The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

Nearer she came and nearer, her luminous gray eyes searching his own dark ones. Whatever she saw there must have frightened her, because she flinched and looked away. “All right.”

With that, Aidan turned and propelled himself out the door, which he shut behind himself with more force than he’d meant to. Instead of knocking on the seer’s door, he approached the innkeeper’s wife, who was bustling by just then with an armful of towels. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Eh? Whadduya want?” She smelled of sulfur and looked as though she’d gotten on the wrong side of a pumice stone.

Aidan took a step back from her stench. “I was wondering if a bath could be drawn for my…friend?”

The woman’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Not much hot water to be had here, laddie. Takes me bairns a right good hour’s worth to heat enough water for two tubs.”

“Just one tub will be required.”

Her eyebrows shot heavenward. “You and your friend be sharing, then? That’s not hygienal.” She stopped to hock up a lungful of phlegm into one of the clean guest towels, which she straightened and moved to the bottom of her pile.

“Right. Still, I would pay—”

“Of course you would pay. Blimey, I ain’t running no blasted charity here. For the love of Petere!” Again she hacked and spat. “All right, a silver piece will cover the bath.”

“A silver for one bath? You’ve got to be joking.”

The lady shrugged her broad shoulders. “Take it or leave it, that’s what water’s worth in these parts. Bathing is a luxury.” She sniffed and made a face. “I’d assume you of all guests would realize this.”

Aidan resisted the urge to barter and haggle. “Fine, one silver for one bath.”

The innkeeper’s wife nodded, her nose still thrust high in the air. “Very good, sir. I’ll throw in a cake of soap for two pence.”

“Done, madam.”

* * *

While he waited for the water to be heated and the copper tub to be filled, Aidan did not reenter the room nor did he bother the seer again. The hall was narrow, but at the end of it there was a chair and a side table covered with a small assortment of books, so that was where he made himself comfortable. Unfortunately, he realized as he settled in, most of the books were poetry. The rest that weren’t, the books with crisper pages and stiffer spines, had only to do with one topic: botany. What sort of inn keeps study books? But reading materials were far and few between in Aidan’s line of work – wandering – so he opened one and tried to absorb himself in it.

While he sat and tried to read, he kept himself open to the feel of Pulls. There was nothing particularly strong within his reach…well, beside one, but that he ignored as much as he was able. But the reading material was dull, and he was tired. So, despite the boisterous nature of the folk down the stairs, Aidan found himself nodding.

Coldness crept from his shoulder and down his limb, but he did not wake.

Instead, Aidan found himself standing where the barn on his estate had once been. Hunger tore at his stomach, his weakened limbs shook with effort as he carried a stack of wood indoors. Somewhere, deep inside, Aidan knew he was asleep, that this half-starved body he walked in was but a shadow of the past. But soon he lost himself in his memory self, and they became one, trudging to do the work of a servant.

The night air was crisp, yet thirteen-year-old Aidan was covered in sweat from the evening’s work. Uncle had been in a mood again. He must suspect, he must know that something was not quite right with his nephew. But Aidan had not lost control for at least a year, and even then it had never been in front of the dour man, who surely would see Aidan burned at the stake if he found him out. It was a dangerous waltz that he danced.

“Aidan! Say, Aidan, I brought you something.”

Aidan dropped his load in relief and stumbled to the iron fence. It never felt right, meeting near the metal, but at least it didn’t nag him like every other blasted object and person did. “Tristram, you shouldn’t have come.”

“Fine way to greet your only friend. Here, Mum will horsewhip me if she finds out, but I stole two hand pies that were cooling in the kitchen.”

Aidan smiled a wry smile as his corn-haired friend shoved the pies through the slats. “You mean she’ll whip you if she knows you dared set foot in the kitchen.”

Young Tristram shrugged. “What are you waiting for? Mr. Powell will swipe them from your hands, soon as look at them. Eat.”

Despite being destitute for three years, Aidan still had a streak of pride in him. Taking things, even gifts from friends, didn’t come easy. “I thank you, friend. You really shouldn’t have risked it.”

Tristram laughed, causing Aidan’s lips to twitch before he tore into the cold pies. “So, the lord of the manor. I hear he’s ill.” He eyed Aidan with interest. “Doctor York’s been out to see him on several occasions.”

“’Tis news to me. I am usually kept out of the way when anyone calls.”

“The old man’s a coward.”

Aidan lifted one shoulder half-heartedly. “I suppose.”

“It’s a ruddy disgrace, him using and abusing you as he does.”

“I’m cheap labor.”

Tristram surprised him by spitting like a commoner. “It isn’t right. The estate and the title are yours.”

“Not ’til I’m of age.”

“But you’ll die before then. You should just kill him. Put something in his drink. No one will be the wiser, and if they knew your plight…well, they wouldn’t blame you.”

The pastry turned hard in Aidan’s mouth, and that which he’d already devoured sat like a millstone in his stomach. “I have enough blood on my hands, thanks.”

With an exasperated sigh, Tristram put his hands on the bars of the fence and leaned forward. “You don’t even know if it was you.