Truth be told, I wished to watch him ride. I was certain he’d be good at it (though, that wasn’t the only reason I wished to do this, as fierce as he was, he was most assuredly pleasing to the eye).
“You’re right,” Noc muttered, pulling me from my thoughts of the Dax, and I felt his arm round my waist so my head snapped around to look up at him again, seeing he appeared contrite. “Wasn’t cool, us busting a gut like that. You don’t know. And there’s all sorts of shit about your world that I don’t get or know about. I probably wouldn’t like it much if I said something you thought was funny and you laughed in my face.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool, Franka, really sorry,” Cora chimed in.
I did not know how to take this. Outside of a servant making a mistake and apologizing to me for doing so (as they should), I didn’t think anyone had ever apologized to me. Certainly not when they’d done something wrong or hurtful. And absolutely not admitting they understood they’d done so and moving verbally to rectify that hurt.
“You cool?” Noc asked.
In that moment I did not wish to get into the fact that their usage of “cool” was like Noc’s usage of “shit” and “fuck” and a variety of others. In other words, these were all used frequently but with what seemed like different meanings.
We spoke the same language but it still felt like I was cast adrift in a foreign land with only a modicum of understanding of the native tongue and I had to decipher all with only the barest of foundations.
Nevertheless, the way they’d both used “cool,” I could only assume he meant to ask if I was over my pique.
I was not, of course, but that didn’t factor.
“Yes, Noc, I’m fine,” I lied.
His lips quirked, his eyes didn’t leave mine, and he murmured, “You so aren’t.”
I faced forward again.
This allowed Noc’s lips a direct line to my ear, and I fancied I could actually feel them whisper against the skin there, causing a chill to race down my spine that was not chilly in the slightest as he said, “Also cute.”
Considering where his mouth was, he couldn’t see my face. Therefore, I rolled my eyes.
I felt him pull away.
I decided silence was my best course of action for the rest of the journey (and the return one).
However, this was the wrong decision.
Although Noc and Cora chatted amiably together the entire distance, both of them made frequent attempts to draw me into their conversation, to which I was not rude, just short or monosyllabic, and they eventually let me be, leaving me in my head.
This was not a good place to be, especially these last nine days.
If I was honest with myself—something I tended not to be for reasons of self-preservation, but even more so the last week—I would have admitted that their company, any of them, was a boon. It kept me out of my head. It kept me away from melancholic, ashamed or anxious thoughts of what had befallen me and what was to come.
But now, as we sledged ever closer to the jail (a place I had no idea where it was so I didn’t know exactly how close it was, just that we were moving, so naturally we were getting closer), I wondered why I’d decided to visit my parents.
Yes, I was where I was. Healing. Standing. Free. And they were where they were, imprisoned, their rights stripped, my mother’s magic stripped, their abundance of pride and conceit likely (hopefully) being chipped away day to day.
But what was to be gained from this visit?
And further, what could be lost?
They had power over me. They always did. I didn’t have to admit that to myself. It was a fact I’d lived with since I could ruminate. That power they wielded whether I was young or old, near or far.
Would their being in a jail change that?
Would my confronting them somehow be turned on me and cause more shame?
These were the thoughts that plagued me not only during our journey but at the end of it, through Noc assisting me out of the sleigh and while we made our way to the front door of the jail.
Frey opened the door, Finnie on his arm. They swept through followed by Lahn and Circe, then Noc and I, and we were trailed by Tor and Cora.
By the time we made our way through the door, Frey was speaking with someone who looked official and was wearing a city guard uniform of brown leather shorts, thick brown stockings, high brown boots and a warm-looking brown sweater with deep-red epaulets stitched in along the shoulders.
The moment Noc and I entered, both men’s eyes came to me.
Unexpectedly, I had the instant desire to bolt. In order not to do it, I made my body lock.
Noc felt it.
“Frannie?” he called quietly.
My gaze shot to his. “Do I look all right?”
In the many “nevers” that I’d experienced happening recently, this was another.
I’d never asked a soul that question.
And in my heart I knew I looked nothing but like I always looked. Josette made sure of that, going extra distance considering where I was heading, fashioning the lovely chignon she’d fastened at my nape and selecting the perfect accessories for my ensemble. It was also she who’d decided on the wine-colored gown that skimmed my figure beautifully, showing only a hint of cleavage at the square neckline, the subtle, thin, vertical cable-knit at my midriff, waist and hips giving the impression that entire area was nipped in and tiny.
She’d also chosen my most expensive, most fabulous cloak. A luscious, luminous sable, its high collar when flipped up (as it was not now) covered not just my neck but up beyond my ears.
I knew all this.
But I did not.