She could break the glass and storm in, but the determination she’d felt moments before fled, leaving only sadness.
A creak sounded as the iron gate opened. Jasminda crouched beside a bush as a door slammed and then an auto pulled up to the carriage house. The driver emerged, a rather slim and short fellow with a black suit and hat, and opened the door for the passenger in the back. Jasminda’s breath caught. The woman coming out of the car was the scarred Sister who had aided the refugees at Baalingrove. It was indeed her Aunt Vanesse.
Vanesse looked back toward the house, and Jasminda held her breath, trying to remain motionless and unobserved. With a final anxious glance, Vanesse followed the driver into the carriage house using the side door. Jasminda peered behind her and darted to the side of the small structure. The door was closed, but a small window was uncovered.
Vanesse was not dressed in the robes of the Sisterhood today. Instead, she wore a knee-length skirt and silk blouse with a stylish fitted hat on her head. She removed her hat, placing it on a cluttered table. The driver had his back to Jasminda, but when he removed his hat, she froze and her breath hitched. The small man was really a woman, who shook out her shoulder-length locks and turned toward Vanesse.
With another furtive glance over her shoulder, Vanesse approached the driver, cupping the woman’s face in her hands and leaning in to kiss her. Jasminda dropped her eyes, guilty for spying on such an intimate stolen moment.
Jack invaded her mind, then—his lips against hers, his body pressed close, the hope that they would not be discovered. All the trouble that would bring.
This house, the wealth—Mama’s family obviously had a privileged place in society. What did they say about their long-lost eldest daughter? Jasminda knew better than to think they’d told the truth about Mama’s marriage to a settler and her half-breed children. They had probably killed her off in their lives long before her actual death. Maybe what her grandmother had slammed the door on wasn’t a real relationship with her flesh and blood kin but just a ghost. Jasminda felt like a ghost spying on her aunt from the shadows.
It seemed these sisters were alike in many ways. Was loving another woman so different from loving a Lagrimari? Both were taboo. And Jasminda was beginning to realize you couldn't choose who you loved.
The house where her mama had grown up looked different to her now. So many secrets, so many falsehoods and betrayals. Jasminda had wanted to make them see her, but did they even see themselves? She’d thought making her family acknowledge the lives of her brothers and her father was what she wanted, but now she just wanted to protect those memories and hold them close to her like armor. Not have them sullied by the cold eyes of a woman who had no regard for her.
She crept back around the house and climbed into the auto.
“Back to the palace, please. There isn’t anything for me here.”
As the Council of Regents meeting bled into its fourth hour, Jack longed for nothing more than to be back in Jasminda’s arms. Her touch still shivered across his skin, and he could swear her scent suffused the air. If he did nothing else but listen to her soft breaths until the day he died, he would not consider it a wasted life.
The reality of the Council Room and the petty squabbling among a group of grown men was cold water thrown on his reverie. His temper flared at the intrusion. The Minister of Finance and the Minister of the Interior bickered like an old married couple and could be counted upon never to agree with each other. Even in a circumstance as dire as imminent war.
Alariq would have been able to follow this miserable meeting quite adeptly, and known just what to say to bring the petty quarreling to an end. It was, after all, what his brother had trained for his whole life. Military training had done nothing to dull Jack’s edges into a tool of political usefulness. His manner was ill-appreciated by the men. Minister Stevenot of the Interior sputtered like a flooded engine when Jack interrupted him.