Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [100]
She saw him shiver as the breastplate was fitted to him, but only because she knew to look for such a response ; Gresham would never notice. She watched as the bracers were fitted on his arms, their straps buckled tightly over his shirt sleeves. She knew that to him they felt like manacles, binding him to a past he would far rather forget. She bled for him as the greaves were fitted about his lower legs, and hated herself for doing so. This man had done everything but reject her to her face; why couldn’t she force him out of her heart?
And then the coronet was lifted and offered, and Andrys took it up in his own hands and set it upon his head. She could see him quake as the band of finely worked sterling settled down about his forehead, and his eyes fell shut in a manner that made her fear he would faint—but Gresham was busy getting a mirror into place for him, and didn’t notice. The glass was turned toward him, reflecting a figure so finely adorned that it might have stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale. Or a romance novel. Or a horror tale, she thought, sensing what he saw when he looked into that mirror. Knowing the courage he must have nurtured over these past few weeks, to be able to endure this moment in front of strangers.
“I have no words,” he murmured, and Gresham glowed at the perceived compliment. Andrys’ hand touched the golden sun at the center of his chest, fingers splayed along its rays. “This is beyond anything I could have expected.” And then he turned to Narilka, and for an instant she saw, in his eyes, the torment that was in his soul. She could hear his silent screaming, as he forced his voice and body to obey the forms of gratitude without any hint of the pain that was inside. “More beautiful than the original,” he whispered, and then he quickly looked away. As if he feared, looking longer, what he might see in her eyes.
She turned away herself as the two men divested him of his shell, unable to look at him any longer. She felt faint herself, and frightened by her own reactions. Why did she feel like every word was a knife in her flesh? When had he gained the power to hurt her like this? After a moment she realized that Gresham wanted her to do something, and she went and got his leather-bound notebook for him. Yes, he would be happy to have the pieces delivered. Of course, that date would be fine. And if there was anything else that Mer wanted, anything at all, Gresham would be happy to get it for him or make it for him, whichever he preferred.
She took his check without making eye contact and wrote a receipt with a trembling hand. This is it, she thought. I’ll never see him again. It was better that way, wasn’t it? Did she really want to get involved with a man like this? Let him play his games with the women who enjoyed them. There were enough of those in the world, weren’t there?
But she ached inside to see him go, crumpling Gresham’s copy of the receipt into a shapeless wad in her hand. And as he walked down the narrow street, out of her life forever, a thin voice began to scream inside her. How can you let him go like this? Without a word of explanation, a hint of apology? Don’t you deserve better than that? Isn’t this just another kind of abuse, albeit more subtle than the rest? Why do you just stand there and take it?
She looked up at her boss, shaken. “Gresham—”
“Go ahead,” he told her. His expression was dark, his disapproval clear, but he nodded his permission. No more words were needed. She started toward the door, then remembered the receipt in her hand. Fingers trembling, she struggled to straighten it out. But he came to where she was and took it from her crumpled, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Go,” he whispered.