Selfish Is the Heart Read online

  Three years is not such a long time to be in love, unless that love is not returned. Cassian knew the full length of that time, every measure the sun traced in the sky, every breeze that blew, every season’s cycle. All of it became as nothing but a way to track how long he’d loved her. For three years, Cassian loved Bertricia, until at last, one day, she loved him back.

  He knew the moment she did. It was a change in her laugh and the tilt of her smile, a shift of her gaze. She’d tolerated him before that, accepted the small gifts he gave, partnered with him during the games of snap me and quoites that characterized the annual brannigan his mother held in concord with Raeletta and Sarenissa’s mother, and to which Bertricia was invariably invited. Once or twice she’d even allowed him to kiss her chastely when they walked in the garden, only ever on the cheek or the hand, and she never offered but only allowed.

  And then one day, she loved him.

  He could never know why. He’d never asked. He’d taken the gift of her affection without question, fearing to ask for too much explanation lest she change her mind. Decide she loved someone else.

  His brother, perhaps.

  Cassian would’ve worried less if Calvis had shown any inclination toward “she-hound the second,” as he liked to call Bertricia. Calvis had an eye and taste for feminine flesh that Cassian both understood and reviled. Women, to his mind, were meant to be adored and cherished, mayhap pursued but with respect. The way he’d courted Bertricia.

  Calvis, on the other hand, made his way through the women of their acquaintance like a farmer in the fields, plucking, tasting, tossing aside. Only unlike a farmer, Calvis never kept what he harvested. It had made him near irresistible.

  If his brother had set his gaze on Bertricia, Cassian would’ve known not to fear. No woman kept his attention for longer than it took for him to bed her a few times. But as it was, Calvis never looked at her twice without curling his lip. If the two were in the same room, Calvis left it, no matter how prettily Bertricia might flutter her lashes or attempt to draw him into conversation.

  “I don’t understand how you can fawn and mewl over her, brother.”

  “I love her. It’s not fawning or mewling, Calvis, it’s . . . courtship.”

  Calvis snorted into Cassian’s ear, his arms bound tight ’round his brother from behind. He’d caught Cassian in Snapping Turtle. Cassian didn’t struggle to get away. It would only lead Calvis into further demonstration of his growing prowess with the Art, a pastime rapidly becoming more than a hobby.

  “And do you think she’ll concede to wed you, little brother?”

  Cassian turned his face so he and Calvis were cheek to cheek. It was a surer way to get his brother to release him. “I hope she will. That’s all I can do.”

  Calvis let him go. “You have nothing to offer her.”

  It was not the first time his brother had tried to taunt him into an argument, and Cassian’s patience was wearing thin. How was it he could love his brother so much, more than any other, more than their parents, and yet grow to loathe the very sight of him?

  “I have myself. I have everything to offer her.”

  “You’re going to be a priest, Cassian. What woman wants a priest for a husband?”

  “A woman of the Faith might find a priest a very fine husband.”

  Again, Calvis snorted. He took a few steps away, his fingers curled into loose fists he slowly raised to waist-height before putting one foot forward into one of the positions of the Art. Cassian didn’t know which one. Cassian didn’t care.

  “Priests have no wage. What will you use to buy her those pretty gowns she so adores? The cosmetic for her face? The cream pies to stuff her gullet?”

  Cassian crossed his arms, watching his brother and wondering at how they looked the same and yet were nothing alike. “Priests have their living granted them—”

  “Priests do. It’s not enough to support a family.”

  At the thought of it, a family with Bertricia—children—Cassian smiled. Calvis saw it, and scowled. He moved forward, jabbing and ducking while Cassian did little more than shift out of the way.

  “Fight me, little brother.”

  “No.”

  “Fight me,” Calvis wheedled. “You know you wish to.”

  “I don’t wish to!”

  “Fight me!” Another jab. Calvis circled.

  Cassian stood his ground, jaw set, gaze steady. “Why? So you might take comfort from knowing you can beat me?”

  “So I can take comfort from knowing you are yet a man, not a smooth-groined eunuch.” Calvis danced closer, then away, forming his body into the bends and dips of the Art with greater skill than he’d had even the week prior.

  “You are good at what you do,” Cassian said.

  This stopped his brother in place. “Are you too afraid?”

  Cassian shook his head. “Why can’t you accept that I’m good at what I want to do, too?”

  “Being a priest?” Calvis spat the word to one side. “Is that what will please you? Shaving your head, dressing in robes, smelling of oil and incense? Spending your days in the temple or in study, dissecting ancient words written so long ago none might know their meaning but only guess at it, and your nights in the arms of a woman who will never be satisfied with what you might offer?”

  “I want to speak for those who are unable!” Cassian cried, pushed at last to anger. “What is so wrong with that?”

  “She will make a cuckold of you!” Calvis shouted, and was upon his brother in the time it took to exhale.

  Toe to toe, eye to eye. A matched pair. Calvis began it.

  Cassian was the one who ended it.

  Thinking of it now, the past long gone, he remembered the pride he’d felt at beating his brother. It had been good at the time, bitter later. It was a lesson well-learned.

  Things would not change, Cassian told himself and knew it to be a lie no matter how many times his mind formed the thought. Everything would change. He’d opened himself to Annalise, just the least small bit, and there was no taking it back.

  All had changed already, based on the smile she gave him from her seat in the pew during morning services. She’d sought his gaze deliberately, though he stayed in the shadow of the alcove, and she found it with unerring ease. She lifted a brow, pursed her mouth, waggled her brows in a mockery of the priest on the beemah that even Cassian could not deny was perfection.

  She sat down with him at breakfast, too, settling her bowl of porridge on the table and sliding into the chair across from his while he looked in shock. Then she lifted a brow and dug her spoon into the porridge as though daring him to say anything against her presence. Which of course, Cassian did not.

  Not that the meal was silent. He guessed no man could remain quiet in Annalise’s presence, for she would insist upon discussion. Call and answer, he thought, when she drew out of him a reply to a question he never thought he’d give.

  “But which do you believe?” She spread a hot buttered scone with a thick layer of tumbleberry jam. “Of all the commentaries you’ve studied, which do you hold most dear?”

  Cassian had chosen a plate of fried eggs and thick sausage to break his fast, but had eaten little since Annalise first sat. Now he sliced the sausage into even slices and listened carefully to the click of his knife up on the plate. “Must I choose one?”

  “Yes. If you were led to the edge of a cliff and forced to decide or be pushed off, which would you pick?”

  Around the room, the rows of benches were alive with wriggling, chatting women. Most of them were looking at the table he shared with Annalise. It wasn’t the first time he’d been the subject of such scrutiny, but he’d always found it easy to ignore before. Now, with her there, he felt as though they sat beneath a crimson banner designed to draw every eye. Annalise didn’t seem to notice. More likely, she simply did not care.

  “What are my choices?”

  She pointed at him with her spoon. “You tell me.”

  He bit, ch