The Color of Old Vitalia
1088 Words
“Dammit,” murmurs my new companion in response to the sound of the whistle in the distance. The long, hard line of his jaw seems to clench as he glances behind him toward the noise. When he turns back to face me, there’s a renewed urgency in his gaze. “You must disguise yourself, Mistress. Quickly.”
Weird—that’s the same thing that boy in the woods called me. But that was before I fell into the new world, right? “Disguise myself how?”
“Your eyes.” He comes closer to me—closer than I would have allowed a few mere seconds ago, yet now that there’s fresh trouble coming, I don’t think I have a choice. “You must change their color.”
What the hell is he going on about? “What’s wrong with my eyes?”
He gestures to the sun and sky above him. “Green is the color of Old Vitalia. Of the gods, the makers, and the Fae.”
Okay… what, now?
More whistles sound from off in the distance. I can tell from Apollo’s restlessness that there are horses with the men coming toward us.
“We don’t have time for this,” the man says impatiently. “If Lyons thinks you are Fae, he will enslave you. Even if he doesn’t…” His expression darkens. “Best to let me do the talking. Pretend you don’t speak Shiftran.”
That shouldn’t be too hard. “But… how am I supposed to change my eye color?”
“The same way you killed that bear. With Fae magic.”
I want to argue with him—to assure him that whatever he thinks he saw me do, and whatever he thinks I am, I’m not. But the voices, footsteps, and pounding of hooves are all getting closer, and the word enslave doesn’t sit well with me. So, feeling like a complete moron, I press my fingers to my eyelids and focus on the muddled, brown color of the trees around us.
When I open them again, he nods. “Good.”
I guess that means it worked.
“Now,” he says. “Your clothes. You are not a Shifter, so you cannot be in warrior’s clothes. He will only help you if he thinks you are Normalia.”
Human woman, my translator brain informs me helpfully. Weak and powerless.
I guess that makes him a Shifter.
“Okay,” I say, frowning. “Any suggestions?”
I can tell by his uncomfortable expression that he’s not exactly an expert in women’s clothing. “It must be a dress. Not a gown—nothing a member of the court might wear—but not something a peasant girl would wear, either. You must appear to be of a high enough social standing to earn his respect.”
I really should have paid more attention in history class. Then again, given that this is a whole, other world, maybe the dresses I’m picturing aren’t quite right, anyway.
I close my eyes, think Renaissance Festival, and hope for the best.
When I open them again, I don’t have to look down at myself to know it worked. I can tell from the way he’s… well, frankly, ogling me.
“Question,” I say when it becomes apparent that he hasn’t quite regained his composure yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered, but we don’t exactly have time for flirtation at the moment—not to mention, I doubt I’ll ever be able to let a man touch me again after what I went through with Hunter. “How the hell do women ride horses in these dresses? I can barely even breathe.”
I’ve never worn a corset before, and I’m finding that it’s every bit as bad as they say in the movies. Not only is my stomach squeezed so tight, I can barely move, but my breasts are also pushed up so high, I fear they might pop out entirely.
Which probably explains the ogling.
“Good point,” he says when he finally tears his eyes away from my dress. “Normalia women ride sidesaddle only. Can you make the adjustments?”
I glance back at my saddle—a bulky, Western one I found in a heap of throwaways at the stables back home. It’s an English barn, and I’m typically an English rider, but the bulkiness and comfort of the Western saddle seemed wiser for my great escape.
I've never actually seen a sidesaddle before, but I get the gist of it. I wave a hand toward the saddle and try not to gape as it changes shape right before my eyes.
“Good,” says the man, nodding. “Just one more thing.”
I jump a bit when he reaches for my hand. Thanks to Hunter, I’m not good with touching. Something about this man’s hands, though—their sheer size, for starters, along with their coarse, rough, blistered nature—puts me at ease. I think it’s how different they are from Hunter’s hands—the smooth, cold, bony hands of a man who never had to work for anything in his life.
I feel those rough fingertips pinch against my left ring finger as the man says, “You need to create a wedding ring.”
A wedding ring? “Dude,” I say, despite knowing that he probably doesn’t understand what the word means. “I’m eighteen.”
A flash of amusement sparks in his eyes again, but all he says is, “Trust me.”
For the record, I don’t trust him; I only just met him. But the prospect of enslavement is a whole lot worse than the prospect of believing a handsome stranger has good intentions, so, reluctantly, I close my eyes, do my best to dream up a middle-class, seventeenth-ish-century wedding ring, and open them again.
It worked. It’s actually sort of… beautiful. Simple, yet elegant.
The man scans it for a second before looking up into my eyes and nodding. “Good. Now, stay quiet.” And he turns away from me and squares his shoulders toward the source of the sound coming toward us.
But I can’t stay quiet without asking one, final question.
“Why?” I whisper to him. “Why are you helping me?”
He doesn’t turn to face me again, but he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Because you saved my life.”
- Writer
