Averill: Historical Romance (The Brocade Collection, Book 3) Read online

  AVERILL

  Jackie Ivie

  PART ONE: THE STREET

  CHAPTER ONE

  1843

  It was just a crust of bread, but it loomed large when Averill first saw it. She dared only occasional glances. The rest of the time she kept her eyes downcast, hoping no one would steal the bread before she got there. But she waited too long. Was too shy. Too frightened. And when she looked up again, the crust was gone.

  She wondered how many times that had happened, but she didn’t dare be spotted. If anyone saw her eyes, she’d have to endure taunts at the least. At the worst, she’d feel stones again.

  She sighed and picked up her paintbrush. Overhead, a sign read The House of Sen-Bib, third generation dealer in rare Egyptian Artifacts. It was a lie. All of it. Sen-Bib wasn’t even Egyptian. He was a thrifty Moroccan. He was also Averill’s master, despite his unwillingness. That was no surprise. No one wanted her. But he couldn’t turn her away after she stole and painted four of his urns to prove her ability. Despite her heritage, he’d allowed her to shelter here, share his booth, and earn one meal a day.

  It was better than the orphanage.

  Averill steadied her hand before applying the vermilion stripes marking this urn as a treasure from the reign of Queen Nefertiti. Sometimes, Averill dreamed that she was alive then, applying paint to a canopic jar that would accompany Nefertiti’s mummy to the afterlife.

  The musing ended as Averill added a sprinkling of fine dirt to the paint, blending it with her fingers so that only another master could tell. The grayish shadings she made would help mark this urn as an ancient artifact Sen-Bib could claim came from Queen Nefertiti’s reign.

  Averill wiped a hand across her forehead, pushing strands of hair from her eyes. She’d have to ask Sen-Bib for money to buy another jacket and a pair of pants. And soon. Those she wore had no material left in the knees, and the elbows were almost ripped through. The only thing holding the material together was probably filth, but she didn’t dare wash her clothes. The grime helped conceal the womanly curves she cursed nightly.

  She didn’t want to be a woman. She wanted to stay a boy, unnoticed and safely away from the glances like Sen-Bib gave his female customers.

  Europeans! She spat in the dust and almost hit a polished boot with the projectile.

  “Boy!”

  She lowered her head further, hoping the soldier with the boots would pass. Where is Sen-Bib when I need him?

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  She glanced up through her lashes, before quickly averting her eyes. He looked mean. She knew the type. She nodded, and then crawled out in order to bow low. The humbler one acted, the easier it was to escape a beating.

  “Stupid cur!”

  He snarled at her and went about his business. Averill sighed, not even noting she had another observer.

  “Child, you shouldn’t let him treat you that way.”

  It was an exquisitely dressed woman, if the latest European fashion could be called such, with a voice soft and sweet. Averill ignored her and dipped her paintbrush again.

  “Did you do all these?”

  Averill raised her shoulders as if she didn’t understand. It was a stupid question. The urns on display were supposedly from an ancient tomb.

  “They’re lovely. How much for this one?”

  She lifted a bluish-tinted one Averill had painted the previous week. Averill hid the smile. She was excessively proud of that one.

  “Thank you, dear lady.”

  Sen-Bib came through the curtains behind the booth. Averill ducked beneath the table as he spoke to the woman. She kept her eyes on the dirt before her toes. Her one rule of working for him was never to let anyone see her eyes.

  She cursed her eyes. She would rather have light hair instead. At least that could’ve been rubbed with tar. Anything would have been better than eyes that instantly proclaimed her half-breed, bastard station. Tears of self-pity pricked her lids, and she blinked rapidly. She refused to cry. She made that vow to God after the priest came into her room and before she chopped off as much of her own hair as she could.

  Averill wiped her hand across her eyes and banished the memory. The pretty woman would simply buy the vase and leave the market street. They always did.

  “Where’s your apprentice?”

  “Apprentice? Oh, you must mean Averill. He’s a lazy lout. I only let him stay as long as he hides from sight. Pay him no mind.”

  “That soldier was bothering him.”

  “More like Averill was being a bother to the nice soldier.”

  Sen-Bib chuckled at his words. He knew she hadn’t done anything to draw attention.

  “Very well. I’ll take this one. If there are any more finds...” The woman stressed the word, and Averill bit her cheek to keep from giggling. “...I’d love to possess them. You may reach me here.” She paused for some time while she must be writing her address.

  “Thank you, dear lady,” Sen-Bib replied.

  “And I thank you, my good man. Oh. And you, too, child.” She bent and peered under the table.

  Averill barely had time to avert her eyes. Then, she watched as the woman walked off, her skirts sweeping the dirt. Stupid design. Her clothes would get filthy in no time.

  “She’s gone, Averill.”

  Sen-Bib returned to his couch of pillows behind the curtain and Averill crept out. The woman liked the blue urn, and Averill had just started working with that color. That made her more proud of her work than before. She dipped her brush into the red again and went back to work.

  ~ ~ ~

  When it got too dark to see, Averill wiped the moisture from her eyes with her sleeve and set her fifth urn down. She did well that day. Sen-Bib should be pleased. She would ask him for the clothing money that night.

  She helped him carry his goods into his tent. “Sen-Bib?”

  “You’ve done well,” he answered. “But not well enough. I grow poorer and poorer each day, and you sit out there, soaking up the sun and turning your brush lazily. While one look at your eyes could get me stoned. What do you want?”

  She swallowed. “Nothing.”

  “Good. I have bread, goat cheese and some figs. You should be grateful for your bounty.”

  “I am, Sen-Bib. Truly.” Averill sat cross-legged by her food and savored each bite. She tried to save some bread for the morning, but, as usual, her will weakened, and she ate every crumb.

  “My most humble thanks. Good night.”

  She pulled her blanket out from under his couch and slunk back outside. The marketplace was empty of shoppers now, although a multitude of fires lit each gathering of humanity down the street. There were pockets of darkness between them that could hold any number of brigands and thieves. That was the most frightening part.

  She bundled her blanket about her, closed her eyes, and watched everything change. In her imaginings, she wasn’t Averill, a poor half-breed…lower than the camels in the streets. She was a queen, ruling her kingdom with justice for all, regardless of anything as unfair as lineage.

  A ruckus brought her out of a dream. Averill blinked awake rapidly, as was habit. Focused. And saw them. It was two men. Fighting. She could barely make out the shapes. Fires raised shadows against the sand-colored walls, making the men larger and more menacing than they could possibly be. Averill had seen it all before, and she closed her eyes again.

  “Curse you! May Allah send a thousand ants to feast on you!”

  She smiled at the man’s taunt and curled up tighter. Perhaps she’d be a knight in this next dream. Not the queen. A knight had more freedom.
He could fight battles, instead of...

  “Damn you!”

  The curse sounded just as a body hit her table. Averill leaped up quickly, pulling her blanket with her. The man grabbed her up and lifted her in front of him to use as a shield.

  Averill kicked and heard her pants tear. But still she saw him. It was the same soldier from that day. She should’ve known. They faced a giant of a man, his burnoose open and flowing about him. Her eyes widened at the sight of an unsheathed saber.

  “Put him down, you coward!”

  Instead, the soldier threw her at the man. For an instant, Averill thought she’d land on the saber. She stifled a scream which choked her as much as the thudding of her heart did. A hard hand slammed at her and flung her aside. She sailed against the wall, where sandstone swiped across her face. Only by rolling away instantly was she spared another assault. For a moment later, the fighting men struck the same spot on the wall.

  Averill crouched at the edge of the light, watching the fight. She hoped the Arab would finish off the soldier despite the ramifications. Her cheek stung. It was scraped and probably bleeding. That meant she’d have to visit the public well to wash it. And that meant worse. The two men were still swearing and grunting as she ran off, her feet clinging to the shadows. There was nothing more frightening than the empty streets of Cairo at night.

  The bucket in the well was very heavy, but she managed to pull it up. The touch of water stung. Sen-Bib would probably think it her fault and dock her supper for punishment. He’d think she did this on purpose. She wasn’t to bring notice to herself. But it wasn’t her fault. Those stupid men were probably fighting over nothing but a dancing girl.

  The soldier was gone when Averill slipped back under her table. The large Arab was busy cuddling the woman they’d fought over, proving his victory. Averill looked for her blanket for a few moments before huddling against a table leg without it. Sen-Bib would definitely dock her pay for losing that.

  Stupid men! Stupid, ugly men! She hated them.

  The Arab looked toward her and Averill quickly averted her eyes. Even though it was dark, and she was in shadow, the habit was strong. She gasped softly when she saw the rip down the thigh of her pants. Her vision blurred for a moment before she wiped an arm across her face. Nothing was worth crying over. Ever again. Torn pants shouldn’t matter.

  But it did.

  It mattered a lot. The thigh showing in the light wasn’t muscular enough to belong to a boy. It was rounded, just like her bosom, and she hated it, too. She hated everything about being a woman, almost as much as she hated men. She gathered the two sides together, and wondered if a coat of mud might help. Perhaps Sen-Bib wouldn’t notice then. But if he didn’t, someone else might.

  “I’m sorry about your clothes, boy.”

  The Arab was crouching at the table edge, and Averill quickly looked down again.

  “It’s no matter,” she said finally when he wouldn’t go.

  “It’s every matter, and I’ll pay.” He held out a coin, and Averill’s eyes widened. It was a lot of money.

  “Here. Take it, so your master won’t punish you unduly.”

  Averill looked at him as he smiled, revealing very white teeth in his browned face. And something more. He wasn’t Arabic.

  “You’ve got arresting eyes, boy.”

  She looked away quickly. He tossed the coin into her lap, and Averill snatched it up before he changed his mind.

  “Sweet dreams.” Then he was gone.

  Averill peeked out at him as he gathered a few men and continued down the street. He wasn’t an Arab, at all. He was English. But what was he doing dressed like that and fighting his own countryman in the streets?

  She had no blanket, but she no longer felt cold. She felt puzzled and afraid. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but when dawn came, Sen-Bib had to shake her awake.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What happened to his face, sir?”

  The pretty woman was back. Averill hadn’t turned away quickly enough. It was bad enough that the wound hurt terribly in the heat, but she had to hide it from the customers, too. At least she had new trousers and a white tunic to wear.

  She also had a fresh sticky bun and a melon. She intended to stuff herself until she was sick, but she didn’t dare let Sen-Bib see her food. He might take it. Or he might think she stole it.

  She ducked beneath the table as Sen-Bib talked to the woman. The woman was stupid to return so soon. Averill hadn’t time to make another blue urn. What was wrong with her?

  “A fight,” Sen-Bib explained. “The boy fights when he should be sleeping.”

  “That’s nonsense. That child would lose a street fight the moment it started. He’s too fragile.”

  My thanks, Averill answered soundlessly.

  “So. Have you any more of the bluish urns?”

  “My diggers haven’t uncovered any. Perhaps next week, lady.”

  At least, give me time to mix the paint. Averill watched as the rug seller across from them found a buyer. And then they settled into the age-old rote of wrangling over the price.

  “Does your apprentice do paintings, like portraits?”

  Averill’s attention went back to Sen-Bib and the woman.

  “Averill? No. I already told you. The boy’s lazy. He does as little as he can to get by and still vexes me.”

  Averill rolled her eyes at their conversation. Of course she didn’t paint portraits. Who would pay for the canvas, the brushes, and the paints?

  “You have my address, still?”

  Averill ignored them, for a man was coming closer through the throng outside. Something about him was familiar and then she recognized him. He was the Arab from the fight, but he wore European attire that advertised his real station in life. An officer’s uniform. She had to admit he was eye-catching…if any man could be considered that.

  “Why, if it isn’t Tenny,” the woman said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Lady Brighten, of course. Charmed.”

  He bent over her hand, and Averill snickered from her vantage point. He had dust all over his boots. Poor man. He shouldn’t shine his boots so fiercely.

  “Your helper, sir,” the man called Tenny asked. “Where is he?”

  Averill started backing toward Sen-Bib’s tent.

  “I was just telling this lady that Averill is the laziest of louts. He disappears at the first sign of work.” Sen-Bib motioned her back into the tent, and she crawled under cover of the drape of his sleeve.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Brighten said. “The child was just here. I was speaking with him. He does delightful painting, wouldn’t you say?”

  Averill barely heard them as she crawled into the center of Sen-Bib’s house. It was muted, shaded and cool inside.

  “...painting...portraits....”

  She tried to ignore their words. While at the same time, conquering her fear. The soldier wasn’t interested in vases. He was there to silence her. She knew how soldiers thought. She was watching the carpet-covered dirt when Sen-Bib came through the opening.

  “Stupid boy. You’re not to gain attention, and what do you do? Now, I have two trying to find you, and the soldier? He does not come to buy.”

  “I’m sorry, Sen-Bib.” She hung her head and tried to avoid the blinding light as he kept the tent door open.

  “They’ve gone for now. Don’t seek further attention or I’ll be forced to find another painter. You hear?”

  “I won’t, Sen-Bib. Thank you.”

  She bowed as she backed out, knowing he couldn’t find a better artist if he looked for months. She also knew she had to find other employment. The soldier who posed as an Arab might try to silence her in other ways.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I once had a reason for living,

  But I have lived so long,

  I have forgotten what it was.

  Averill glanced at the inscription above the mosque before ducking her head. If she didn’t hurry, the woman might change he
r mind. Perhaps Sen-Bib was trying to frighten her by saying that, but it could be true. Averill had been very well-educated at the mission. She knew several languages and could read the Arabic symbols above the mosque easily, but she’d forgotten the reason for her haste as she read.

  Can one really live long enough to forget?

  She cuddled the two blue vases, bundled in gunny sacks, in her arms. The woman had been specific, but she’d promised extra payment. She wanted both blue vases– as long as Averill delivered them. Averill wondered why, but didn’t like the answers she kept imagining. They all included that soldier, the one named Tenny.

  Sen-Bib didn’t like the idea. Her absence required him to mind the booth himself and to trust Averill with bringing back the payment. The thought of his anxiety made her smile.

  And finally, the whitewashed brick of the woman’s house came into view. Then, it was directly across the street. Averill stood and caught her breath. Under the door arch of a home, she was safe for the moment. No one was looking. And nothing was moving. She watched, but no one entered, or left the woman’s house.

  She waited several long minutes before daring the street. She’d be in full view of anyone while she did, but she couldn’t hide all day.

  She was barely into the street when horses rounded the corner, moving quickly. She darted back the way she came, but one of her prized urns rolled out of the packing into the dirt. She looked back in horror for an instant before running back for it.

  A horse reared. Dust choked her and obliterated her way. Averill plunged under the hooves and clutched at her precious vase.

  “Damn you…whelp!”

  She knew that voice. It was the soldier from the previous week.

  “Stupid boy! Why don’t you watch where you’re—?”

  His words ended with another curse as he fell off the back of his mount and Averill grinned.

  “Laugh at me? I’ll teach you to annoy me!”

  She sprinted toward the woman’s house. Even if the soldier, Tenny, awaited her inside, it would be better than this.