Page 51 of Sweetling
He led her back down the corridor to descend the staircase. The house lit their way, banishing the deepest shadows with orbs of yellow light from the oil lamps and mounted sconces. A quiet night had befallen the estate as they spoke in Ravenna’s bedchamber, and Allarion ensured his pace was suitably slow and cautious to ensure his humanazaididn’t turn an ankle.
Her safety and comfort came first—which was why he took her down to the cellar.
Well, what looked like the cellar to all who didn’t know how to look.
All afternoon, the memories of how troubled Molly seemed to be by all the goods they purchased nipped at him. Not only that, but the things she’d uttered about not starving again—Allarion would know the history behind all of it, but for now, until she was ready to tell him, he had to infer.
He’d suspected her life before had been one of lack and absence. He noticed that she lived with her uncle, cared for her cousins. There were no parents nor siblings, nor children of her own, though Allarion would have cared for them, too. She didn’t hoard lovers nor trinkets nor the sparkly bits so many others coveted.
His Molly was practical, unassuming. The idea of spending so much money had seemed to truly bother her, and his assurances that she could have anything she wanted inspired tension rather than happiness.
For now, Allarion could only guess as to the roots of her anxieties over this, but he hoped, when she saw the cellar, she would understand andbelievewhen he promised that she’d never go without ever again.
He sensed her confusion growing as they delved down beyond the ground level of the house, descending past the wine cellar to the very lowest, coolest point of the house.
Molly stood tensely beside him, her eyes blown wide in the murkiness of the dark stairwell. He could hear how rapidly her heart beat, and to ease her fears of the dimness, he created a will-o’-wisp of magic. Blue light illuminated the landing, glinting off the large ring door handles.
“The cellar,” she said in a strangely high voice.
“Yes. But also no.”
She looked up at him with those big eyes. He patted her hand in comfort before reaching out to trace a few figures on the circulardoors. The figures burned blue against the wood before sinking into the grain. Molly gasped when the left door popped open.
Allarion opened it wide, and with a wave of his hand, created a dozen more will-o’-wisps throughout the cavernous false cellar.
He led hisazaiinside their house’s hoard.
Chests full of gems; piles of coins; cabinets of fine silver plate and delicate porcelain; copper, bronze, silver, and gold ingots; a collection of irreplaceable silk-thread tapestries; sets of finely tooled filigree; and sets of rings, diadems, torques, necklaces, and bracelets set with precious jewels—all of it and more lined the stone walls of the false cellar.
Leading her further inside, he plucked a few gems from the ground to place in her hand.
Molly stared at the sparkling uncut jewels in her palm, her mouth hanging open.
“My mother is from an ancient line, one that was on the ships that sailed here from the westlands. The House of Meringor has done well for itself. This is but a fraction of my share.”
To bring more in his flight from the faelands would have been too difficult. Thankfully, what he’d managed to bring was more than sufficient. Within a year, he hoped to have the manor repaired and operating in the production of something that would generate revenue for the estate. Orchards, perhaps. He’d learned several tricks from his brothers while he stayed with them—and Eirean humans seemed particularly fond of apples.
He’d brought his hoard via a handy magical sack his great-grandmother had devised. The inside lining had been imbued with so much magic, it created a pocket of pure magic that existed outside the limits of space and reality. He’d stored all sorts of things there over his long life, and it made fleeing Amaranthe one step simpler.
In his first days at the estate, he’d used a great deal of his own magic to expand the bag until it lined the cellar itself. Now, it was a pocket as large as the cellar but vastly more infinite—and only accessible to those who knew how to open it. He liked to think he’d made his great-grandmother proud.
Turning to hisazai,he watched as she took in the wealth of their house. He hoped she saw it as a comfort, an assurance that she would be cared for. There was no need to scrimp and haggle. She would never go without. Their stores would never run out.
“I hope this puts your mind at ease, sweetling. I have every intention of taking care of you, of providing the life you want.”
Allarion waited for a response—for a long while. Longer than he thought strictly necessary.
Her eyes kept roving the false cellar, reflecting the blue light of the will-o’-wisps. Those plush lips had parted upon their entry but not closed, as if she still couldn’t believe her eyes.
Finally, Allarion couldn’t bear it. “Molly…” he asked gently, “do you…like it?”
A strange sound emanated from her throat—almost as if she choked. Allarion watched her in alarm, looking for signs of distress.
Her lips parted further, and a high-pitched laugh escaped. It was an unpleasant noise, one that sent a shudder of unease down his spine. He wanted her laughter, but this wasn’t the warm sound of the morning.
Another echoed in the false cellar, and Allarion watched in horror as she dropped the gems to press her hands to her cheeks. Tears began to slide down her face.
“Molly, sweetling—” he groaned.
