The Becoming

By Lilith Thorn

Niamh is a good wife. She learned early on that crossing her husband had consequences. Living quietly in the shadowed cage he has formed around her,Niamh suffers his secrets and bares the scars they leave behind. On the night of her biggest humiliation Caleb enters the ballroom changing Niamh’s course forever. He brings safety to her dark world and introduces her to the possibility of escape. Will Niamh’s love for Caleb be the key to her freedom or will it be her undoing?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lilith Thorn
• Release date: Mar 25, 2018

Book preview

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thriteen

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Copyright

The Becoming has been written and illustrated with the financial assistance of the NWT Arts Council. I am very grateful for their support and guidance.

To everyone who said I can: I’m only now starting to believe you.

To my parents: If I’ve worked up the courage to tell you about this book, please skip over the dirty bits.

To my loves: Thank you.

Chapter One

He is the man I would have noticed first, had he been in the room when I arrived. As it was, he arrived fashionably late, as we’d say now. Men and women alike stole glances as he strode through the doors; we were too polite a society to stare.

He is the kind of creature that draws all eyes to himself without doing much to deserve it. Though this was not his home, he was the king of the castle. Even in my distracted state, I soaked in his energy, felt him before I saw him and, like a magnet pulling me, my body turned toward him.

Had I been anyone but my demure self, my jaw may have hung open or I may have walked toward him to embarrass myself with a bumbled, unasked for introduction. Instead, as his eyes met mine, I quickly glanced away and blushed. Later – much later – he would tell me it was the blood rushing to my cheeks that drew him to me.

Instead, I busied myself about the room, doing my best to avoid him. To avoid everyone, in fact. This evening was special and exciting to many, but not to me. To me, this evening would seal my humiliation and I was powerless to stop it from happening.

My husband, Faolon, roamed the spacious ballroom, half an eye turned in my direction. I always did my best to remain on his good side, as I was a respectful wife, but tonight, it was even more important. This night was a marriage of sorts for him. Tonight, the country’s current favourite artist would be unveiling his newest work, revealing me, Faolon’s wife and possession, as the subject.

May I pour you a drink?

It came as a soft whisper, meant only for me to hear, but it achieved so much more than that. Caught off guard, I turned, only to be sucked into his gaze. My breath stopped and the world around me faded away. I resisted the compulsion to reach out and touch this stranger’s face and instead cocked my head and summoned the wits I was born with.

I don’t drink alcohol.

He smiled.

A true lady stands before me.

For a moment, I thought he might have been mocking me, but there was a glint in his eye that swayed the vote. He was flirting with me.

I opened my mouth to make an excuse to leave his company, but he spoke before I could find the words that would take me away.

Surely the star of the evening deserves a little something to calm her nerves.

This was certainly something I had been thinking since my husband and I had arrived. But I had never touched a drop. I wasn’t going to let this unveiling beat me.

I simply posed for the painting. It is the artist who deserves the attention this evening.

He nodded. A modest woman. If I can’t offer you a drink, he gracefully brought his body closer to mine, seemingly without moving a muscle, perhaps I could offer you something else? It would seem you’re not entirely comfortable with this evening’s agenda.

It wasn’t very well known that I was the subject of this unveiling. I had been too embarrassed to admit this sordid fact to the ladies in my circle, though it seemed as if my husband had been confident enough to brag to his friends. Was this gentleman, somehow, friendly with Faolon?

I should see to my husband. Momentarily on guard, I made a bold move to leave, but he stood too close to politely slip away.

Before you go, ask me my name.

It hadn’t occurred to me that I didn’t know it. We already felt intimately close. For the second time, my breath stopped. I opened my mouth to ask, and blood rushed again to my face.

I seem to have an effect on you. A mischievous smile spread across his lips. I had to think quickly.

Your name, and then we will part ways, I bargained.

For now, he countered. He took my speechlessness as consent. Caleb.

And there it was. His name. His given name. Handed to me with no ceremony, just laid by my feet for me to choose to do with as I pleased.

I whispered my own name, without thought, an instinctive exchange with my torturer. With this offering, Caleb allowed me to move away from him. I stepped carefully across the room feeling pleasantly bruised, though my discomfort for the evening was now magnified.

I began searching the room for my husband, concerned that he’d seen my interaction with Caleb. I worried, knowing that he would be angry with me for speaking alone with another man, even in a room full of watchful people.

Niamh.

Faolon commanded rather than spoke. He pulled me to his side. He meant his gesture to be hidden, but his possession of me was clumsy and my name said louder than it should have been, though the guests milling about pretended not to notice.

We crossed the room, arm in arm, for show. He would wait to scold me. There were too many eyes and ears around us now, but I knew he had seen my interaction and he would shame me for my behaviour.

As the night went on, I was not trusted to leave Faolon’s side. I took my punishment with good humour, but was not distracted from the purpose of the gathering. In the centre of the room was a covered canvass, larger than me, on a very sturdy easel. I knew what was under the cloth. In fact, Pieter, the artist, and I were the only ones who had seen what was about to be unveiled, in more than one manner, though I had yet to see the finished piece.

The pendulum of the clock swung heavily back and forth and my need for distraction grew. I did my best to hold a conversation when I could not avoid the other guests, but made no attempt to strike one up. The men, I felt, were leering at me, the women, unsuspecting. I knew my place in society was about to change and my husband was celebrating this while I simply hoped to endure.

Finally, at the stroke of eleven, Pieter called attention to the large canvass. My heart began to race and, for the first time, I gripped my husband closer to me. He seized this moment as an opportunity to increase the focus on us, whispering in my ear, a little too loudly, that whatever Pieter had painted would be beautiful. Of course, I knew what his true intentions were: to put on a show for the audience nearest us.

As the cloth was dramatically yanked away from the painting, my first instinct was to be thankful that my parents were dead; my second was to swallow the bile that rose into my mouth.

If this portrait had been of anyone else, its beauty would have amazed me. I looked soft, angelic and pure. But it was me, all of me, in fact.

I didn’t have the courage to look about the room to gauge reactions. I knew Faolon was beaming behind me. His wife immortalized by a great painter, in a position usually held by whores and prostitutes. I could only watch Pieter applauding wildly and avoid staring at my painted image.

There was no polite way to acknowledge either my husband or myself, and so the crowds moved past us to congratulate the deserving artist. I was thankful to avoid any interaction with these fully-clothed people while I felt so naked. My husband, however, seemed torn. He knew that Pieter deserved all the congratulations: it was his work, after all. But Faolon expected, even craved, some attention to come his way for supplying the model for this masterpiece.

This need meant Faolon soon forgot my earlier discretion and moved away from me to shake hands with the true star in his efforts to collect a little bit of praise for himself. I took the opportunity to do the opposite and flee to the farthest corner of the room.

I stood, looking at the floor, gathering a plan to proceed through this night. I once again began to think how nice it would be to have the cloudy effects of alcohol to make all of this more bearable. After a short moment, though I didn’t see him move