“You have to sip at it,” Emma says with a huge grin. “Or you give the drink its name, you see?”
“Ha,” I croak, coughing a little more, before doing as she suggests. It goes down slower this time. There’s still a burn, but I also catch some strangely sweet notes in it, too. Huh, not too bad. The Graves can make some decent things.
Though Hartson drinks are far superior, of course.
When it doesn’t look like people are hovering in wait to spike my drink, I begin to relax a little better, and Emma eagerly prepares to lead me to all the things she’s been raving about, ever since she discovered I’d never gone to the Border Bar. At Emma’s persuasion, I take off my sash, so that I can be truly neutral.
“When you come here, you should let go of what you are,” she insists, demonstrating the lack of sash she’s wearing as well. I do it, though I can still see quite a few people who’ve chosen to keep their sashes all the same. I feel naked somehow, without my sash on display. It’s a banner of pride, a mark of identity, and it no longer defines me.
First, Emma takes me to the machines, which are arcade games. I have to pay old style quarters which the bar provides in exchange for our currency, and it’s fun, being able to control characters on the screen and make them do things. We’ve had evening games, of course, and physical games we played in the fields, but this is the first I’ve seen of this type. Emma drags me along afterward to the mini-golf course in the back garden, and we have those long, thin clubs too, and we’re supposed to whack a tiny white ball into tiny holes, except it’s not as straightforward because there are obstacles in the way.
About halfway through my course, I bump into two guys who are stuck on the same obstacle. Bump is probably not the best way to describe it, as I saw the men ahead of us, and I definitely noticed they were stuck, and we were closing in on them with each successful hole.
“Hey,” one of the men says. “You’re gonna have a hell of a time with this one. Bobby here still can’t get it done, and it took me probably 15, 16 tries.” He shakes his head, and I smile. He’s got a wonderful, easy manner to him, and there’s something in the glint of his dark eyes that draw me in.
“What’s the problem with this course?” I ask, while Emma happily lines up her shot, ignoring the man’s companion, Bobby, who seems about ready to throw his club at the wooden wall of the bird-hut obstacle.
“That,” the man replies, pointing at the bird-hut. “The left and center holes reset it. The right one’s the correct one, but if you hit too hard, it goes off course and resets, and too light, it gets stuck in the box. There’s some tube the ball rolls down, but it’s probably broken.” He seems happy to explain to me, and I’m more than happy to listen, as he has a deep, soothing voice, the same kind I remember Bearded Mitch having down at the farm, when he read stories to the kids before bedtime.
Aiming a golf club isn’t that much different from shooting a bow, or a gun to me. You need the correct angle, the right pressure, and with the man’s advice, Emma and I get the ball through the right hole instantly, while his friend Bobby starts from the beginning again.
“Shouldn’t have said anything,” he says sourly.
“Thanks!” I reply, giving him one of my biggest grins. Emma watches us with a rather knowing smirk on her face.
“So!” Emma says, suddenly bounding between us. “I’m Emma. This is Pearl, and she’s a real Pearl, I can tell you that, raised up right and everything. And you are…?” She looks expectantly at the man, who has one of his eyebrows arched.
“Desmond,” he says, reaching out a hand for me to shake. I accept it, noting his strong, solid grasp, thinking that my father would approve of a good handshake like that. “The slob over here’s my buddy, Bobby. Tell you what, Pearl and Emma – you beat us in this course, we’ll treat you to a round of drinks. Sounds good?”
“Sounds great,” Emma purrs, and I find myself blushing. I see what Emma’s doing, and I resent it.
“Don’t try and smush us together like dolls,” I hiss to her, as we take on the next course, while Desmond shouts both insults and encouragements at Bobby. “I’m just here to try out the bar.” And see the Graves territory. And be out of the shadow of my family, constantly bearing pressure on me to look to one of our vassal clans for a favorable match, as I would be allowed to keep the Hartson surname, and produce more Hartsons for our extensive dynasty. This particular change was introduced some ninety years back when the head Hartson ended up producing something like twelve women and no men, threatening to end the Hartson name, since a plague had taken everyone else. About two major clans had become extinct in the male line without this law, sitting instead as a sad footnote in our histories.
“What’s the point in living life if you can’t have some fun as well? Nothing wrong with some friendly male interaction,” Emma hisses right back.
“I can’t do that,” I insist, screwing up my next shot, feeling a tiny bite of annoyance. “My father’s going to arrange a marriage for me, one that’s going to benefit us greatly. It’s how it’s done with our families. I’m not like you, Emma. You can marry whoever you want. I can’t.” It’s a truth I’ve a hard time swallowing, even if I know the lines by heart. Emma’s a retainer without the Hartson name. She works for our family, but her marriage won’t make or break things. She can choose who she wants, move to whatever land she wants and shed identity freely, because she doesn’t have the weight of a name behind her. She is free to love. I must look to politics first. I must represent the Hartson clan. I must uphold their legacy.
“It’s silly is what it is,” Emma says. “What’s the point in marrying someone you may never like? Wealth and power don’t hold a candle to love.”
Easy to say, I think, looking at my friend, when you don’t have any wealth and power.
My next shot connects, and we progress to the last of the obstacles in the course. Bobby seems to have finally overcome his, though there might have been cheating involved. A Graves bouncer wearing his gray and black sash peers at us to make sure there’s no trouble, and Desmond catches up slowly, smiling a light smile, the kind that steals attention for unexpected seconds at a time. Watching him discreetly, I have to admit that he’s a handsome devil. Annoyingly handsome, like he was built in that specific way to appeal to all my senses, and I dislike it. His dark eyes are hooded, holding a lazy brilliance to his expression. His cheeks are sharp and defined, what my mother might refer to as noble cheekbones. Whatever that means. His midnight hair frames out in curls, messy ringlets plastered to his forehead from when he’d slathered his whole face in water to cool down.
There’s a lean strength to his body frame, too, barely concealed by the white tunic he wears, and the black shorts. Even with the sunlight fading above us, there’s a shimmering heat to the land that keeps us all warm. Or maybe the heat is all my own doing.
“You’re staring,” Emma whispers, nudging me. “Possibly drooling.”
Damn. So I am. I instantly try to play it cool, like I was interested in the tree with a few birds perched on its slender branches, but I’m fooling no-one. Desmond strides up to me, one sharp eyebrow raised, a rather incongruous smile attacking his lips. “You’re dawdling on the last shot. Is everything okay?”