You Are Mine (3 page)

“
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, wench. 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 tomorrow 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

T
homas'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.