WARNING: Language, Violent/Suggestive Implications

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Chapter 9: Blood and Women

I found myself wandering aimlessly about the halls again, with nothing in mind to do. I had been staying here at Rome’s old family mansion for a week now, and I found that now that the cleaning was done, there was not much for me to do. I was not all that fond of sewing, and really I had no reason or desire to sew at this point, but now that I suddenly had nothing to do, I was seriously considering it.

Rome was presumably in his room, brooding in his solitude, as always. The servants’ quarters were clean, the hallway was clean, the entry was clean, the parlor was clean, the dining hall was clean, the kitchen was clean, the upstairs bedrooms were clean. Even the porch was clean, and the stone rooms off the kitchen, and all the little hidden stone rooms off the hallway. With so little to do, even I was clean—and that was not something that happened very often. I had even washed my clothing and my sheets yesterday, just to pass the time. The rest of yesterday I had spent staring at the paintings that hung on the walls of the first floor, and trying to make out the intricate carvings and inscriptions in the woodwork. So now I was completely bored, and my choices were to wander around inside, or to wander around outside.

Since I had been indoors almost nonstop for a week, I chose outdoors.

I made my way to the porch and stood there, surveying the lay of the land, taking in the details. The ruined marble statue stood before me, with the overgrown driveway surrounding it. Maybe I would explore a little bit…

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I did not have to see Bre to know she was bored. Although it was hard to believe, she had single-handedly thoroughly cleansed a large portion of the house. Of course, she had not cleaned my room, which was just as well because I felt the dirt suited me and what I had become.

I had not said anything to her about the crates she brought me two days prior, but I had already gone through the contents of one and was now reading through the contents of the other. Perched on my window seat, I looked up from the letter I was reading and gazed out the window, through the treetops and up into the sky. I became aware of a small movement out of the corner of my eye, and followed it down below. It was Bre in the driveway, hunched over the ground, doing something with her hands, her dress tied up around her thighs in a knot on the side. She turned to reach for something, and her hair (which was trying to escape its fastening) tumbled across her face. She paid it no heed, continuing to work as if it was not there. I watched her for a few minutes, after which she sat back and shook the hair out of her face. She let out a breath and wiped the sweat off her brow that was threatening to drip into her eyes, smearing dirt across her face in the process.

I gazed at her sweaty face, took in her tussled hair, her dirt-covered dress. An angel, covered in dirt and grime. I had no right to keep her here, I knew. But I had given her back to the world, and saw what they had done to her.

But now, what was I supposed to do with her? It was bad enough that I had to drag her back here with me, back to a place where I knew she did not want to go—and really, who in their right mind would? After what had happened here, this deserted old house was enough to give even the pure in heart nightmares. It was not right for me to make her share my fate and take part in my suffering.

It went without saying that I was not at all used to living with women. Their idle chatter and their obsession with fashion and their utter helplessness in any matters of importance were all things I found annoying, and their insistent curiosity about everything could be infuriating. But I was not sure which was worse: noblewomen with their flowery language who enjoyed court intrigues (and were willing to create their own if none currently existed), or a servantwoman who found her status blatantly obvious and took great pains to willingly enslave herself above and beyond in every self-appointed task she could think of to employ herself in. And this particular outstanding servantwoman was also incredibly attractive, and seemingly completely oblivious to her obvious beauty.

I sighed. What am I going to do about her?

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I had circled the outside of the house and found nothing of interest except that it was incredibly hard to see in through the windows from the outside. There was a water pump on one side of the house, and a small, dried-up overgrown garden around the back. The water pump apparently still worked. I set to seeding the garden, which did not take long, but the weeds were thick and spiky. When I came back around to the front of the house, I figured I might as well weed the driveway, which was even more overrun. So I tied up the skirt of my dress, rolled up my sleeves, squatted down in a corner of the driveway, and began to pull.

It was not long before I was covered in dirt and sweating profusely. My hair was plastered to my face, which was just as dirty as my dress, and my arms and legs were caked with dirt. The driveway was huge, and seeing how I as I was not particularly used to gardening and tending soil, I had to stop and rest more than once.

But finally it was done, and I found myself on the far end of the weed-free driveway, covered in dirt from head to toe. I flopped over in the grass, my energy spent, as I caught my breath. I just laid there for a while, feeling my breathing slow, staring up into the vibrant blue sky as my hands throbbed. Eventually I turned my head to the side and considered the marble statue. I could not repair it or make its basin pump water again, but I knew I could clean it. I glanced at one of my hands. It was covered in dirt, plant parts, and dried blood. I winced. Maybe not today…

I awkwardly pushed myself up into a sitting position, trying to avoid using my hands as much as possible, then slowly stood to my feet. I took one look down at myself and knew I could not go into the house like this; I would track dirt everywhere. So I made my way around to the water pump at the side of the house. I rubbed at my hands under the freezing water, wincing as they stung terribly. Then, rather awkwardly and gritting my teeth, I crouched under the water pump as far as I could and used my hands to scrub the dirt off my arms, legs, and feet, and some of the rest of me as well. When I could not stand the cold water or the pain in my hands anymore, I pulled away and stopped the water flow, and began to walk around in the grass, letting the sun dry me off.

When I was at least a little dry, I went in the house and straight to the servants’ quarters. I wrapped the palms of my hands in rags, grabbed a big crate, and headed back outside. There I began collecting from the piles of weeds I had created all around the yard and depositing them in the crate, ignoring when they bit through the rags on my hands. Once I had gathered all the weeds, however, I was presented with another problem. Ordinarily I would have dumped all the weeds into a pile and burned them a good distance from the house, as I had the useless items from the servants’ quarters the day I came here. But then I had notched sticks; now I did not. If I went into the forest for sticks, Rome would likely become very angry, as he had told me specifically to stay out of the forest. I did not have any flint rocks, so I could not start a fire that way. Then I realized something: Maybe the wind from previous days had already blown sticks off the trees and into the grass, so I would not have to actually go in the forest to retrieve them. Glancing down at the crate full of weeds, I steeled my resolve and headed toward to forest.

When I reached the forest, I paced the length of the forest until I found that hidden path which had first led me here. It was considerably more overgrown now, so it took me longer to locate it, but I finally found it. And indeed, it appeared the wind had blown down an entire tree branch. So I grabbed hold of one end of the branch with both hands and began to pull it back towards the house. The branch was heavy, and by the time I finished dragging it to the side of the house opposite the water pump, my arms were stretched and hurt, and I had to pick several sharp pieces of bark out of my rag-wrapped hands. I broke some sticks and dead leaves off the branch, picked up the crate, and headed over to my last burning site. I knelt and started the fire with the two sticks over a small pile of grass and dead leaves, then added the thick weeds little by little until they were all consumed. I added the sticks and let the fire burn out, then picked up the crate and headed back to the house. I put the crate down by the branch, and went inside.

In the servants’ quarters, I went straight to the laundry room, stripped, and began scrubbing my dress. The water quickly became murky and then muddy, and I had to dump the water and refill the tub several times before the dress was clean. Then, making sure first that Rome was nowhere nearby, I undid my chest bindings and washed them, my underwear, and my hair ribbon. After taking a peek down the passageway, I ran over next door to the wash room, made sure the door was securely closed, and began the process of scrubbing all the dirt off me.

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I did notice Bre’s little expedition to the forest. I watched her carefully, wondering what she was planning to do. It was to her credit that she did not actually enter the forest, though she came pretty close. Apparently she was able to find whatever it was she sought without having to enter it. And that object appeared to be…a fallen tree branch? Indeed she was dragging it back with her now.

Another little fire. This time she was burning plants. What was it with her and fire, I wondered.

I was, however, very disturbed when I smelled blood in the house—and no less than three times. I could smell the blood as soon as she walked through the front door. I struggled within myself for what felt like hours. The stronger part of me wanted desperately to find out what happened and fix it. But the other proud part of me stated that I was above that, and what should I care if there was a little blood?

A lot, came my answer. It bothered me a lot. But I was still much too proud to go down there simply for that reason. So I went out hunting and caught dinner and prepared it, and made my way down the passageway into the servants’ quarters. I could hear her rustling around in the washroom behind the closed door, so I went and put the food down on her nightstand. I came back and stood across from the washroom door, lounging against the opposite wall with my arms folded across my chest, and waited.

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I wrapped my towel around me and opened the washroom door to find Rome staring back at me. He was standing in one of his deceptively casual stances, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, but the intensity in his eyes spoke something different.

His eyes narrowed at me. “You’re bleeding.”

His statement caught me by surprise. It took me a moment to register what he was talking about. When I finally did realize, I just shrugged it off, not thinking it such a big deal. “It is nothing, my lord. Just a couple scratches.”

His eyebrow twitched. Apparently what I said irked him. “Hold out your hand,” he demanded.

I was suddenly unsure. Why was he acting this way? I hesitated, but I did not dare disobey a direct order. Slowly I held out my right hand, my left still tightly clutching the top of the towel.

In one motion he stood up straight and unfolded his arms. Before I could retreat he grabbed my wrist and used his other hand to pry open my fingers so that my palm faced straight out toward him. He examined it, and his brows furrowed together. “What the hell were you doing, driving nails into your hand?” he practically growled.

I tensed, but did not move, and said nothing.

I am glad I was paying attention and watching him so cautiously, because what he did next completely shocked me.

He stretched my palm out (which hurt; I winced), lowered his head, and licked the palm of my hand. Once. Twice. Three times. He was so intent on licking my palm, he did not even look at me. It stung at first, but the more he licked it began to feel numb, and then it tingled. Then suddenly he let go and said gruffly, “Other hand.”

I was a little out of it by now, so it took me a moment to comprehend his words. But I switched hands on holding the towel and held out my other hand. Again he licked my palm, treating my left hand as he had my right.

And then abruptly he was done. He let go, but caught my wrist. “Don’t do this again.”

I nodded numbly, and he turned and left, quick and silent as ever, disappearing into the dark passageway so swiftly even the glowstones could not keep up. For a few full minutes I just stood there, shell-shocked and over-sensitized. I shook myself awake. Not sure what had just happened, I lifted my hand to look at it—and stared in shock.

It was completely healed. Not a scratch on it. Not even a scar. I quickly lifted my other hand. Same thing: completely healed. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

I just stood there and stared down the passageway after Rome, completely baffled, my mind blank but for one question: What just happened?

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I knew what I had done. I had healed her. Somehow I just knew that licking her wounds would heal them. But in a large way I was disgusted with myself. Dogs licked their wounds. Was I now no better than a dog?

And what the hell did I lick her for? There was no way in hell that should have worked. But it did. And now she was probably absolutely sure that I was a freak of nature.

True, I did it because I could not stand the scent of her blood. It was infuriating, intoxicating, and unnerving all at the same time. It was driving me mad. But licking it… Well, it might have been good for her (seeing as it healed her hands), but it was bad for me. For some reason the scent and taste of her blood made me even more attracted to her. The wave of longing that accompanied the feeling infuriated me. First I was a beast, then I was a dog, and now I was bloodthirsty? It was too much.

So I jumped out my window and did what I always did when I was so filled with self-loathing that I could hardly think: I ran.

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That night I lay awake for quite some time. I could not really forget the feeling of Rome’s tongue on my palm, and (even more disconcerting) I was not sure I wanted to. I stayed awake far into the night, trying to sort through my intensely jumbled emotions.

I did not wash my hands the rest of the day, or that night.

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Seeing as I had just torn up my hands the day before—and although he had healed them, Rome had not been pleased to have to do so—I did not think returning to yard work a very wise idea. So I resigned myself instead to one of my least favorite activities: sewing. One would think sewing preferable to hard labor, I know, but I did not. Somehow it was easier for me to be constantly moving about, always busy, than to sit and be still like a lady.

I planted myself on my bed in the servants’ quarters. At first I did the simpler things: hemming my underwear and chest bindings. Rome came in with a plate full of food while I was hemming the chest bindings. It could have been embarrassing, but since he probably did not even know what chest bindings were, the fact that I was hemming the ends of a lengthy strip of cloth did not seem to faze him in the least—in fact, he did not even seem to notice.

After the undergarments, I moved on to the dresses and began to alter them. It was my least favorite part of sewing, but it had to be done: sleeves, skirts, necks, bodices, all had to have at least a slight alteration, since none of these dresses were made for me. Mostly I found that I was much shorter than the dresses’ previous owners. When I was finally done, I was almost of a mind to embroider—an attempt at creativity, since I had never been allowed to decorate any of my things at the temple (few as they were). But the only colorful thread that I knew of in the house was the rich spools of thread meant for nobility, in the linen closet in the upstairs hallway. So I picked up needles and thread of a different kind, and headed to the parlor to practice creativity of another sort.

That was where Rome found me when he came to bring me dinner that evening. He put down the plate on the coffee table and turned to leave, and I resumed my knitting. He paused then and turned partway around. I half expected him to say something, but he just stood there and watched me for a few minutes, before he turned back around and went on his way. The whole time I just continued to knit and did not look up, as if I did not know he was there, even though his watchful stare was in truth raising the little hairs on the back of my neck. If I had not known better, I would say he seemed almost…curious. Perhaps he’s never seen a woman knit before?

I had had a strict teacher in learning how to knit, and after a time my fingers remembered the rhythm of the stitches. As the shadows grew longer and the dusk started to fade, with no onlookers to stare at me, my fingers grew more nimble, and by the time it was almost too dark to see, I was a third of the way through my project. With a sigh, I stood to return to my room, and gazed out the tall parlor windows to see the light fade completely from the sky.

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I had only known a few people in my life who were able to sew all day, and they had been old servant women whose age had prohibited them from doing much else, but whose fingers remained so quick and nimble that it seemed to make up for their other failing agilities. The amount of sewing those old women had done would have driving any of the younger servants mad, and near the only reason it had not driven the older servants mad was because their minds were half gone already.

So how was it that Bre could determinedly sew from dawn until dusk, hardly moving from her seat, and still remain so calm and complacent?

And she was good at it, too! Not quite as fast as those little old women I remembered from my childhood, but way better at it and way more patient than anyone else I had ever seen.

Somehow it reminded me of Mother. She used to sometimes sew for hours on end. I loved to watch her with the needles and the fabric. She was so calm, so methodical. It was mesmerizing to watch, and somehow as a child it was so intriguing to me that I forgot to play. And then she would remind me so gently.

“Dear? Was there something you wished to do?”

“Oh yes! Goodbye, Mother!”

I winced as I stared out the window at the rapidly darkening sky, not really seeing, as my own words came back to haunt me.

“Goodbye, Mother!”

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Remembering things I had been taught at the temple and taking up sewing again got me thinking. That night I pulled out my temple servant dress and laid it out on my bed. It was literally in rags, and seemed beyond repair. I sighed. Perhaps it was beyond repair. But it was the only thing I had that was really mine. And I remembered my earlier thoughts, and came to the same conclusion: I had to have something to wear when I got thrown out in the cold. And really, I did expect that. Sooner or later, Rome was going to realize that I was more of a liability and a nuisance, and not so much a commodity of the house as I should be. I was a temple runaway, and I had no friends of consequence, so I had nowhere to go. And I owned nothing. All I would have was the clothes on my back, and if even those did not belong to me, I would not have even that.

I stared at the craps of cloth. I could not reconstruct the old dress: It was too shredded, and I did not have all the pieces. But maybe, if I planned it out carefully and cut the pieces just right, I could make a new dress—without using any new parts, only some thread from the servants’ supply closet.

Slowly I began to map out the pieces of the dress in my head. It would be a great deal shorter than I would have liked, but it would cover what needed to be covered.

I cut out the pieces that night, and then gathered everything I needed and put it in a drawer with the scraps I cut. I would work on it at night, I decided, when it was too dark to do much of anything else.

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Early the next day, I set the scraps of my dress in a tub with a liquid from the supply room that I knew would remove all the color. I knitted the entire day, stopping only to hang the whitened parts of my new dress out to dry. Just before the end of the day, I finished my project and held it up, pleased with my new blanket. After Rome brought me dinner, I returned to the servants’ quarters with my new blanket. Before I went to bed, I took the dress pieces down from the laundry line and set them to soak in a tub of brown dye I had managed to turn up from the supply room.

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I did not know what it was Bre was doing down in the servants’ quarters, but all day my nose had been itching as a foul smell wafted up from below. I was somewhat curious as to what she could possibly be doing that would smell that bad, but because it did smell that bad, I was willing to bypass whatever it was for safer ground: my room, with a closed door and an open window. But even then, I went out for a run a couple times, just to get away form the stench that kept trying to creep into my room.

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The next day and halfway through knitting my second blanket, I was nearly sick to death of knitting, and I was ready to start piecing together my new dress. It was a tedious process, and more than once I had to hold my temper as frustration threatened to break through. But I finished, and I was putting the last of the materials away just as Rome walked into my room with my dinner.

For a moment he looked as though he wanted to say something, but evidently he decided against it. His expression closed, and he simply put down the plate and left.

I let out a breath I did not know I had been holding. But what was I so nervous about?

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I wanted to say something to her, but I did not know what to say. “What are you doing?”“How are your hands?” That would be awkward. I could try and tease her a little. “Get into anymore trouble lately?” No, she might not take that as a laughing matter… Maybe I should go for a command? Like “Eat your dinner.” No, I did not need to encourage that servant mentality of hers; I did not think I could do with anymore “my lord”s.

Finally I just opted for the easy way out: I delivered her food and left. I was a little irritated with myself for my weakness, but there was nothing else to do. I just was not used to people. Oftentimes the tension between Bre and I felt tangible, but that seemed as inescapable as the unlikely circumstances which landed Bre in my house. I was slightly tempted to hear a second opinion on the matter, but who was there for me to ask?

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As it happened, Rome discovering my newly repaired temple servant dress would become the least of my worries. Had I dared to dwell on the incident that led to Rome licking my hands, I might have taken the cause into consideration, and saved myself a good deal of harassment and embarrassment. However, I considered the thoughts and emotions that accompanied said incident too treacherous to be based upon, and so I found myself in a similar predicament—but one which made the previous pale in comparison.

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A few days later I did a quick perusal of the house, dusting all the furnishings, surfaces and decorations, and sweeping over the floors. I was dusting the banister, and turned to dust the next rung…and almost ran headlong into Rome, who was only about half a foot away from me. He did not look pleased. “My lord…?” I began hesitantly.

His voice was harsh. “You just cannot stay out of trouble, can you.”

Frantically I tried to think of what I could have done to displease him, but my mind came up short. Oh no, what have I done? “I-I…” I stuttered.

“Damn it bitch, what have you done now?” Now he was practically growling. He took a half-step toward me.

Unconsciously I took a step back up, feeling for the previous stair. “M-my lord, I do not know what you mean.” I spoke quickly, wondering what I had brought upon myself.

He cocked his head slightly to the side. “Don’t you?” he mocked.

I shook my head once slowly, keeping wary eyes fixed on him.

His eyes narrowed in challenge. “Do not play with me.”

Now I was uneasy. Nobility had license to be angry with servants for any reason. I honestly could not think of any logical reason aside from the possibility that cleaning his house now irritated him. So I ventured to ask the question: “What have I done, my lord?”

He glared at me then. “You are bleeding again,” he accused.

I stared blankly at him; I did not have any idea what he was talking about. My mind struggled to catch up. Was I injured recently? Maybe I had run into a couple things in the dark, so I might have some bruises, but I did not remember ever drawing blood. The last time I remembered seeing blood was when I tore my hands on that tree branch, and Rome ended up licking them and running off.

He must have taken my confusion for ignorance, because he began to speak as if I was an imbecile. “You cannot be serious. It smells like there is a fucking river of blood.”

I just continued to stare at him. Then it dawned on me. I felt my cheeks heat. He can’t mean… “It is nothing of concern, my lord.” I spun around and tried not to run up and across to the other side of the landing.

He followed me, practically breathing down my neck. “’The hell it isn’t!” I kept dusting my way down the banister, double-time, using it as an excuse to escape. He was having none of it; again he followed me. “I told you not to do this again!” At the bottom of the stairway, I tried to scurry off to pretend I was doing something useful—where or what that was, I did not know. I never got there.

He pinned me to the wall.

I refused to look at him. I stared over his broad shoulder and pretended to find something interesting beyond it. I could feel his hot breath on my face.

His voice was demanding. “Where. Are. You. Bleeding?”

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When the scent first reached my nose, I forcefully ignored it. Maybe she cut herself; maybe it was just a scratch. After all, she could be pretty clumsy. Someday she might learn to watch where she’s walking… But the scent persisted, even seemed to grow stronger. It smelled slightly different, but I could not think why; blood usually smelled the same. Then I realized it was a deeper smell—the kind that comes from internal organs. A sudden bolt of fear shot through me. A mortal wound? I chastised myself. Where would she have received a mortal wound—or any serious wound, for that matter? She had been here the whole time: I could smell her, hear her, sense her. But I smelled a lot of blood, and it was definitely hers.

I leapt from my pacing and in two long strides I was in the hall. I could see Bre a couple steps down from the landing on the right-hand side. I drew a bit closer and observed her for a few minutes. She did not appear to be injured, nor did she favor any part of her body. But she did seem to be walking a little awkwardly. And now that I was outside my room, the scent seemed much more potent.

I need to get closer to determine where she’s injured.

I walked closer and closer, as quietly as possible so she would not detect me, but still I could not figure out from where the scent was coming. Finally I was directly behind her. It was not long after that she turned around, surprised to see me there, and almost ran straight into me. By this time I was frustrated and irritated—both with her, and with the scent. I was frustrated (and a bit angry) because evidently she had gone and done what I told her not to: she had injured herself, probably once again in ignorance, just like her hands. I was irritated because I was right next to her, and I still could not determine the source of the blood. How could I not, when it seemed from the scent as though there was blood gushing out of her? And yet she did not appear injured. But for that amount of blood, she had to be; it was the only explanation.

So being in the wonderful mood that I was, I resolved to bait it out of her. “You just cannot stay out of trouble, can you.” I could almost see her brain working so fast it produced steam. Impatient, I went straight to the point. “Damn it bitch, what have you done now?”

I saw a strand of fear enter her eyes. She took a wary step backward, up a step. She stuttered a little. “M-my lord, I do not know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” I returned, my voice dripping with sarcasm. She shook her head slowly. No? I highly doubted that; how could she not know of her own injury?

The wisp of fear in her eyes grew with trepidation. Then to my surprise, she asked me a question—the very question I asked her: “What have I done, my lord?”

Was it not obvious? “You are bleeding again.”

A blank stare was my only response. She was thinking, I could tell, but she did not get it. So since she decided to act dumb, I decided to respond in kind. There was no way she could be that ignorant—right? “You cannot be serious. It smells like there is a fucking river of blood!”

Still she had no idea what I was going on about. Then I watched as the light dawned in her head. Yet still she refused to answer my question. “It is nothing of concern, my lord.”

Bull shit. If it was not of consequence, I would not have tracked her down and questioned her about it! On top of that, she tried to run away. She had lost a lot of blood…Maybe the blood had drained from her head? Maybe I should remind her of why this was of consequence to me. “I told you not to do this again!” She did run then, but I was too quick for her and forced her flat against the nearest wall. Keeping her in a hold I knew she could not easily wiggle out of, I asked her the simple question: “Where are you bleeding?” She would not look at me, would not answer me. I clenched my teeth in an effort to gain patience. “If you do not tell me, I will find it myself.” She wiggled a bit at that statement, but she could not move much, and still she would not speak. So I carefully adjusted my hold on her and began to sniff my way down her body, scenting the air from a few inches away. I could tell she was very uncomfortable; her whole body tensed. When I reached her abdomen she shied violently away from me, slamming her lower back into the wall in an effort to get away from me.

I straightened. “Fine.” With one hand I grasped the front of her dress away from her body. I raised my other hand and stuck out my index finger. “Have it your way.” If she won’t tell me where she is injured, then heaven help me, I will rip the clothes off her and treat her wound myself.

“Wait!” Her voice was desperate. I looked down into her panic-stricken face. “I-I’m not lying, honest! Please, I’ll explain!”

I considered. I would rather not do this the hard way. I had enough temptation already without having to undress her. I lowered my right hand a fraction. “Explain.”

I watched her gather her thoughts. “I am bleeding, but not because I am hurt.”

That did not make any sense: Blood meant injury. But I waited for her to continue.

I could tell she was struggling to voice a foreign concept. She struggled in silence for a few moments. “How much…” She faltered. “My lord, how much do you know about women?”

That was certainly an unexpected question. How much do I know about women? I had a mother. I had a couple female servants. I was introduced to some noblewomen as a child. I asked Mistress Healer a few questions that related to the subject. But I realized now that most of what I knew about females came from basic instinct and the time I had spent with Bre growing up.

I had loosened my grip a bit when it became apparent that she was willing to explain. Now she brought up one hand to rub the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes in thought. “I am sure my lord is aware that women may become…pregnant.”

I felt my eyebrow twitch. She’s pregnant?! How?! Unbidden, the image of how I found Bre surrounded by men flashed across my eyes.

She continued on, oblivious of the length to which my thoughts had taken me. “Well, if a woman doesn’t become pregnant, she bleeds.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. She glanced up and apparently read the confusion on my face. “A woman’s body prepares itself to have a baby. If there is no baby, her body rids itself of the materials needed to create the baby. That is the ‘bleeding’ you are referring to.”

I felt weird asking the question, but there it was: “So you can’t ever have a baby now?” If her body was getting rid of what it needed to make a baby, then she would never be able to have one, right?

She looked at me strangely, but then caught on to my thinking. “No, I can still have a baby. The bleeding happens once every month.”

That alarmed me. “Then you will die.” I could tell she was no longer tracking with me, so I elaborated. “You are losing a lot of blood. The amount you are losing right now…”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “No, my lord. My body will replace the blood it has lost, with enough to create another baby.”

“Another baby.” That means women can produce a baby each month? But then something else came to my attention. “You did not bleed like this when you were younger.”

Her cheeks brightened then, and I began to realize how awkward this conversation must be for her. “It doesn’t happen until later in life, my lord, as one’s body begins to change when nearing adulthood.”

What Bre said about timing made sense to me. I myself had undergone some changes during that time I thought must go beyond the norm. It was a large part of the reason for my written correspondence with Bre’s “Mistress Healer.” But I was not so sure about this “bleeding” thing. There might be a logical explanation for it, and it may not mean that she was wounded. But what it meant to me was that once every month I would have an allotted period of torment as my instincts fought my logic to earn the right to protect someone who did not need my protection. Injured or not, the scent of her blood was going to drive me crazy.

“How long until it’s over?”

She met my eyes. “A week.”

You have GOT to be kidding me. Seven full days of helpless torment. How the hell was I going to survive that?

--:--

“If you do not tell me, I will find it myself.”

That was when I knew I was in trouble. I could be stubborn to a fault, but I did not know to what lengths Rome would go to find this “injury” he insisted I had. However, I was well aware that if I did not think of something fast, I was about to find out. I wiggled a bit, to see if I had any room to move; no such luck. To my great surprise, Rome began sniffing me. It looked odd from my vantage point, and it felt odd too. He was very close to me, and I could feel his breath on my skin through the material of my dress. I did my best to stand still through it, but when he reached my lower abdomen, I could not take it anymore; I threw myself backward, into the wall.

He stood. “Fine. Have it your way.” His weight shifted and he moved his hands, and for a moment I thought I might have a chance to escape. But I only found myself in the same tight hold. And then he raised his arm above his shoulder, his hand poised just above his head. He extended his index finger, and I watched as his nail grew. At first I wondered if he would actually harm me, and fear and trepidation filled me. But then I became aware that he was holding the material of my dress away from my body. Comprehension dawned on me, and suddenly I was filled with a new type of fear. That was when I cried out. “Wait! I-I’m not lying, honest! Please! I’ll explain!” I hated my desperation and the childishness of my own words.

But those words became my salvation. Rome considered my request a moment, before he demanded, “Explain.”

This was my chance, but my thoughts were now scattered. I struggled to piece them back together, and come up with a discernible sentence that would let him know that I was going to attempt to explain to him what he asked. “I am bleeding, but not because I am hurt.” I paused. “How much…” How could I word this politely? “My lord, how much do you know about women?” There, I said it. I needed to know what basis I had to work off of.

He looked surprised at my question. Still, I could see he was seriously considering it.

I sighed internally. Apparently not much… By this point his grip on me had loosened enough that I was able to bring my hand up to massage the bridge of my nose—a habit of mine when I was under stress, and one I found entirely irritating. Okay, start with what he knows. Let’s see…He was a nobleman’s son. Alright, so he probably saw at least one pregnant woman? I glanced up at Rome. “I am sure my lord is aware that woman may become”—no delicate way to put that—“pregnant.” I rushed on ahead before he could say anything. “Well, if a woman does not become pregnant, she bleeds.” There, that was the simple way of putting it. I glanced up again, only to see a completely baffled look on his face. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so simple. I searched for the right words, and Mistress Healer’s lectures (monologues?) on adolescence came to mind. I attempted to paraphrase. “A woman’s body prepares itself to have a baby. If there is no baby, her body rids itself of the materials needed to create the baby. That is the ‘bleeding’ you are referring to.”

“So you can’t ever have a baby now?”

His question caught me completely off guard, and it took me a moment to understand what he was getting at. It was blunt, but perhaps that was what made it easier to answer. “No, I can still have a baby. The bleeding happens once every month.”

That answer seemed to disturb him. “Then you will die.” I found myself unable to breach the gap in his logic, so I just stared at him. He elaborated on his conclusion. “You are losing a lot of blood. The amount you are losing right now…” He left the thought for me to finish. Finally I grasped the concept.

“No, my lord. My body will replace the blood it has lost, with enough to create another baby.”

I could see him contemplating my answer—which part, I could not tell. But then some kind of recognition came over him, and he brought up an almost unrelated point. “You did not bleed like this when you were younger.”

I felt my cheeks grow even hotter, and I knew they must be crimson by this point. This was an extremely difficult conversation, made awkward by Rome addressing his questions to me, and I was even more embarrassed when he began asking questions about me specifically. So I generalized my answer. “It does not happen until later in life, my lord, as one’s body changes when nearing adulthood.” Thankfully, he seemed to understand this without my having to go any more in-depth. I found I had a new appreciation for people whose trade required them to teach others about the practicalities of life—namely those of the healer profession.

Rome’s last question was very basic, and to be expected: “How long until it’s over?”

“A week.” He did not seem happy about that—and in all honesty, neither was I—but he seemed to understand that was just the way things were, and he would just have to wait it out. He nodded once, and to my immense relief, that ended the conversation.

.

As I returned to dusting, I reflected back on my conversation with Rome. It had been entirely awkward, and none of the answers to his questions were simple. It was blaringly obvious to me that I was entirely inadequate to explain womanly roles and functions to a naive violent nobleman. But that begged yet another question: How can he know so little? I knew that Rome was only a child when his parents were murdered, and he was still a child when I met him after I got lost in the forest. How much time passed between his parents’ death and when I met him? It could not have been all that long, because he was still a child when I found him. At that point, he seemed to have no memory of who he was, or even how to speak. Only after I kept questioning him did he regain some of his memories. But it now appeared that Rome’s parents died before they taught him some of life’s essential lessons. Lessons on women, their physiques, and their tendencies was subject matter not usually taught until the beginning of one’s adolescent years. But Rome did not even seem to be aware of certain basic customs pertaining to tradition and propriety that anyone of nobility—adult or child—should be born into. There was no doubt that he was noble by blood, but the defining principles of nobility had not shaped his frame of mind. It was as if he had never been taught what it meant to be nobility—had never really grasped the concept—and now he was left somewhere in between noble inclinations and the basest instincts of a commoner.

I rubbed my head in an attempt to soothe the ache. I had had enough questions for one day. At least that conversation is over—never want to have that one again! I grimaced. As if this week wasn’t bad enough already. I can’t believe he can smell that! I knew I would end up avoiding Rome and his nose around this time every month.

It goes without saying that Rome made a point of avoiding me for the remainder of the week—even more so than usual. And I was glad for it.

--:--

I walked away from my conversation with Bre with thousands of questions raised and only a few answered. It was now apparent to me that there was much I did not know. I was not sure Bre would know all the answers, and it would not be fair to her to put her under interrogation for my neglected learning. I needed an outside source: someone who knew a lot, but knew nothing of me or my lineage, or my abnormal and turbulent life. But I knew no one other than Bre. I had no social skills, I had a short temper, and I tended toward violence.

Who would be willing to teach me, a dejected nobleman who refused to share his past?

Or, better yet, to what lengths was I willing to go to get the information I sought?

--:--

YAY!! CHAPTER 9!!

So…Rome gets another nightmare. He doesn’t know much about women, and now he’s starting to realize it. Next chapter, he looks for some help. ;)

Poor Bre! I wouldn’t want to have to explain what a period is to the guy that I like!

Some questions about Rome’s past, a little preview of what will be exposited on later. And a little insight into a couple of his “special abilities.” :)

Sorry, not much action yet. Next time blood is mentioned, there WILL be.

Adraina: Thanks, I fixed the “sarobi” thing in the glossary for last chapter.

cyanidecandy: I’m glad; I’ve been trying to make the chapters longer, but not TOO long (no never-ending chapters…).

Cheeto Flavored Love: Yeah, I realized Rome didn’t have many lines in the last chapter. I tried to do more in his perspective this time—especially since now he’s asking questions about things he doesn’t understand!

Jacoblover: Patience, Beast will come out to play… :secretly trying not to rush toward it:

I put a poll on my profile, so you guys can choose which two characters you'd like to see more of, so go vote! Also, I would really like to draw some pictures of the characters in my story, but my drawing is sadly lacking (I think I'll stick to writing...though I am trying to get better at drawing). So if you would be interested in drawing any fanart, I would be THRILLED! Just message me. Thanks!!

Seriah Black