The Price of Desire (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  As Aria’s prospective husband was some strange man, the thought did nothing to encourage her.

  “Why am I wearing a veil?” she asked.

  “Because you’re not a prostitute,” Garja replied, as though the explanation were self-evident. She helped Aria into her slippers, pointless little things that would be useless to wear outdoors.

  Garja seemed to be of the opinion that of course Kisten had wanted to marry Aria; she saw every aspect of the saga, from rescue onward, as terribly romantic. That Aria might not want to marry the handsome prince had occurred to no one except the prince. The other girls, certainly, had taken their union as a given. What woman could possibly fail to fall in love with the man who’d saved her from certain death and then professed his devotion?

  Apparently only Aria noticed that he was hard-hearted and thrived on control. He was titled, and rich; that seemed to be enough for most people. She wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t have been enough for her, if she’d met someone like Kisten back when she was still looking for a man to rescue her. In retrospect, her acceptance of Aiden’s faults—and there were many—had been due to desperation.

  So what was her problem now? Part of her worried that she was still looking for a man to rescue her. Kisten had literally rescued her, and life with him would at least be more materially pleasant than life on her own. She’d never starve, or be threatened by slavers, again. The other part of her wondered if there was something wrong with her. When she thought about leaving Solaris, being brought aboard the Atropos, getting married, she felt nothing. Only numbness, where feelings should be. Was her heart even capable of love, after all she’d been through? Or fear—or anything?

  She worried, too, that she might have agreed to marry Kisten, because she’d been too discouraged to do anything else. The thought of resisting was exhausting; all she wanted to do was avoid the world and sleep. She’d thought Aiden was a good man and clearly her judgment had been off about that. So maybe someone who seemed bad would turn out to be good?

  Kisten terrified her, but at least he was honest about who he was—and he was nothing like her father. Her father was a timid dormouse of a man who always chose the path of least resistance. He turned a blind eye to his wife, because it was easy. He turned to his daughters for—his brand of—love, because it was easy. He justified his own sick urges, because it was easy. His notion of duty and honor extended no further than his own self-interest.

  Kisten, on the other hand, pursued self-sacrifice to a fault.

  Possibly, she consoled herself half-heartedly, things wouldn’t be so bad after all. Part of the problem was that her future didn’t seem real to her; in some crazy way, she felt like she was watching herself in a film. Some small part of her mind kept telling her that she’d wake up tomorrow morning and this would all be over. She was in shock, she suspected—and while in shock, she was making a decision that at least on an intellectual level she understood to be permanent.

  And as for what happened after this so-called wedding that took five minutes, she hadn’t let herself consider the idea that she’d have to take her clothes off in front of this man. Losing herself in the throes of—his—passion was one thing, but coldly planning for the event was something else entirely. When Kisten had pulled her to him and thrown her down on the table, she’d been too overwhelmed to consider and hadn’t had time to regardless.

  She frowned. Had it only been his passion? Part of her had craved the feel of his lips on hers, his hands on her skin, and part of her had been incensed at how easily she’d given in to this unwanted arousal. With Aiden, there had always been a furtive quality—of necessity, because they both still lived at home. Even with his parents gone, Aiden was hardly an adult and had no real say in the running of his household. They were both prisoners, and that shared bond had brought them together. She remembered hot, quick kisses and groping hands and telling him not to. He’d been—in the beginning—just as inexperienced as she was and neither of them really knew what they were doing, only that they wanted to do it. Because they loved each other, and because those first few hesitant explorations were part of young love. That first touch of a lover’s hand was an awakening, in more ways than one.

  Kisten was confident, both in his command of his environment and in himself as a lover. That he’d been with any number of women was obvious—and made her wonder what he wanted with her. Aiden might not have been so practiced, but there had been a magical quality to those stolen moments. With Kisten she felt nothing but pure animal lust; how could she feel anything else, when she’d only just met the man and had none of the history with him that had proceeded her first shy kiss with Aiden?

  Garja coughed. “Ma’am, it’s time to go.”

  Aria glanced over, distracted. “Oh? Right.” After one last glance in the mirror, she went to meet her fate.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Heart beating, Aria stepped into the antechamber adjoining the main shuttle bay, a diminutive but tastefully appointed space meant to house restive dignitaries as they came aboard and departed. Blue velvet couches and throw pillows made from rug remnants imparted a classic feel that almost compensated for the steel hex bolts in the floor. A pitcher of water had been left on a tray on the coffee table, along with several glasses. There were chocolates, too. Aria found herself focusing on this incongruous-seeming element as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

  She was about to follow a strange man into a warzone, but there was chocolate.

  Her eyes traced the lines of the pitcher, the pearling beads of condensation.

  A figure stood at the single window, its—his—back to her. He could have been a statue, he was so perfectly still. She hung back, afraid to approach. His head was almost obscured by a high, curving collar. His coat spread out in an enormous fan around his feet, the beaded embroidery shimmering like a cascade of emeralds across the night sky. The pattern was organic yet somehow also geometric, myriad whorls and swirls in a tiny, tight pattern. She could see nothing of the man himself, only that he was tall and broad-shouldered.

  He turned. His hawk-like gaze ravaged her and she took an involuntary step back as he approached, gliding across the floor like he was floating rather than walking. The only thing she could think was, oh, my God, it’s a demon. He stopped, his eyes searching hers. They were like black pits. She stared back, transfixed. It was Kisten. This specter in front of her was Kisten.

  “You look…different,” she managed.

  “I’m still the same man,” he told her, sounding almost—what? Sad? No, she told herself, of course not. Why should he be sad? He had everything he wanted; he had his own planet.

  She studied his face, his clothes, his jewelry in more detail. All the finery should have detracted from him, but didn’t. “You look like a prince,” she said shyly.

  “Is that a good thing?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded. “Truth in advertising, and all that.” She smiled, and he smiled back. It was an oddly intimate moment.

  He reached out and fingered the thin cotton gauze framing her face. “The veil of a married woman,” he mused. She blushed. “I realize,” he said after a moment, “that we are not yet technically married. But colonial life verges on the incestuous, and news spreads quickly. It would be better, I think, for you to arrive as my consort.” She nodded in understanding. “The contract has been prepared.” He smiled slightly. “I like that lipstick.”

  Aria had never worn lipstick before, and thought it was ridiculous. But Garja, her self-appointed fashion advisor, had insisted and Aria had been too apathetic to resist. It was so much easier to just submit—to everything.

  Aros appeared in the door. He, too, had resigned his commission and accepted a position in the civil service. There was some story there, Aria knew, some reason that Aros felt indebted to his former commander—enough to forsake a promising career and follow him into exile.

  “My Lord Governor,” he said, switching to the new title without skipping a bea
t, “we await your pleasure.” Which was a polite way of pointing out that the entire ship was waiting for them.

  “Thank you, Mister Askara-Brahma.”

  Kisten offered Aria his arm. She slid her hand through the crook of his elbow but didn’t move for several minutes. Instead, she found herself studying her surroundings. She was, she realized, wishing Atropos goodbye. Her memories of the ship were both bitter and sweet. Here, she’d been cared for when she might have died. The cut on her arm was still healing, the tissues itching abominably as they continued to knit. She’d reunited with the girls, met Kisten and chosen a new path. Whatever happened after this point, there would be no going back.

  Atropos, in a way, represented the last of her freedom—or at least the illusion of freedom. She was going to Tarsonis as this man’s wife—consort, she corrected herself—and she’d be living among people who accepted his word as law. She’d never have a chance to escape him, as Bronte women were chattel. She took a deep breath and steadied herself; the moment she stepped over the threshold and out into the shuttle bay, her fate would be sealed.

  Kisten placed his hand over hers, the stone in his ring winking in the low light. “Are you ready?”

  She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t, that she was scared, that she didn’t want to leave Atropos and didn’t know how to face the world outside, but instead she nodded. “I think so,” she said. She was trusting him.

  The shuttle was large and consisted of several separate seating areas apart from the service areas: cockpit, small galley, bathroom. After seeing Aria into one of them, a luxurious space that more resembled a miniature parlor than a cabin, Kisten disappeared. Aria glanced around her, feeling awkward. Her cabin mates were positively incandescent with excitement and curiosity, their expressions eager as they competed with each other to ask her questions.

  It was going to be a long flight. Aria had to keep reminding herself that, to them, this was all wonderful. She looked around the cabin, studying each of the girls’ faces in turn and thinking about who wasn’t there. Hannah, of course, had stayed behind with her new husband. She’d be moving to military housing soon, in whichever cantonment Dan was assigned. All of the colonial regiments, on land and in space, were organized out of local garrisons. The Nemesis, Aria believed, was still stationed out of Charon II as a peace-keeping force.

  Charon II, where Kisten had apparently made war against his own grandmother’s people. Her parents had died there, fighting with the mutineers. Among a people whose average life expectancy was at least 150 years and who had children young, knowing one’s great-grandparents was common. Udit couldn’t have been more than seventy or so when the war broke out, which would have made her barely middle-aged. One of her sisters had survived; the other, who’d married to a military attaché from Caiphos, had died along with her husband and children in a rebel-led attack.

  Autumn and Isabelle had stayed aboard the Atropos and would be returning with it to Brontes and a life at court. According to Naomi, Autumn had locked herself away in some conference with Kisten that lasted hours. No one knew what they’d talked about, only that Autumn had “had questions.” Only she knew whether they’d been answered to her satisfaction.

  Naomi, Grace, and Alice were accompanying them to the planet’s surface because they had nothing else to do and Naomi, at least, was excited for an adventure. Alice was nervous and Grace seemed bored. Of the three of them, only Naomi was forthcoming as to her plans. She’d be staying on, at least for the time being, as a guest of the residence. Aria processed this information, but couldn’t quite sum up the energy to find it upsetting. Of course Naomi didn’t need to marry Kisten in order to have a place to live. Naomi was excited for a brave new world, filled with handsome and eligible men.

  Since everyone around her was getting married, Naomi announced, she wanted to, too. Alice was going because Naomi was going, and seemed to have caught the romance bug as well. First Hannah’s marriage, and now Aria’s struck Alice in particular as unbearably romantic. Alice was in love with love, and with the happily ever after she’d convinced herself that it represented.

  Aria saw something of her old self in Alice, and was sad.

  Grace, alone of all the girls, had been extremely reticent about her plans. In fact, she refused to discuss them at all. If Aria hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own fears, she might have paid more attention and drawn the conclusions that would come to be, in retrospect, obvious.

  Someone brought them coffee and, nodding, turned and left.

  Their departure was a bizarre mockery of their arrival. Luxury had replaced privation but the same young, inexperienced girls had still placed their fate in the hands of a near stranger. They might not end up on an auction block, but what was to say that what awaited them would be better?

  “So tell us what happened!” Alice’s exclamation was more order than question. “How did he propose?” She sat back in her seat, coffee in hand and a satisfied expression on her face. “See,” she reproved Aria knowingly, “I told you that whirlwind romances can happen.”

  Aria was sure that they could, and did; she wouldn’t know. She shrugged.

  Grace looked up from her book. “You’re signing your life away,” she said.

  Naomi glared at her. “Nobody asked you!”

  Grace turned her flat, expressionless eyes on Aria. “The Bronte have a phrase: the best woman is one who when you look at her, you are pleased, when you order her, she obeys, and when you are absent from her, she guards herself and your property. Your other property, that should read.” Grace sniffed. “You won’t be able to leave the house without his permission, have visitors unless he agrees, or own anything he doesn’t want you to own. And if you disobey him,” she added, “he can beat you to his heart’s content. There’s no concept of spousal abuse, here.”

  “That’s not true!” Naomi cried, upset at Grace for piercing her romantic bubble. “Both spouses have an equal obligation to provide physical, emotional, and intellectual support to each other. The same document you’re quoting also says that a man who fails to treat his consort with kindness is cursed. The fact that a husband’s rights over his consort are greater than hers over him doesn’t change the fact that they’re equal before God. His rights over her are within their marriage only, and are justified by their greater responsibilities—to provide food, shelter, and so forth.”

  “You sound like a convert,” Grace said nastily.

  “You’re making it out like every man here is some sort of evil tyrant!” Naomi’s eyes flashed. “Miss Feminist, I’d like to remind you that people having equal rights also means people entering into arrangements where some have more responsibility and some have less. Not everyone can be the boss, but that doesn’t mean that the boss is beating his employees!”

  “So a wife is an employee.”

  “No! It’s an analogy. What I mean is—”

  “It’s a bad analogy.”

  Aria watched the girls bicker, bemused. They’d gone from quizzing her to talking about her like she wasn’t there. She wondered again at how stupid she’d been, how stupid they’d all been, and still were! What in heaven’s name had made them start out on this fool’s errand? They’d known nothing about the world outside the Union; Alliance had just been a name, and it had honestly never occurred to Aria that she might end up in its airspace.

  “Equal rights,” finished Naomi authoritatively, “can only be asserted on the basis of equal responsibility—which women don’t have. Technically, all a woman has to do is sit around and look pretty.”

  “Which is stupid!” exploded Grace. “Hannah claims—”

  Naomi turned to Aria. “Speaking of Hannah,” she said brightly, cutting Grace off and changing the subject, “she’s going to have an interesting life. Dan is only doing this because he wants to; eventually, he’ll inherit his father’s title and move back to Brontes. It seems that his father…”

  Aria sighed and sipped her coffee. The colonial world in general
seemed to be a ghetto for disaffected nobility.

  “And then Hannah,” Grace began morbidly, “will find out—”

  Naomi fixed her with a look. “You know perfectly well that Kisten came to meet with her, alone, to ask if this was what she wanted. He presented her with several other options, as I recall!” Naomi sounded indignant. Aria, for her part, didn’t know; this was all news to her. “If she hadn’t wanted to marry him, you toad, I think she would have said something!”

  “Yes, said something to his commanding officer—”

  Aria glanced at the clock and wondered how she could endure three more hours of this.

  FORTY

  “So what are you wearing tonight?” Naomi had moved and was now sitting next to her.

  Aria paled. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t considered the issue, as Garja seemed to be doing well enough picking things without her interference. She’d wear whatever she was presented with, as usual. None of the clothes, or styles, made any sense to her anyway.

  Naomi wrinkled her nose in an expression of mock-distaste. That Aria wasn’t in a state of complete and utter obsession over her every costume change struck her friend as inexplicable. Aria wondered if she’d actually be living in the same house, and hoped not. “There are,” she prattled on, “a great many decisions to be made: about jewelry, and hair, and….”

  The shuttlecraft hit the tarmac with a sickening lurch, and the pilot announced that they’d landed. Aria breathed a sigh of relief; not because they’d survived the always challenging and sometimes fatal process of atmospheric re-entry but because this torture would finally end. She’d had just about all she could stand of Naomi’s discourse on stockings.