“But a woman—”
“A woman must obey. Take it down.”
I gasp. In front of all these people? I refuse to take it down. He can’t really expect it. Yet when I don’t move, he motions to a servant. The servant immediately moves behind me and starts ripping the pins from my hair, yanking strands with them. I wince and reach to stop her, but she swats my hand away.
A few seconds later, my hair is down, flowing to my waist. Shame and anger shear through me. I brush my locks behind my shoulder, trying my best to hide them while keeping special care to lower my face. If I break that rule now and look at him, there will no hiding the hostility coursing through me.
He pulls my hair back over my shoulder, running his fingers through the length of it. I clench my jaw and try not to breathe deeply. Try not to do anything.
The glee in his voice does nothing to calm my rapidly mounting panic. “You’ll do nicely. My newest possession.”
His newest possession? As in, him? This smelly, cruel man is my owner?
No. No, no, no, nonono.
He snaps his finger, and the servants begin to exit the room. “I’ll be waiting at your Father’s when class is completed. You had better be less defiant when you join me.” He strides from the room, the cloud of stench lessening, but still lingering.
It can’t really be him. It can’t. There’s nothing that could be worse than having him as my owner. Nothing. I can’t look at anyone, even through my lashes. Instead I keep my head lower than I ever have before. My blood has been taken, my hair let down, and my manner deemed unfit.
The class matron storms over. “Return your hair to its proper bun this instant.”
Must she persist even after everything she just saw? “It’s not my fault.”
She raises her hand, and this time there’s nothing to prevent the slap. My face stings, but instead of complying, I let my anger overwhelm my shame. “You are as bad as the men.”
I twist away, the abandoned hairpins crunching beneath my feet. Everyone in the room is gaping at me. I spin away from them as well and stride out of the room like my new owner did moments before. But only he can carry such airs. Mine are false, unfit for a woman. Yet, even false, it's better than letting the shame inside me loose for all to see.
Chapter Two
Mother enters my room, her face not betraying whether she’s here to congratulate me on such a good match or if she’s here to scold me for not spending more time with him. I’ve been in his foul presence since arriving home from class an hour ago. Two hexes, my hair forced down again, and my nose still senses his lingering stench. It’s more than adequate for a lifetime.
She sits next to me on the bed, the only place there is to sit except the floor. “A message just arrived from your class matron.”
There’s no escaping her, even at home. I turn back to my stitching. At least being forced to work at Father’s clothing shop has taught me a useful evasive skill.
“Is there anything you'd like to share with me?”
Most definitely not. If there’s any reason to feel contrite for breaking rules, it’s making her feel guilty for teaching me to. She taught me there are times we can get away with not following them, but also need to be cautious in front of others. Yet there’s no changing what happened.
“Is her message related to the bruise on your cheek?”
I shrug, wishing mother hadn't noticed its darkening beneath my face paint. At least she can't see my back that's still stinging from the earlier punishment.
“Oh, darling.” She wraps an arm around me. “I’m sorry.”
Tears leak out, but just a few. We don’t say anything, there’s no use. No matter how sorry she is or how much we both wish things were different, they never will be. Our lot in life is to be punished and used whether it’s wrong or not.
She lets silence give room for our thoughts. Once I start picking at the loose threads on the dress I'm working on, she says, “Nigel and your Father have decided you are not to return to class.”
“Truly?” As much as I’ve wished for it, I didn’t think it would happen. The small but good news makes me feel as if there’s some light to this day.
Mother’s chin quivers and the bit of hope in me deflates. “They think something stronger is needed to quell your defiance.”
Of course that’s what it’s about. If only they knew the thoughts pounding in my head. I don’t even want to think what this could mean.
“Nigel,” she continues, “is going to stay with us until your engagement next week. Afterward, he’s leaving an adviser here to train you and will check on you once a week until the wedding.”
Just the thought of having to be around him more has my nose itching to sneeze and the rest of me itching to hide. “He’s going to be here all week?”
“Yes, and after that, your brother is going to be following you and the adviser around as a way of learning more about warlock’s duties.”
Jack would. Anything to make himself look better. My younger brother, striver of all things council and rule related. As if he could ever make it onto the council.
Mother continues, “Nigel wants you to join him in the garden after our talk.”
I sigh and take my time putting away my sewing, letting the task keep my hands busy if not my thoughts.
“I’m sorry this is so hard on you. But as hard as it’s made things, I’m not sorry I’ve taught you that you are worth something. You are. Don’t let him hex it out of you. You are my daughter. Remember you are a person just as much as they are. Let that keep you strong.”
I fiddle with a stray spool of thread. Even if she’s right, even if we are worth as much as the warlocks, they are still the ones that own us. Nothing will change that.
“There’s one thing I have for you that may make it easier to… cope with the situation, both now and when you are wed.”
What could she have for me?
“Apparently, he’s tarnished five other wives. None of them were able to get with child. He’s anxious to have an heir.” She pulls a small pouch out of her shoe, hands it to me, and lowers her voice. “This is a sleeping powder. If you mix it with a drink, it’s unnoticeable.”
I glance at the closed door, not trusting that we are truly alone. If discovered, this would mean some very serious hexes. “Why are you giving me this?”
“It’s the only thing I have to help you fight back. A large pinch is enough to knock out a full-grown man and he wakes feeling normal. It may help you avoid some punishments or, frankly, just him because he’s…” She pats my arm. “I just wish there was more I could do.”
I wish the same. “Where did you get this?”
“Some of the tarnished who knew Tilda still interact with me. They helped me procure it from the woman owned by the town apothecary.” She shrugs. “He drinks himself dumb a lot.”
That's better than a punishing owner. Perhaps even better than Father, who only ever wants me to work and hexes me when I don’t fulfill his requirements. “I don’t know what to say.”
And I don't. I always knew mother had ideas different from other women, but not this. The Woman's Canon says a woman never leaves her owner. This is big. This is rule breaking. Almost as much as when Tilda tried to leave.
“Thank you, mother. This may help more than you know,” I say, already thinking of how I can put it to use. Not the use she was planning on, but one born from Tilda’s previous attempt. The sleeping powder’s existence will be so much more valuable than mother could have guessed. An idea is forming that is not at all related to her suggestion, but if it works, I’ll only need it once. She’s given us an escape, and I won’t take it without trying to bring her with me.
“If I use this to leave, will you come?”
She holds me tighter, a sob choking her words. “No, my darling. I wish I could but it’s impossible. Ever since Tilda ran, Father has me hexed to stay. If I attempt to leave, I’ll be in too much pain to move.”
I bite my lower li
p to keep from crying.
“You have to be careful if you do this. They’ll tarnish or kill you if you’re caught.”
“I know. It’s worth the risk.” Only, I hope it doesn’t come to that.
She pulls me into a hug. “I love you, darling. I’m sorry things are so hard.”
There’s no stopping the tears. I grab her hand, gripping it as if my life depends on it. “I love you, mother.”
The tears come harder, both hers and mine. Tilda. The same reason that gives me the possibility of leaving is the same reason mother can’t.
She whispers in my ear. “Whatever you have planned, we need to do it now. Quickly, gather your things.”
The hurt grows, but the tears slow. “Now?”
“This is the perfect moment. He wants you alone in the garden. You can take him the drink and have the entire evening and tomorrow morning to escape. I’ll put them off as long as I can afterward, claim you’re unwell. We don’t know if another opportunity like this will happen. There’s someone in town that can help you. A group of tarnished.”
Escape sounded good when it was in the near future. Making it happen now feels too rushed and scary. Yet it’s indisputable that her words are true. I must go. Now.
“Tarnished? How will they be able to help?”
“I don’t know exactly, but they helped Tilda. They’re the ones who helped me get the sleeping powder. They should be able to help you.”
Should? “Are you certain? Is it safe?”
“Tilda trusted them. That's enough for me.”
It’s enough for me as well, save that Tilda has been dead seven years.
“Besides, you have a better chance with them than on your own.” She gives me detailed instructions on how to find my way there and has me repeat them until I get them right. “Tell them I sent you.”
“I will.”
“Hurry and put your things in the pack,” she says. “Take the sewing kit from Father’s shop. By the time he realizes you’ve kept it, there won’t be anything he can do about it. I’ll return shortly.”
She leaves to fetch a glass of wine for Nigel while I hurry to gather what few things I have: clothes, face paint, a brush and pins. Not the Woman’s Canon. That is most definitely staying here. By the time everything is in a pack, Mother has returned with the drink. She hands me the glass of wine and takes the bag from me.
“I’ll hide it out by our tree.” She gives me a final squeeze before letting go. “Go now. Nigel will be growing impatient.”
“I know.” I stop one last time. “No matter what happens, I’m grateful you’re my mother.”
Her smile is small and sad, eyes radiating love. As I leave, I focus on that feeling, the love and care she has always given me. This is likely the last time I’ll ever see her.
Chapter Three
“Stand straighter,” Nigel barks, a maroon hex quickly following that forces my already straight back more rigid with knife-like cuts every time it tries to ease.
Thinking of my plan, I clamp my mouth shut, and attempt to ignore both the pricking of the spell at my back and his noxious odor while carefully holding the precious cup containing the promise of my escape. It’s a lot to manage. The sun bears down, the mid-afternoon heat enough to melt my face paint. If only he would decide he needs a drink. I know I’m anxious for one, just not this one.
He returns to staring at me until after a few heavy blinks his head begins to nod. He’s supposed to have his sleeping powder tainted drink before doing this. But his head dips several times anyway before finally staying down. The pricking at my back fades with his consciousness. I slouch in relief. Except, only my posture is relieved; the rest of me is worried he’ll never want his wine.
The air grows hotter and drier as I wait. It would be so much easier if I was under one of the many trees on Father’s property. I stare at the tree, the one from which Tilda was hung. The memory of it is terrifyingly vivid even after all these years. Will that be my fate if things go poorly? After about ten minutes, I give up standing in the sun and move toward a patch of shade several feet away. Farther from him, of course. There’s a better spot of shade next to his bench, but the heat has made his rotten stench stronger, even from this distance.
As soon as I cross into shade, a faint yellow and red light whips around me, cutting into my legs. A hex. I hurry back into the sunlight, legs aching, only to find him staring at me again. At least he’s awake even if my legs are stinging from the cuts.
“You are going to be more of a problem than I suspected. If this keeps up, instead of tarnishing you, I might have to send you to Envado and let the barbarians have you.” His lips slop out as he squints at me.
That was an idle threat. It has to be. That's the only fate I know worse than being stuck with him or tarnished.
Finally, he says, “Give me the drink.”
Relief shoots through me so violently, I’m certain he’s going to see right through the plot. I try my best to cover my feelings as I give him the drink and hurry back to my spot several feet away.
“None of that. Come here, wench.” He points at the bench next to him.
Not next to him. Just thinking of being that close has me choking. Just a few more minutes is all that’s needed. I can do this. This is the last time I must endure. After this I’ll either be free, tarnished, or dead. Such a lovely, encouraging thought.
I take a deep breath of fresh air and perch on the bench beside him. His arm, wrinkled and spotted with age, snakes around me and pulls me close to him. Despite his weak grip, I let him. Now is not the time to risk angering him.
The stench of body odor and rotting things is so suffocating, I struggle not to gag. And he hasn’t even sipped his drink yet. Instead, he leans back, closes his eyes, and lets the cup rest loosely in his free hand.
Just my luck. He’s going to fall asleep, and without the drink, which means I won’t be able to escape for fear of waking him. Will I ever have such an opportunity to escape? His grip slowly eases from around me. Any other time I’d be thrilled, but now it’s my chance slipping further away. How much can one old man sleep?
Drastic actions it must be. I clench my jaw, count to three, and then violently plaster myself to his side. I turn my head away so my gagging is less noticeable.
His eyes snap open and his hand jerks upward, spilling some of the precious contents. “What’s this? Finally warming to me?”
I keep my eyes lowered but smile. He makes a strange grunting sound before coughing, a long hacking cough that splashes more wine from his cup. I take shallow breaths, trying not to gag.
“Let me help.” I quickly grab the cup, saving as much of the precious liquid as I can. Still mostly full. It should be enough. Please be enough. Thinking of what’s at stake is the only thing that keeps me at his side as his fit continues.
When it finally subsides he grunts and takes the glass back from me. “Perhaps you’re not so willful after all, just need a bit of time to get used to me. Don’t worry, wench, it won’t be much longer now.”
Yes, as Father said. Nigel is getting old enough he doesn’t want to risk dying before he’s got me with warlock. I can’t help it, the thought sends me shifting farther from him.
“What do you think you’re doing? We were just getting cozy.” He shoves the tainted glass at me. “Drink this.”
Merciful master, no! “I don’t think I’m allowed.”
“Course you are. Drink up. It will relax you.”
Lovely predicament. Drink it, pass out. Don’t drink it, incur wrath. Will he force me to? What will he think when I become unconscious? I should knock it out of his hands, yet then my plan would be wholly ruined. The anger and punishment is manageable. Being owned by him the rest of my life isn’t. Perhaps if I pretend to sip. Will that pacify him? Will it make me sleepy just from touching my lips? I have no idea how strong it is. Better to risk it than to lose my only chance.
I take the glass from him, raise it to my mouth, and press my lips t
ightly around the rim. It will be fine. I can do this.
I tilt the cup back until the liquid sloshes against me. After holding it for a short moment, I bring it back down and hand it to him. I hurry to dab my lips with my gloves hoping the improper use of them goes unnoticed.
His fingers wrap around my chin and jerk my face toward his. “Look at me.”
He knows. Somehow he knows what I’ve done. I raise my eyes to him. His drooping gaze traces over my face before landing on my lips. My chest is tight, bound with fear and rage. Please, please leave me alone and drink. Please!
His thumb swipes against my lips making me want to run away, swift as I can. He gives a leering grin before downing the entire contents of the glass. My whole body slumps as relief pours through me.
“There, dear,” he continues, his words slurring. “You're beginning to relax already.”
His blinks are different now, more dazed and heavy. “You know, I only want strong warlock sons. That’s all I want.”
A few more blinks and his eyes close. He bows forward, chin on his chest. I wait. He doesn’t move. I give him a gentle tap. Still nothing. I nudge him, and his frail body leans back against the bench, mouth falling open.
I’ve done it. I’ve knocked out a warlock. I’ve really done it. A thrill of giddiness peaks through me. But I can’t let it overwhelm my senses. I’m not free yet.
After grabbing the glass in case they can use it to find where the powder came from, I hurry toward the tree where mother left my pack. Hopefully everything is here. If I didn’t get something, well, there’s no returning for it now.
I run the entire way, even if it’s not becoming of a woman. I should have enough time, but if someone decides to evaluate my progress with Nigel, everything could change. I cross through the bushes and over the grass. Haven’t seen much of anything, but I know Father has some good land. The only thing of worth he'll have left besides his shop now that I’m leaving.
The trees offer good shadows to stay in, though they probably help more with the heat of the day than my going unnoticed. Even if someone doesn’t come outside, I could be spotted from a window. Sweat beads on my forehead. Can mother keep those inside distracted as well? Any moment I expect to hear someone calling out after me.
Mine to Tarnish Page 2
