You Are Mine Read online

  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.

  Motioning at me, Father says, “Thomas, this is your new property.”

  Thomas bends over my extended hand to kiss it. A tremor of dread starts where his lips touch my glove and travels through me. Not letting go, he straightens. His eyes roam over me. I force my smile to stay, though I'd prefer to glower. No man has ever leered at me in such a way. A chill fans through me. I want an extra wrap. Or three.

  “Enchanted. I don't mind getting married, but I believe marriage to this one will make duty a pleasure.”

  Even through the shield of my glove, his touch makes my insides balk. I yank my hand from his, as politely as I can, and mask my features. Father scowls. Apparently, not polite enough.

  “Glad to hear it.” Father slaps him on the back. “Wouldn't want it any other way. The other is my second eldest. Turns seventeen in eleven months.”

  Thomas's gaze leaves me in favor of my sister, for which I am grateful. As he grabs her extended hand and places a kiss on it, the bit of gratitude I felt flees. He shouldn't be touching my sister.

  “She's also lovely. I know you mourn not having sons, but if these two are any indication of your other daughters, you have outstanding stock. You'll be rich from the sell of them. If her blood is as potent as her sister's, I hope they pass the multi-wives law before her birthday.”

  Cynthia giggles prettily. The sound makes me feel as if my carriage sickness is returning in full force.

  Father chuckles. “With your lineage and power, I'm sure you'd do the law justice. I'll be pulling for it myself. If it had passed years ago, I might have been able to get a son.”

  “Then I hope it passes. There may still be.” He winks at me. Though it takes effort, I manage not to glare back. What I can't stop is the chill crawling through me.

  His arm drapes around my waist and he pulls me toward massive front doors. He calls over his shoulder to Father. “You must be tired from your travels. I'll have servants attend you, Stephen. Dinner is at seven.”

  As we ascend the steps, the space between us isn't enough. I suspect it won't be the entire time we're here, but hope it's not always this close. The whole week-long tournament. Ugh. And then the marriage in five months, what will I do? With a slight shortening of my gait, I try to ease from him and rejoin my sister. Thomas clings tighter.

  The doors open and he calls out orders to his servants, his voice echoing through the entry. Behind us, Cynthia and Father follow. Several tables decorated with flowers line the walls adding a sharp, floral scent, making me more ill.

  “Councilman Stephen, you'll be shown to my best guest room.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. I'm sure it will be to my liking.”

  A tarnished leads Father up the curving staircase. A second servant, not tarnished, steps forward. We only have the bald, inked-faced tarnished servants at home. The sight of someone serving who looks more like me is jarring. A reminder that anyone can become a servant. Though anyone can also be tarnished should their master deem them unworthy. The thought distracts me from the fact that I'm being left behind. The servant leads Cynthia down a hall to the right, and out of sight. I yearn to follow.

  Once she's out of sight, Thomas puts his nose in my hair and breathes deeply making the ache to be away a physical pain in my chest. “It's unfortunate we can't hold the wedding at the end of the tournament. What a fine thing that would make. Ah, well, make yourself at home, we
nch. Soon enough, it will be.”

  He wraps his fingers in my hair, loosening the pins. Maintaining proper distance is unnecessary with your Master. He sets what's proper. The words from the Woman's Canon were drilled into me so many times, they echo in my head as if my teacher is actually saying them. A woman must always submit to her Master's wishes. At school we learned the only exception is that she remain chaste before marriage. Otherwise the warlock lines might become tainted.

  The law must be obeyed. I force myself not to let my fist fly like Father has done to me so many times. My arms tremble. “Please stop.”

  “Ah, ah, ah. You must address me as Master.” He presses his lips to my cheek, his hands move from my hair going lower and lower down my back. My muscles tense and my body shakes. Suppressing a whimper, I squirm.

  Laughing, he pushes me away. I stumble, but manage to catch myself on a small table. The vase of flowers on it rocks back and forth. I steady it before it can crash to the floor.

  “I'm not an Envadi, wench. You'll come to realize my attention is not barbaric, but what you want.”

  While he ascends the stairs, I hold myself as dignified as I can. At the top, he stares at me. I hold his gaze, unwilling to look away. It doesn't matter he owns me, after what just took place I can't degrade myself any further by lowering my head. A wry grin crosses his features, as if he's won something.

  Finally he saunters down the hall. When he's out of sight, I let the air rush from me and rub my cheek, probably smudging my face paint. Though he didn't punish me for the disobedient act, I can't help but feel maybe he did win something.

  “This way,” says a tarnished I hadn't noticed. She waits next to the hall Cynthia went down.

  “Does the place you're taking me have somewhere I can wash?”

  She nods.

  “Good.” I stop rubbing my face and anxiously follow her.

  The memory of his lips upon my skin distracts me from noticing much on the way in. She leads me to a sitting room I assume will be shared with my sister. It's twice the size of my bedroom. A small sofa and three chairs grace the middle of the room. Paintings of pregnant women hang on the walls. Cynthia enters from an adjoining room, eyes brighter than when we arrived.

  “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.

  What type of change will tomorrow bring? Mother always talked about tournament deaths, which leaves me unsure. I've seen many injuries, but never seen anyone die. Neither have I met anyone from another country. Though it's doubtful Father will let me actually meet anyone, I'm still curious to see what they're like. Especially the barbaric Envadi. Will Thomas have to duel against any of them?

  Cynthia waltzes into the room full of news about treasures she found while searching for a servant. I barely hear, more concerned with what tomorro
w will bring. At least while Thomas participates, I will have one less thing to fret over. Except it's those moments when his arms and lips have time to reach me that I dread. I'll hope he does extremely well and has no time to spare for me.

  Chapter Three

  Thomas's box offers not only a perfect view of the field where the main events will be held, but also a great place for keeping an eye on other council members and those of power. Especially since we're right next to the Grand Chancellor's box. At least that's what Father has been going on about since we arrived. I can't tell one way or another.

  The boxes sit at varying heights and sizes, held up by pillars. There seems to be no pattern, except that none are bigger or taller than the Grand Chancellor's. Our own is several feet off the ground, just a little lower than the tallest. Even so, being this high off the ground has me gripping my chair tight whenever I think on it. I've never been so high before.

  The smell of dirt and grass wafts in. Two chairs made of wood waited for Cynthia and me when we arrived an hour ago. It's been making my backside ache ever since. The warlocks have cushioned chairs and small tables nearby to hold their food and drink. On the side by the stairs is a table with a jug of water. Several servants, mostly tarnished, but a few like the one I saw at Thomas's house, stand by it. A canopy hangs over our box, orange like everyone else's from Chardonia. The women in nearby boxes all wear dark colors and an orange band like Cynthia and me. Some gather in their boxes chatting in little groups or stand next to a warlock waiting to be shown off. Most sit alone.

  Other canopies and bands come in varying colors, each color representing a different country. Green, yellow, blue, red, purple, white. I don't recognize where they're from. Classes didn't cover the colors of other countries, only our own. And there are so many of them. Never have I seen so many colors in one place.

  A few warlocks, mostly those with purple bands, have a gun strapped to their waist. Those with red bands have dark skin and hair, the likes of which I've never seen before. But it's not nearly as surprising as what some of the women from other countries do.