Page 2 of Bellamy
One man’s dark eyes landed on me as I filled his mug, and he grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me so close I smelled his rancid breath. “You’re pretty for a boy. Maybe even prettier than your momma.”
I yanked from his hold and tried to walk away. He tugged me right back, and I elbowed him in the ribs to break free. The women who worked there had always said if any of the men laid a hand on me, I needed to escape in whatever way I could. Hit them, bite them, punch. Claw at their face.
“Your eyes,” the man said, grabbing a fistful of my tunic and pulling me closer. “They remind me of a lass I bedded in my younger years. The shade of honey.”
Honey? But my mother said my eyes looked like a blend of green and brown.
“Are ya blind, Cormac?” another man asked with a raspy laugh. “The boy’s eyes are like emeralds.”
“Calm yourselves, boys,” a loud female voice rang out. Nia walked from a back room, wiping at her lips. “Choose a woman and let her show you a good time. There’s plenty to go around.” Her eyes met mine, and though it was subtle, she motioned with her head to the stairs.
I ran that way. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, though the older I became, the more frequently it seemed to occur.
In the attic, no light apart from the moon came in through the small window. I hugged my knees and took deep breaths. I felt like crying, but what would that solve? As voices came from downstairs, I closed my eyes and eventually fell asleep.
A week later, I woke to the house abuzz with chatter. A wealthy man had asked for Nia’s hand in marriage. Liam. He’d been one of the kinder patrons, never badgering me or being cruel. Nia accepted the proposal and left to live with him on his estate.
“Our Nia fell in love,” Delia said with a swooning motion.
Love. I’d heard the word but never understood it. Was it love that pushed Nia to accept, or was it maybe a sense of security? She’d never have to want for anything again.
For the rest of the morning, I busied myself with work: sweeping and washing bedding.
“Be a dear and find your mother,” Delia told me later that afternoon.
I found her beneath my favorite oak tree.
“Why Nia?” my mother asked. “Her beauty pales in comparison to mine. Why did he choose her?”
“I think Nia’s pretty,” I said, sitting beside her.
She made a sound in her throat. It was bitter, made more so by the hostile gleam in her eyes. “I was engaged to be married once. It was arranged between his and my parents. I didn’t love him, but I understood my duty.” A faint smile touched her lips, and her hostility faded. “And then your father came along. Men don’t like being called beautiful, but that’s exactly what he was. Beautiful like Adonis and strong. Tall too. All the women fell at his feet from the moment he came to the village. But out of all of them, he choseme.”
I frowned. It was rare for her to speak of my father.
“I fought his advances at first, but the temptation was too great. I surrendered to him and broke off my engagement. I ran away from home to be with him. Desire. Passion. He opened my eyes to a new world. I learned he wasn’t mortal. The first time I saw his black wings, I wept at his beauty. When I asked where he’d come from, he didn’t give an answer. But he said I had a purpose. He wanted to have a child and wantedmeto carry it.”
“What became of him?” I asked.
“I thought we’d be married and live happily together until the end of our days.” Shadows crept across her face, darkening her expression. “However, once you were growing in my belly, he left without a word. The child he was so desperate to have? Forgotten. I saw him again not long after that. He was in a tavern with three women, one on each arm and the other on his lap. He had the audacity to smile at me before kissing one of them.” She balled her hands into fists. “I had nowhere to go, no home to return to. He ruined my life.”
Ruined her life? What about me? Did I not matter?
“When I first held you in my arms, I was happy,” she continued. “You had the biggest cheeks and most precious giggle. But as you’ve grown, you remind me so much of him. I can barely look at you now.”
Everything changed after that day.
A darkness grabbed hold of her. She became even colder toward me, as if my very presence reminded her of what she’d lost.
“Get out of my sight!” Mother yelled on the morning of my eighth name day. “You have his eyes! You’ll grow to be wicked just like him!”
She threw a mug at me, and I ducked. It shattered against the wall right where my head had been.
Delia gently guided me away while another woman tried to console her.
“Listen not, sweet one,” Delia told me. “Your mother isn’t in her right mind. Give her time. She loves you dearly.”
That’s when I noticed my cheeks were wet. Love. That word again. If that was true, why did I see only anger in my mother’s eyes when she looked at me?
