by Elise Kova
“We’ve spoken about this many times.”
“I don’t think we have.” We never have. I know it. And yet, my certainty is shattered with her heavy sigh.
“You are clearly misremembering again. Don’t worry, I am here to help you.” Joyce gives me that serpentine smile and settles her hands on my shoulders. I believed this lie of hers once. “So you’re going to be good for me and not resort to one of your dramatic outbursts, yes?”
Oversensitive. Dramatic. She treats me like I am constantly on the verge of flying off the handle. As if I have ever done anything of the sort.
At least, I don’t think I have…
“I’ll be good,” I hear myself saying. There’s an instinct to the response. It’s not me. It’s what she’s trained me to be.
“Excellent.”
We go our separate ways, and I retreat to my room.
The second floor of the manor contains what are traditionally the family quarters. I lived there, once. But when my father began traveling more and more, suddenly Helen needed a whole room for her art studio, and my bedroom had the best light.
Here is where you live now, Joyce’s voice echoes back to me as I stand at the threshold of the dark hall that leads to my room. I light a nib of candle—one I took when replacing those in my sisters’ rooms. It illuminates the cracking plaster of the halls. The crumbling stone that tells the truth of this manor.
It’s too much. There’s not enough money to keep it in repair, not really. I do my best for the memory of my mother…and so that if Father ever returns he has a home to come back to. But all Joyce cares about are the common areas and her rooms. There’s money enough for those. For the facade. Everything else, I think she would let burn.
My bed takes up the entire back of the room at the end of the hall, filling the space with wall-to-wall blankets and pillows. My old bookshelf, also far too large for this room, is mostly empty and the sparse objects that fill the shelves are practical ones only. My prized possession is the lute leaning against it. I go to pick it up and immediately think better of it. Someone is certain to hear me if I try to play now. I think Helen has trained hearing, like dogs, for the sound of my strumming. She protests whenever she is “forced to endure” a single note.
Once in a while, though, Laura will listen. I will miss the nights she finds the bravery to sneak down here and hum along to my playing. The only one who has heard my music in years.
Sighing, I turn to the wardrobe, surprised to find a new dress within. Well, it’s not technically a “new” dress. I recognize it as Helen’s from the springtime ball two years ago. It was only worn once, so the satin is still in pristine condition. I run my hands over the buttery smoothness, so different from the regular clothes I wear. The high neckline hides the scars on my back. No doubt intentional.
I dare to use the upstairs bathroom. It’s a small form of protest. But it feels better than the hot water stinging my skin. Most days I am the one heating and gathering the water for everyone else’s bath. At the end of it all I don’t have the energy to haul up my own. When I’m finished washing, I even dare to look through Helen’s cosmetics, selecting a soft rouge for my cheeks that accents the stormy gray of my eyes and a deep red for my lips that brings out the darker rusty notes of my brown hair.
I emerge a new woman. My hair has been brushed and carefully pinned in a cascade of curls that even Joyce would be proud of. I wonder if I would have looked like this every day had my father never married that woman.
Joyce was a widow before she married my father. It was a smart match on the outside: they both had young daughters in Helen and I, and were of a similar economic background—she had inherited a good deal of wealth from her previous husband in the form of rare silver mines to the north. The same mines that only my father’s ships could reach.
I caught on to her game early. But my father never saw it. Not even up until the very end, when he last left. He loved her. She had been the one to “save him” from the depths of despair following my mother’s death. Then Laura came along, the light in both of their eyes, and the “glue,” as they would say, to our dysfunctional little family.
Treading lightly across the squeakier portions of the floors, I sneak into my old room. It overlooks the front of the manor and gives me a view of the drive that connects us to the main road we take to town. Sure enough, there are three carriages parked along the front. I see a man in a top hat emerge from the main entrance of the manor. He exchanges a few words with his driver and speeds off.
I wonder how he feels about marrying a woman he’s never even met. Clearly he’s fine enough to come here and make an offer.
Then again, maybe we have met. Maybe the man I will marry is someone I’ve crossed paths with in town or at a ball. I shudder thinking of the lecherous Earl Gravestone and how he would look at me and my sisters in our dresses during our first seasons out among society. I pray that he does not come calling for me, or them when their time comes. There are some evils I can’t even wish on Helen.
I creep out of my sister’s art room before I can be found. Instead of taking the main stairs I take a side stair wedged between the primary bedroom and the wall. It’s a servant’s access that takes me back down to the kitchens. From there, I sneak through the house using other such hidden halls. One thing that my mother and sister never realized was that by making me their servant, and demanding I act the part, they also allowed me to learn all of the passages built long ago into this decaying home.
The wall of the sitting room adjacent to my father’s study glides open on hidden, silent hinges. I creep across the room, footsteps muffled by the carpet. At the far end, I press my ear against the wall and hold my breath. It’s thin enough that I can hear the conversations happening in the other room perfectly clearly.
“…and her dowry will be the north runner ships in the Applegate Trading Company,” Joyce says.
I bite my lip. There are no north runner ships, not anymore. Those waters are treacherous, and my father had one of the few captains in the world that could sail them. She was an incredible woman; I met her only once but was utterly enthralled for every second of our brief discussion. She was only a year older than me and had been captaining ships for two years already. Perhaps it was reckless youth that enabled her to chart a course that not even the hardest, most salt-crusted sailors would dare to try across those choppy waters to access a rare vein of silver.
But even her luck had run out, as all of ours does sooner or later. She went down with her ship, my father, too. I didn’t realize that Joyce had kept my father’s disappearance quiet. She’s trying to fully control the Applegate Trading Company, I realize. My nails dig into the wall. With my father disappeared—but not declared dead—she can assume control without question.
“That’s a very interesting proposition,” an old and weathered voice says.
I hope it’s not too interesting to whoever this man is. Because if he marries me for ships, and then finds out there are none, I am the one who will suffer. I have no doubt that Joyce will concoct a clever lie if she needs to, saying the ships went down just after the wedding. Calm down, poor fortune happens to everyone, I can imagine her saying.
“Indeed,” Joyce says. “So as you can see, this isn’t what one would think of as a normal marriage. I recognize that it is customary for the bride to bring her dowry. But I’m a shrewd businesswoman, and I know the value of my daughter and what I’m offering. As such, I am asking all potential suitors to let me know what they would give me in return for the benefit of her hand.”
There is a long pause. “My master has no interest in ships,” that weathered, weary voice says. “You can keep them.”
Master? Does that mean the man speaking is not my would-be husband? What type of man would send a servant to negotiate for me? I did not want love, but I had dared to hope for dignity. But if the man can’t even be bothered to come now, then how will he treat me once I am in his care?
“Then what is it
that your master would like as a dowry?” Joyce seems absolutely flummoxed that someone would refuse the ships. Though I can hear the delight at this making her voice tremble.
“My master is a collector of a certain variety of rare goods. It is come to his attention that you are in possession of a particular tome he has long sought.”
“A book?” A pause. “Oh, you serve him.” Joyce’s voice sharpens. “I know Covolt always refused to sell it, but you will find me a much more amenable businesswoman.”
The book… They couldn’t possibly be talking about that book, could they?
When Joyce entered into our lives she decreed that all remnants of my birth mother be expunged from the halls. I had tried to object, but my father told me it was a natural thing for a new wife to do. That new love couldn’t blossom in the shade of old. One night I went to him, utterly inconsolable. I begged him to save something, anything, just one thing. I had already lost the memories of my mother’s face by then. I didn’t want to lose more.
It was then that he showed me the book. It was a small, old thing. Whatever lettering had once been stamped onto its leather had been mostly worn away with time. The only marking that was still discernible was an eight-pointed star at the top of a mountain imprinted on the spine. The writing inside had faded, leaving only illegible ghosts to haunt mostly blank pages.
My father swore to me that it was the one thing my mother had treasured most. The one thing she wanted me to have and keep safe—my birthright. And when I was a woman, he would give it to me. But in the meantime, he swore me to secrecy on the importance of the title. I’m sure to keep Joyce from destroying it like she did everything else of my mother’s.
When I was worried most that Joyce would discover the book, I had told Father I did not want to wait. Let me hide it, I’d begged. But he said I wasn’t ready. So he gave me the lute to ensure I had something of Mother’s, claiming it was the one she’d used to sing my lullabies.
“My master had hoped that would be the case,” the old man says. “He has empowered me to make the following offer: he will take the young woman’s hand in marriage and look after her for the rest of her, or his, days on this mortal plane—whichever ends first. She will never be left wanting. He asks only for the book as a dowry. Furthermore, to show good faith toward your family, he will pay four thousand pieces when the marriage papers are signed.”
My fate is sealed. Four thousand pieces is more than this entire manor is worth. That is one year’s operations of my father’s trading company during the best of times. I slowly slide down the wall as I realize this mysterious man who could not even be bothered to come in person will be my husband.
“That is a very generous offer indeed.” Joyce’s voice quivers slightly. I can imagine she’s frothing at the mouth. “I shall draw the papers to immortalize this agreement, and cement the marriage. Shall we sign them tomorrow when your master can come?”
“There is no need to wait.”
“Oh?”
“As I said, my master has empowered me to make such decisions on his behalf. I am able to sign for him and he’s given me his seal. He said, should you agree to our terms, to conclude business immediately.”
“Very well then.”
Somewhere between the mutterings over the best wording for the agreement, and the shuffling of papers, I stop listening. I lean against the wall, hands shaking, fighting for air. The world spins sickly fast. I knew this would happen. I knew it. But now it’s real and happening so quickly… I thought… I thought I’d have more time…
“There, it is done,” Joyce declares as she no doubt finishes signing my name on my behalf.
“Good. Tell your daughter to collect her things as you collect the book.” More scraping of chairs. “We will leave within the hour.”
Just like that, I am married and am leaving the only home I’ve ever had…for a man whose name I don’t even know.
Chapter 2
“The mysterious Lord Fenwood.” Laura leans against the doorframe as I pack my meager things. News has traveled fast, expectedly, since there are only about five people at the manor at any given time. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular lord at any events.”
“I think he’s a recluse.” Helen is opposite her sister. She has hardly ever come to my room. Seeing her here is an unwelcome oddity. “I’ve only ever heard him mentioned. They say he lives up north of town, that his estate is right at the edge of the forest.”
“Oh, him!” Laura claps her hands. “I’ve heard townsfolk say he is an ancient wizard.” She spins to face me as if this prospect is the best news she’s heard in months. “If he teaches you magic, promise me you’ll show me?”
“He’s not going to teach me magic.” Still, the optimism of my youngest sister tries to tug a smile onto my face, at least until Helen does her level best at squelching any joy that might exist between us.
“She wouldn’t be taught magic. She would be consumed for it. I hear wizards exclusively drink the warm blood of freshly killed maidens and dance with horned fae in the moonlight.”
“If he drank only the blood of freshly killed maidens there would be no young women left in the village.” I roll my eyes and try to conceal the fact that I am actually somewhat alarmed that neither of my sisters know anything concrete about this man. They’re so embroiled in the social circles of the greater area that if they don’t know him then no one does. I had been hoping for some information on my new circumstances. “And no one dances with fae in the moonlight. If you get that close to a fae, you’d be dead.”
“Assuming fae are real at all.” Helen doesn’t believe the old stories. She’s too practical, she grew up farther inland and closer to her mother’s mines…farther away from the woods and their tales. She thinks Laura and I are ridiculous for our suspicions. Yet she’ll absolutely refuse to go into the woods herself. “It’s far more likely that he’s some horrible, wrinkly old hermit looking for a young woman to make his own.”
“I’m sure he’s wonderful,” Laura insists. “And we will come and visit you and your new husband within the month. I hear Mother is going to buy a new carriage, hire a driver, and get three new footmen for the manor—and that’s just the start! You’ll have to come back and see the spoils your marriage has bought.”
Laura means well, but she doesn’t realize the dagger her words are.
I’m no better than a prized hog. But at least I could be of some use to her.
“It will be nice to finally have some real help around here,” Helen says with a disapproving glance in my direction.
I did everything I could, and then some, for them. When Helen and Joyce first moved in, I tried to make them my family. I began doing things as they asked, when they asked, because I wanted to be a “good daughter.” By the time I realized they were turning me into their personal servant, it had gone on too long for there to be any hope of stopping it. Then Joyce began to encourage Father to spend more time on ships. And after the incident on the roof… I never even dreamed of contradicting them ever again.
“I’m sure you both will be very happy here for years to come,” I say.
“Until our own weddings,” Laura stresses. She just can’t wait to get married off to some charming lord. As the youngest and by far the most beautiful of us, she’ll have her pick of men.
“Katria, come along now, you don’t want to keep your new husband waiting.” Joyce appears behind her daughters, eying the trunk she gave me. “Oh, good. I thought it might all fit in that small trunk.” Joyce looks around the room with disdain. A small room, filled with a small amount of things, for a woman she tried to make small her entire life.
I vow then that I will never let this new husband or anyone else make me feel small. I will try with all my might to stand tall. I will never live cowering again.
“Let’s go.” I sling my lute onto my back and hoist my trunk.
We four trudge out to the wide veranda at the front of the manor. It’s there that I g
et my first look at the butler who negotiated for my fate. He’s tall despite having a bit of a hunch to his back, wiry, with beady black eyes and slicked-back gray hair. His clothes are fine, not overly adorned but clearly of good make. The kind of wealth that doesn’t scream at you but whispers with easy confidence. Joyce could learn a thing or two from him.
“You must be Lady Katria,” he says with a bow. He then looks to Joyce and motions to the chest at his side. “Here are the four thousand pieces, as promised.”
“As you already observed, this is Katria. And here is her dowry.” Joyce holds out a small parcel wrapped in silk. The butler unwraps it, checks its contents, and then reverently re-wraps the tome. My hands shake as I fight the urge to snatch it from his grasp.
“Excellent, all is in order. If you’ll follow me, Lady Katria.”
It strikes me as I’m halfway down the main stair between the veranda and drive that this might be the last time I walk this path. I don’t know if I will want to return to this house, or the people living in it. I look behind me, up at them, and behind farther still to catch a final glimpse of the beautiful, time-worn paintings on the ceiling of the entry.
Mother wasn’t meant to live here for very long, my father would say. Maybe, neither was I. Maybe I’m just fulfilling my destiny of leaving this place a bit too late.
I’m almost at the carriage when the clopping of hooves distracts me. Cordella leads Misty around the house from the side stables. She gives a wave.
“Miss, I figured you would not want to be leaving without this one.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Everything is happening so fast I wonder what else I’ve overlooked. Or what else I assumed would sort itself out.
“Cordella.” Joyce’s voice is like a whip, cracking through the cool air. “Take that beast back to the stables.”
“What? Misty is mine.”
“I’m sure your husband would delight in giving you a new horse, a better horse, as a wedding present. Don’t be a selfish girl and deny him that,” Joyce scolds.
