You Are Mine (Mine, #1)(6)
“Come see your room. If it's anything like mine, you'll love it.”
She rushes me to the door on the opposite side of hers. My temporary room is even larger than the sitting room. A bed and wardrobe occupy one side. On the other is a vanity with a mirror larger than any I've ever seen. At home the few mirrors are the size of a small plate. This one is the size of a large plate and easy to see in. I wonder if Father knows I'm going to a man who doesn't care if women become vain. If I thought it would do any good, I'd tell him. Instead, I'll use the mirror to keep from being punished over wayward strands of hair.
A chair and a table sit in the corner. The Woman's Canon lays on it. No need to bother that area of the room. A doorway leads to my very own water closet. All the space put together is as much room as my sisters have combined. What does a woman need so much space for?
“Isn't it fantastic?” Cynthia asks.
“Different from home, that's certain.”
“Would you like me to sleep with you tonight to make it feel more like home?”
I survey the bed trying to imagine what it'd be like not to be kicked by four sisters all night long. A nervous, but excited flutter fills me. “Entirely unnecessary.”
She laughs. “I knew you liked it.”
“You can come in whenever you'd like, though.”
I move to the vanity where an empty bowl, a bowl full of water, and a cloth await. I rinse my mouth first and spit in the empty one. The water is tepid, but I don't hesitate using it to scrub my face. When it starts to feel raw, I realize I scrubbed too hard. Yet it still feels dirty.
“The carriage ride really bothered you this time, didn't it?” Cynthia grabs a brush. “Let me fix your hair before dinner.”
I clamp my jaw shut. The dark locks are in disarray, hanging around my now reddened face. Much more damage than a day long excursion will do. I can still feel his hand twisting in them. I scowl at my reflection and hope Cynthia doesn't know why it's such a mess. Her fingers set to the task, just like they would at home. Seeing her work in the mirror is entertaining. Her brows furrow as she tames my hair, her own still impeccable. Somehow, her curly mane always manages to behave better than my straight one.
“You're so lucky,” she says. “This will be such a good match for you. Just look at this room. And the house. I don't think you could do better. Well, except for the Grand Chancellor's son, but since he's already engaged, I can't imagine a better catch.”
Of course that's what she thinks. The muscles in my shoulders tighten. I roll them trying to ease the tension.
“What's wrong?”
She's always been able to read me too well, but I've never said a word to her before about how I feel. Not one. I want to tell her. Tell someone. My thoughts go against the Woman's Canon, though. I can still feel Thomas's arms around my waist, his gaze raking across me, his fingers in my hair, his lips pressed against my cheek. I've barely spent any time with him, but he already owns me in a way worse than Father ever did. It pushes and tugs against something inside of me until it breaks.
“It's not right.” My voice is louder than I intend. I work to make it softer. “It doesn't feel right.”
Cynthia stops playing with my hair and looks at me in the mirror. “What do you mean?”
“All of it. Any of it. I'm not ready to be a wife, a mother. To be owned by a husband. Getting away from Father would be, well, you know how Father is, but how do I know Thomas will be better? What I really want is...” What do I really want? I don't know, but not this. Something different. Something that won't require me to constantly submit myself to another's will.
“What is it? What do you want?” Her eyes are so big and innocent.
What I want are things that will lead to more punishment. I can't bring myself to break her along with me. “I don't know, Cynthia. I don't know.”
She says nothing, instead finishing my hair. Tears leak out my eyes without permission and trickle down my face. She hands me a handkerchief. Swiftly, I dab the moisture. When all trace of my weakness is gone, I turn to her, forcing a grin.
“I hope that wasn't one of the handkerchiefs you planned on giving away.”
“Certainly not.” She takes it from me. “It's almost seven.”
With my emotions so raw, I want to escape from the men the rest of the night. I think I may know a way, but how will she react to it? “Should we go feast in silence while listening to the men go on about the tournament or should we claim we're too ill from the journey?”
“Let's claim we're too ill.” She laughs, easing my fears. “Ever since you were sick on Father's shoes, he no longer thinks it's just an excuse.”
“Then I won't be the one to tell him that my stomach is settled.”
“I'll find a servant to take a message. Then I'll be back to help you unlace and we can get more comfortable.” She scurries from the room.
I scrutinize myself in the mirror. Seeing more of my reflection will take some getting used to. My eyes are a touch puffy, but otherwise normal. The red from scrubbing too hard has faded. I look the same as I did a short time ago, before I turned seventeen and had another owner. Waist-length dark hair, dark eyes, pale face. Inside, I don't feel the same. Even a small amount of time can bring bitter change.