by P. J. Fox
“There’s work I have to do, before tonight. I can’t afford to ignore it.” He smiled his crooked half smile. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the most romantic situation a woman could ask for.”
“It’s alright,” she found herself saying.
His expression grew serious, and the air around them grew charged. She studied her feet, flustered. Sliding a finger under her chin, he tilted it up until their eyes met. His touch was gentle but firm, the touch of a man who would not be denied. Obediently, she met his gaze. He dropped his hand.
“I don’t know what the custom among your people is,” he said slowly, “but ours is for the man to give his prospective bride a gift—so that even if she comes to him with nothing, she still begins her adult life with something of her own. Money, property, it depends on the means of the man; but it insures a measure of independence.”
“And after she marries him?”
“It’s hers, to do with as she likes.” He paused. “I’m going to transfer money into your name, but I want you to have something of mine before signing the contract.” He removed one of his rings, a heavy gold thing set with a red stone, from his little finger. Taking her hand in his, he slid it onto her forefinger. It was just a shade away from being too loose. “This has,” he said quietly, “if not great value, then great value to me. I won it in recognition for something that happened on Charon II.”
She stared at it, overwhelmed. “I’d…like to hear the story,” she said, wondering why as she did so.
“Then you shall.”
He kissed her once, briefly, and was gone.
FORTY-THREE
She was still standing on the porch, lost in thought, when Garja reappeared.
She’d had a ring, once, a beautiful two-carat solitaire. She’d sold it for passage to the outer rim. It had been both flawless and plain. The ring she wore now could never be mistaken for other than a man’s ring, and felt heavy on her finger. She stared out into the rain-soaked garden, smaller and simpler than the main garden but still lovely. A frog, or whatever those creatures were that resembled frogs, croaked loudly. Probably hoping to attract a mate, she thought wryly.
She knew it shouldn’t have, but Kisten’s comment about money rankled her. What was she, a child with an allowance? But even more upsetting was the inescapable feeling that this was all payment for services rendered: she gave him herself and in return he supported her.
The inequality of the arrangement wasn’t Kisten’s fault, of course, any more than it was his fault that her so-called wedding day was so unromantic. One man couldn’t be held responsible for an entire culture and they’d just moved to some kind of raptor-filled hellhole where even the fog wasn’t safe and he was taking an hour or two out of his busy schedule to get married. Tomorrow he’d be back at work and she’d be standing here and life would go on.
Everything about the idea of marrying Aiden had been romantic, she thought. And look how that worked out, a small voice whispered. Perhaps there was something to be said after all for treating a marriage like—like nothing more important than buying a new refrigerator.
“Ma’am?” Garja asked hesitantly.
“Aria,” Aria corrected her absentmindedly.
“Mistress Aria, you should rest for a few hours, while you can. You don’t want to be tired, later.”
Aria turned. She did want to be tired; she wanted to sleep through everything.
Still, if only to appease Garja, she agreed to lie down on the broad, low bed in her cheerful yellow bedroom. Unlike the bed in the other room, this had neither canopy nor frame. Breezes wafted in through the still-open door, only slightly broken by the screen, and danced across her skin. She sighed, enraptured by the simple pleasure of lying prone in such a luxurious space and feeling oddly content. The little maid sat down on the edge of the bed, anxious to know if she needed anything.
She did: she wanted to know why there were separate bedrooms.
“A woman needs her own space,” Garja told her, “separate from that of her husband. A place to do as she wishes, without interference.” She arched an eyebrow, expression bemused. “Do Solarians have no sense of privacy?” Aria supposed that they didn’t, at that, but chose not to voice the thought aloud. Instead, she stared up at the ceiling while Garja prattled on.
“Where a woman chooses to sleep, of course, is her own concern.” Garja winked.
After Garja had withdrawn, once again urging rest, Aria found herself still staring up at the ceiling. She traced the curves of the plaster design with her eyes, thinking that she should at least read a book. She had several on the tablet clutched in her hands, some of which were even bearable. Bronte literature had, so far, left a great deal to be desired. Most of it seemed to be nail-biters about duty and honor with lots of generals declaiming. She’d found some sculptor’s autobiography that, among other things, discussed the details of his tenure at boarding school. Which, Aria concluded, couldn’t possibly be true.
When Garja woke her, she hadn’t realized that she’d fallen asleep. She’d had no sense of time passing at all, and it took her a minute even to remember where she was. But she’d been asleep for several hours at least; what sun there was now crept in long fingers across the floor. Soon darkness would fall, and there would be no escape. Garja, of course, was cheerful—too cheerful to notice Aria’s apprehension.
“This is so exciting!” She leapt to her feet. “Now get into the bathtub.”
Barking like a drill sergeant, Garja herded her charge into the bathroom and, a few minutes later, into the almost-scalding water filling the large, sunken tub. No, Aria corrected herself, not tub; small swimming pool. She could have floated on its surface, if she hadn’t been so embarrassed of being naked. Which, of course, Garja noticed not at all. Evidently the concept of modesty existed only between the sexes; other women, as Garja pointed out while scrubbing her back—much against Aria’s protests—had seen it all before.
Aria was buffed, polished, plucked, and in every other way abused from head to toe for what felt like hours. No, days. It was awful. Garja nattered on, telling her every embarrassing, demoralizing or downright horrible wedding-related story she could think of. Aria learned about the bride who got lost, the groom who got lost, the bride who was supposed to elope with one man and ended up eloping with another, and the groom who walked in on his father with the bride. None of this made her feel any better about her own predicament.
“But wait,” she asked, as Garja dried her hair, “why was she alone at the temple in the first place?”
“Because she thought that that was where they were supposed to meet. When her lover failed to arrive, she thought he’d jilted her and she ended up talking to the man who’d come in to pray for his ailing mother. He turned out to be a much better catch, so everything worked out fine.”
“But what about the other man? He must have been heartbroken.”
Garja shrugged.
“How do you know about this, again?” Aria devoutly hoped that such a sad and improbable story wasn’t true.
“Because the jilted man was His Highness’ uncle. Karan the Fat, his slaves call him behind his back. The woman he ended up not marrying is married to Senator Julian Tavish, who is His Highness’ father’s best friend. Karan might or might not have gone to the wrong temple, but he was late in any account because he’d spent the morning eating opium at a whorehouse.”
And this man was set to inherit the throne? No wonder Kisten was concerned.
Garja ushered her mistress back into the bedroom and pulled off her towel. Aria issued a shocked bleat and Garja handed her the first of the undergarments that she’d laid out earlier. The pale green mesh was so sheer that it hardly even qualified as lingerie. “Like unwrapping a present!” Garja exclaimed happily, thrilled with her own good taste.
Aria paled.
“Now put this on,” Garja said, handing Aria a skirt. Cut from a lovely raw silk in dark pink, Aria recognized it as the underskirt that accompanied th
e unusual and highly impractical style of traditional Bronte dress. Personally, she much preferred things that zipped to things that wrapped; they felt safer. She’d worn several of these odd outfits now—had worn one earlier today—and she couldn’t help but worry that they’d fall off.
She’d had so many dresses, undergarments, and other articles of clothing over the last few weeks…where were they all coming from? How was it that a so-called bachelor had such unfettered access to women’s clothes? And obviously very expensive women’s clothes at that? She was about to marry this horrible, undoubtedly dishonest man; she had to know.
She told as much Garja, who paled. “It is…not important,” she fumbled, uncharacteristically taciturn.
“Yes,” Aria corrected. “It is.”
“Pink is an auspicious color for marriage.”
Aria glared at her.
“But red more so,” Garja whispered, wilting.
Aria waited.
“You will be upset.” She sighed dramatically, as if to say, you’re bringing this on yourself.
“Is it some mistress?” Aria demanded, utterly losing patience.
“What?” Garja wrung her hands. “No! Of course not!” She was on the verge of tears again, being a rather emotional person. “One of the original passengers, a cousin of Commissioner Tata’s, was planning to go husband-hunting on Tarsonis. She hadn’t, so I gather, had much luck on Brontes. But on Tarsonis, you see, there are very few women. Bronte women, that is. Not that,” mused Garja, losing her train of thought, “I’m sure that it would make a difference. And in any case I gather that Messalina was an unpleasant sort of person and—”
“Get back to the dresses!” snapped Aria, instantly feeling bad. It wasn’t the little maid’s fault that she was so stupid.
But Garja, far from minding, was actually cheered by Aria’s interest. In her mind, crisis had been averted. There was no cause to be jealous, as His Highness was in fact unencumbered. Aria was not jealous, and was irked by the suggestion that she might be, but she was also pleased to learn that—at least for the moment—her impending union bore some resemblance to what she considered a marriage. Until such time, of course, as Kisten tired of her and found something else to amuse himself.
“Messalina, sadly, died.” Garja did not sound sad at all; she appeared to find the idea amusing. “Since there was no one to…lay claim to her baggage, I took the liberty of claiming it on your behalf.”
“You stole it!” Aria was a bit scandalized, and more than a bit impressed. She hadn’t thought weepy, pathetic Garja had it in her.
“I captured it. We Bronte are warriors.” Garja grinned.
Aria put on the underskirt.
“Messalina packed a wedding dress on the off chance that the opportunity to wear it might arise.” Garja helped Aria into the matching undershirt, a slim-fitting thing with capped sleeves and a scooped neckline that seemed rather low. It was made from the same raw silk and, distressingly, failed to meet the waistband of the underskirt. Which, Garja assured her—and had been assuring her since she’d first worn one of the blasted things—was perfectly normal. Aria didn’t see how.
“I didn’t want to tell you that Messalina was dead, or that she had donated her trousseau, because…wearing a dead woman’s clothing is inauspicious for one’s wedding and also in general. However,” she hastened to add, “you and she were of a size and pink is a very auspicious color.” Submitting to Garja’s ministrations, Aria stared at herself in the full length mirror a few feet in front of her. Oh well, nothing else about this marriage was auspicious.
Garja patted Aria’s stomach affectionately. “It’s too bad your bellybutton isn’t pierced.”
“What?” Aria shrieked, mortified.
“Too late now.” Garja shrugged.
Oh, thank God, thought Aria.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” the maid mused.
“There will be no piercings—not tomorrow, not ever.”
Garja straightened up, after having adjusted Aria’s skirt and helped her into a pair of small heeled slippers. “Why?” she asked, plainly perplexed. “You are not a nun.”
To that, Aria had no answer. Pierced—places—were not normal. She might have to live here, but she refused to submit to these people’s obviously deranged standards of beauty.
Aria’s slippers were reasonably comfortable, and she was grateful for the late Messalina’s small feet. Made from the same silk, a deft hand had covered them in curling gold thread. Beaming, Garja produced the long piece of fabric that constituted the actual dress. It was, Aria had to admit, breathtaking: thin silk heavily embroidered in gold and trimmed at the edges with a thick band of dark, almost green turquoise in a heavier silk. She’d never seen such workmanship, and found herself reaching out to stroke it reverently.
Walking around Aria in a circle, Garja nipped and tucked and pressed until finally Aria stood alone before the mirror, staring disbelievingly at the stranger in front of her. The most traditional styles of dress left only one arm partially uncovered; the other was draped from the shoulder in a swath of fabric that left only her hand free. The weight of the embroidery pulled the thin silk into a series of perfect curves, giving her a grace she hadn’t known she possessed. The colors, too, were flattering—although she felt like she could barely see herself beneath the heavy eyeliner and shadow that Garja had applied.
Her hair had been parted in the middle and swept back into a braided halo that did Garja credit as a stylist. Covering the part was a thin gold chain and on the end of that chain hung a small pendant of pearls and blood-red jewels set in gold that rested on her forehead. Although the wearing of such a piece had no religious significance, it had been a part of Bronte culture for thousands of years and was a sign of the woman’s devotion to her husband and to God.
Who seemed, to Aria, to be one and the same. She tried to banish the thought, and concentrate on pleasanter matters. She’d couldn’t turn back now, so there was no more point in worrying. And then, “the girls!” she gasped, mostly to herself.
Garja looked up, from where she’d been fastening a piece of jewelry into Aria’s hair.
“Where are they?” Aria was horrified to realize that she’d been too preoccupied with her own concerns to even wonder what had become of them. She literally hadn’t thought of them in hours! They’d taken a separate car, she knew that, but—
“Naomi and Alice are staying with the chief commissioner and his family for the moment.”
“And Grace?”
“Grace also, I’m sure.” Garja fastened a necklace around Aria’s neck with deft fingers. “You can see them tomorrow. His Highness does not wish their presence tonight.” She slid an earring through first one ear, and then the other. “At least your ears are pierced. Now,” she chided, “you have other things to think about besides the girls. The girls are well, and can look after themselves. You, however, have a husband to look after.”
“Yes,” agreed a voice, “she does.”
Aria turned and there was Kisten.
FORTY-FOUR
Garja bowed. “I have not yet placed her veil, Your Highness.”
“I’ll do it,” he told her. “You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Garja bowed again and withdrew.
Aria felt her heart skip a beat. The air had gone from cool to stifling in the space of seconds.
He’d exchanged his earlier robes for a long coat of pale silk, somewhere between gold and taupe. It flared slightly at the bottom, hitting him mid-calf. He was wearing trousers of a darker silk, or perhaps wool; she wasn’t sure. Only the toes of his shoes pointed out from beneath the cuffed hems, but they were clearly a work of art unto themselves. The coat itself had been lavishly embroidered across the shoulders and collar, and at cuffs that extended just below the wrist: subdued gold and taupe and peach. On another man it might have looked feminine; on Kisten, it only drew attention to how very unfeminine he was.
Crossed from left shoulder to right hip was a c
rimson sash. A diamond pendant of some sort hung from it, just above the breastbone. She knew enough to recognize a mark of office when she saw one, although she had no idea what specific order this one might symbolize.
He took a step forward, and then another. He grazed his fingertips down the side of her face. “I had never imagined that a woman could look so beautiful,” he told her, his tone almost reverent.
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely audible. “You look quite handsome, yourself,” she added, because he did. He looked dangerous, too, and beautiful, like a dark prince from a fairy tale. Watching him reach for the diaphanous pink mesh, she found it hard to breathe. He held it up and, carefully, brought it behind her head. It was trimmed with a thin band of the same dark turquoise, embroidered and this time beaded with pearls.
It fastened near the back of her head, covering the complicated mass of braids and leaving most of her hair, and its gold-covered part, free. Pulling the weighted edge over her shoulder, Kisten inclined his head. He paused, his lips almost grazing her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. She’d had no idea that the simple act of putting on a single piece of clothing could be so intimate. He straightened. “You smell of roses,” he observed.
That had been Garja’s idea. “I hope you like it,” she whispered, not knowing why she did.
“I do,” he told her. “You please me a great deal, and will continue to do so.” He offered her his arm. “Come,” he told her. She nodded slightly and took his arm, thinking as she did so that there had been a distinct note of approval in his voice—like she might have for a particularly well-trained pet. Another wave of panic washed over her, that she barely repressed. What was she doing? What was he doing?
She thought again about the poem he’d recited, softly, when he’d proposed, and the thought came unbidden that one line in particular was very apt: what are thy gods to me? In the span of a few short weeks, she’d turned her back on everything she’d ever been taught to believe. Oh, she’d vacated Solaris months ago, but she hadn’t left in any real sense of the term until recently. In the span of a few hours, she’d become a stranger to herself—and one who’d been, for a horrifying second, pleased that Kisten was pleased. She was joining a culture that was alien in every way from her own, and agreeing to a marriage that no one on Solaris would recognize as such. How much longer would it be before she no longer remembered her former self?
