You Are Mine (Mine, #1)(4)
“Apart from being out of date. Still, I hope being at the tournament will give me a chance with some warlock. I brought three handkerchiefs to give away.”
I groan. “Three? Do you really need more than one?”
“Well, if I can't get in the marriage pool for another year, I might as well spread myself out and practice.”
“Practice what? They don't care about anything besides magic and money. We know you have a good pedigree, it's not like you can change the magic in your blood.”
She leans back and is quiet a moment before answering. “If I get someone to care enough about me, they may try to find me in the marriage pool. It's not unheard of for men to gain a preference for a woman before her blood is tested, you know. One of them could be better than Father.”
I wish this conversation was taking place somewhere easier to think. Somewhere we weren't being churned about. “If anyone can do it, I'm sure you can. But should you?”
“Men aren't all bad. Don't you remember Lewis from our weekly manners lesson? He was always so nice, making sure I was first in line to go home.”
If she really thinks that, it's because she didn't see how he looked at her when she was turned away. Or how he pinched the back of my arm while trying to steal a kiss. It left a bruise for two weeks. Though I should have given him what he wanted, I couldn't. Instead, I screamed and received a day-long silence spell. Of all the hexes I've gotten, not being able to talk was minor. And I wasn't forced to kiss his peeling lips.
Dreaming of a nice warlock is a dangerous thing. Yet, I can't take her hope away. Without hope, there's nothing but misery. I know. I close my eyes. “Can we please speak of something else?”
She returns to talking of dresses for a while, then moves on to the sisters we left behind. Little Molly learning to walk. Sally eager to begin classes. Bethany taking care of them all. As she prattles on, it's hard to pay attention, but I let her voice soothe me. No matter how hard I try not to think of them, her earlier words about men being nice come back to me. Despite what she thinks, men are rarely kind unless they're playing some sort of cruel game. To them, women are owned and used, that's all.
Finally, the carriage halts, and Cynthia's chatter ceases. I continue to sway. The bouncing resumes as Cynthia can't contain her excitement, again. I groan and try not to lose my breakfast. Shouldn't have eaten that biscuit.
“Sorry.” While she sounds sincere, she continues twitching beside me.
Men's voices drift from outside, but I can't make out what they're saying. As I think of what's to come, the voices I hear and who I'm about to meet, my hands shake. Several more minutes pass before the carriage door opens. I blink against the light. Father pokes his head inside, shielding us from some of it. One glimpse of me and he leans farther away. I must look as ill as I feel.
“Best behavior. Particularly you, Serena.” His voice is a gruff whisper. “Remember what's at stake.”
For him it's gaining the right son-in-law. Nothing to do with the fact I'm about to meet my new owner. Why does it even matter? It's not like I can be returned like goods at a shop. I'm bought and paid for, no matter what. Unless of course I'm found unvirtuous.
I stare at my gloved hands. I'm trying to keep from being sick, but Father must take it as acceptance because he leaves. Fresh air whirls in. I stay in place, letting my stomach calm. Cynthia tames a few of my locks back with a pin from her pocket.
“You brought hair pins?” I ask.
“Bethany said you would need them.”
Taking care of me is such a Bethany-like thing to do, my trembling eases a little. Out of all my thirteen sisters I'll miss her the most. Tears threaten, but I push them away with a glance at Cynthia. We look nothing alike. Her blonde curls are still forced into the tight knot at the back of her head. Green eyes, big and full of life against the pale face paint. Her reddened mouth purses as she fixes another of my stray hairs.
In contrast, my dark hair never stays in place, even though it's straight and not curly like hers. My brown eyes always seem so dull, the few glimpses I've had of them. But the face paint is the same. Of course we have to wear it and follow the Woman's Canon. Mother wouldn't have it any other way.
Cynthia nudges me. If only we were at the house instead of here. Even classes filled with endless dronings about the Woman's Canon and how we must live up to it sound better than meeting the warlock who now owns me. I take one last deep breath and exit the carriage. Despite the circumstances, I try to muster as much grace as I can.
The house is bigger than Father's. Three stories of gray stone, ivy creeping up one side. Bushes cluster around the house reaching the bottom of the windows. Servants line the stairs, at the bottom of which Father is talking to a man who is perhaps five years older than me. Thomas? Taller than me, but about half Father's weight. Golden eyes. No blemishes on his face, though his nose has been broken at least once.
Mine looked like that after I'd been particularly outspoken. When I lived with it for a week, Father fixed it. Said warlocks would reject me with a nose like that. I wonder why this warlock didn't fix his with magic. It does make him handsome, in a fierce sort of way.
I brush my hands across my dark, wool dress, overly aware of my travel-worn state. Father can't truly fault me for it, but he may nevertheless. Once Cynthia departs the carriage, she slides next me. Together, we walk toward the men.