The Red Pearl (22 page)

“INCONCEIVABLE.”
HESSIAN GATSPIERRE PORED over the newly arrived scroll a third time to ensure that he had not misread a single word.

“What do you intend to do, my lord?” inquired Maxos, his advisor, uncertainly. He was still skeptical of the scroll and its implications therein.

Gatspierre’s emerald eyes shone. “We shall organize a search party,” he declared. “Summon the scribes. I want notices posted in every town square from here to Heppestoni, proclaiming the truth that my niece, the Duchess Eludaine, lives!”

With rising elation, he formulated his plan. “A reward of fifty pounds of gold, along with her marriage hand, shall be offered to the first man to bring her forth,” he decided, hurrying to his desk and knocking askew an inkwell in his haste. “A fine incentive, wouldn’t you say?”

“You are certain?” His stout advisor reached up to mop the beads of perspiration from his balding crown. “The New Republic will be furious to learn she survived. Assuming this is true,” he added, his tone clearly betraying his doubtfulness. “If so, you must think of the girl’s safety. After all, would the Republic not wish to finish their job if we find her?”

“Nonsense,” barked Gatspierre with an unconcerned wave of his scroll-clad hand. “Häffstrom is a neutral nation. The New Republic cannot touch her here. Just as they have never touched me, for all of these years,” he added, with some satisfaction.

Maxos groaned. “That’s because they’ve had no reason to touch you,” he reminded the man. “You are not a threat to the Republic. You possess no Ducelle blood.” His nasal voice grew louder as he wagged a stout finger in his master’s direction. “Eludaine
does
.”

“I know this, Maxos,” sighed Gatspierre. “Come now. Enough politics; today is cause for celebration! My niece is alive! Somewhere out there, Ducelle blood is flowing through a young woman’s veins.
Scribes!
” He clapped his hands together. “Let us share the news, and begin the search.”

Resigned, Maxos bowed his head and departed his master’s study.

THE RAINY SEASON CAME UPON the Beili Dunes of Heppestoni in the fall and spring times. Without warning, the muggy, pendulous air would release a downpour of saline rain, leaving behind a fresh yet mildly fishy odor.

Her bare feet dodging jagged rocks and kicking up eddies of damp sand, Dainy hurried out of another sudden rainfall and into the tiny bamboo shanty. She slid the wobbly door shut, wiped her brow and lowered her hood, shuddering as a draft swept past the bare nape of her neck. Realizing that she’d been holding her breath, the young woman exhaled, peering around the hut.

Together, Dainy and her foster aunts ran one of the many beachfront inns in the Beili Dunes, theirs directly on the Maleilan shore. The Beili Bungalow was small, but as Dainy often boasted (although perhaps she was biased), her aunts’ cooking was the best in all of Heppestoni.

Water splayed out from beneath the flimsy door as a fresh sigh of wind heaved her way, and Dainy made haste to mop it up before someone should slip. Her stomach gurgled as she inhaled the aroma of fresh plantains sizzling over the hearth. Aunt Paxi was no doubt preparing another of her mouthwatering recipes.

“Child!”

Dainy jumped at the call, looking up from her mopping.

“Dainy-girl,” exclaimed Aunt Paxi, rounding the corner and reaching out to stroke Dainy’s ebony hair with her equally dark fingers. “What have you done with your
hair
?”

Dainy beamed. “I cut it!”

“Obviously,” cried Aunt Paxi, clearly not partaking in the young woman’s mirth.

To add insult to injury, Dainy spun in a dancelike circle, accentuating the absence of her once flowing curtain of dark locks. “Do you like it?” she asked cheekily, well aware of her aunt’s answer as she executed an exaggerated curtsey.

This earned her naught but Paxi’s solemn stare. “I am not amused,” the older woman announced, grabbing again at the stubs of raven hair that had formerly been the girl’s crowning glory. It now extended to only just beneath her ears. “Well, Dainy-girl,” she said ominously, “all I can say is, I don’t want to be here when your Aunt Priya sees this.”

“Sees what?” chirped a voice from the loft, already sounding wary despite its musical accent. “Is that you, Dainy? What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Dainy folded her arms. She enjoyed the noticeable lack of heaviness when she moved her head. Without her former mane of hair, she felt lighter, freer. “I see how it is,” she teased. “Even though this is my eighteenth spring, which makes me a
woman
,” she accentuated the word, “I shall always be treated like a little girl around here.”

“That’s because you act like one,” snapped Aunt Paxi, jabbing a black finger at Dainy’s pale shoulder. “Disappearing onto the beach and cuttin’ your hair,” she muttered, taking up the mop to finish the job herself. “And you said you was going crab digging.”

“I was, Aunt Pax! Honest,” insisted Dainy, although with a hint of mischief in her luminous green eyes. “Only it was too wet out.”

“Mmm-hmm. But not too wet to butcher off them beautiful tresses with my crabbing knife.”

There came a heavy sigh, and Dainy and Paxi turned to watch a second middle-aged woman descending the loft ladder. Her creamy brown skin glistened with aromatic oils, and her copious brown hair, adorned with beads and some streaks of gray, fell down her back in shining sheets. With a soft thud, her bare feet landed gracefully upon the bamboo flooring.

She squinted at Dainy, moving closer, until tossing up her bronze arms with a frown. “Dainy, how could you?”

The girl ran her fingers through her freshly cropped hair once more, the better to proudly display it.

“Now how shall we ever find you a husband, when your hair is like a boy’s?” Aunt Priya scolded her.

“Well.” Paxi grinned. “Her hair may be like a boy’s, but certainly not her—”

“Aunt Pax,” squealed Dainy, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why this talk about husbands all of a sudden, Aunt Priya?” She rounded on her other aunt. “Are you both so eager to be rid of me?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Priya. “Impossible girl.” She babbled something in her ancestors’ language before intoning a chant and tossing corn husks into the fire.

“Priyalaksma.”
Paxi’s voice cracked like a whip across the hut. “Them silly superstitions ain’t going to protect Dainy from her own foolishness!”

But Dainy threw back her head and laughed, and her aunts both forgot their frustration for a moment as they paused, watching the young woman in her moment of levity. They had always delighted in her laughter, a lovely sound like the clinking of bells, or water trickling through a fistful of seashells.

The two friends had still never told Dainy the strange truth of how she had come to live with them. Paxi had always imagined the bizarre ordeal to be the result of some domestic quarrel gone horribly wrong. Priya, however, held that Dainy was a gift from the gods, sent to bring them luck.

When she’d first been entrusted to their care, fifteen years prior, the little child had introduced herself as something that sounded to the women rather like “Dain.” So Dainy they called her, though the poor girl never did receive a surname, seeing as she had no father to speak of. At any rate, it didn’t take long for Priya and Paxi to kindle a mother’s love for the fey little child who had found her way into their lives and hearts.

Presently, Dainy extended an alabaster hand to Paxi. She gently upturned her aunt’s palm and placed within it something cool and heavy. “I will go and check on the plantains,” she whispered, before traipsing over to the hearth.

Paxi looked down at the dull silver coins now resting in her hand, and her heart sank to her navel. So that was what Dainy had meant by severing her hair. She’d sold it, and for no more than a mere four pieces of silver. She was clearly worried for their welfare during the rainy season.

Paxi watched as the petite yet curvy youth stood over the fry pan, and fought to keep her tears at bay. She was grateful for the gift, yes. And of course, Dainy’s lovely hair would grow back. But she hated to see the young woman bear such a burden. Sure, it was only hair, for now. But if they continued taking in as little income as they had of late, what other parts of herself might the girl resort to selling next?

Shuddering at the thought, Paxi traced a circle on her brow and offered up a silent prayer, that Dainy would find a husband to care for her, who would ensure that she never found herself in want of anything again… and soon.