J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [334]
He saw Blay’s face clear as day the whole way along. With each step he took, his friend’s crushed expression was the beacon he followed.
It was going to stay with him. Forever.
By the time he reached the end of the tunnel, put in the pass code, and opened the way into a gardening shed about a mile away from the house, he realized he did have something to lose after all . . .that there was a level lower than he thought he’d bottomed out at: He’d shredded Blay’s heart and crushed it under his boot, and the regret and pain he felt were almost more than he could bear.
As he stepped out into a stand of lilacs, he came to a change of mind. Yes, he was disgraced by birth and circumstance. But he didn’t have to make that worse.
He took out his phone, which by now had only one bar of battery left on the screen, and texted John where he was. He wasn’t sure whether he still had service—
John hit him right back.
Fritz would be there to pick him up in ten minutes.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Up in her bedroom in the Brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia sat on the floor in front of the construction she’d started the night before, a box of toothpicks in her hand, a bowl of peas next to her. She wasn’t putting either to use. All she’d been doing for the good Virgin knew how long was flicking the box’s lid flap open and closed . . . open and closed . . . open and closed.
Stalled out and all but immobile, she’d been at the flicking for quite some time now, and her thumbnail was wearing a patch in the lip.
If she was no longer First Mate, she had no reason to stay on this side. She was serving no official function, and by all that was manifest, she should be back in the Sanctuary meditating and praying and serving the Scribe Virgin with her sisters.
She didn’t belong in this house or this world. She never had.
Shifting her focus from the box to the structure she’d put together, she measured the units and thought of the Chosen and their network of functions, from the keeping of the spiritual calendar to the worshiping of the Scribe Virgin to the recording of Her words and Her history . . . to the birthing of Brothers and future Chosen.
As she pictured herself living in the Sanctuary, she felt as if she were going backward, not returning home. And strangely, what should have bothered her the most—that she had failed as First Mate—wasn’t what upset her.
Cormia tossed the box of toothpicks to the ground. When it landed, the lid flipped open and a bunch of the blond sticks popped out and scattered in a tangle.
Discord. Disorder. Chaos.
She picked up what had spilled, making right out of the mess and deciding she needed to do the same with her life. She would speak to the Primale, pack up her three robes, and go.
As she put the last toothpick into the box, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said without bothering to get up.
Fritz put his head around the jamb. “Good evening, Chosen, I carry a message from Mistress Bella. She is inquiring whether or not you would wish to join her for First Meal in her bedroom?”
Cormia cleared her throat. “I’m not sure—”
“If I may,” the butler murmured. “Physician Jane just left her once again. I gather that the examination raised questions. Perhaps the Chosen’s presence would calm our mahmen-to-be?”
Cormia looked up. “Another exam? You mean after last evening?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her I will be there right away.”
Fritz’s head dipped reverently. “Thank you, madam. Now, I must needs perform a pickup, but I shall be back and shall cook for you. I shan’t be gone long.”
Cormia took a quick shower, dried and coiled her hair, and changed into a freshly pressed robe. As she came out of her room, she heard the sounds of boots on the foyer and looked over the balcony. The Primale was down below, striding across the mosaic apple tree on the floor. He was dressed in black leathers and a black shirt, and his hair,