“It seems like I should,” she replies.
“There is no should. I want you to be happy. I really, really want you to be happy.”
That much is true. I’ve never been searching for happiness, so much as purpose. And I can find purpose in this, something that I know Eve won’t be able to do. She’s never going to find purpose in suffering.
The truth is, I have no interest in marriage. I have no interest in romance. I don’t even really have an interest in sex. I know about it. I know how to satisfy myself if need be. But I don’t have strong fantasies of anyone or anything. It means that whatever the king wants, however he is, none of it matters to me.
Eve is like my mom. She loves the romance of it all. The excitement. She loves when she meets a new man. And she has taken great joy in falling in love with Marcus. I don’t think that it will last forever. Which isn’t low confidence in my sister; it’s just…her feelings are very intense. I don’t think that necessarily makes him the best man on earth just because she thinks he is.
But she’ll fall in love maybe ten times more, and enjoy it every single time. Being in the palace will stifle her. If it doesn’t kill her.
“He’s very old,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
I laugh. “I don’t care about that.”
“You’ll have to have children,” she says.
I’ve never thought about that. Because along with not caring about men and dating goes my general lack of thought toward having a family of my own.
“I’ll save that concern for later. None of his other wives have made it to the point where they could bear his children.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Eve says, sniffling.
“I won’t,” I say. “I promise you that. Whatever happens, I will survive.”
I rely on my mind to solve everything for me, and it is perhaps unrealistic of me to feel like my mind can save me here. Nothing suggests Lucian will be charmed by a brainy bride. But then…there is no real information and as far as I’m concerned, more information solves most things.
I also simply can’t imagine allowing a man to have me killed. Again, not victim blaming, and I realize this might be unrealistic. But if my brain can’t picture it, it’s not real to me.
My brain paints a picture of my survival.
“I should go pack.”
I stand up from the table, and I make my way up the stairs. I begin to pack briskly. I’ve thought about this before. What I would take with me if I were to leave. Because I’ve always planned on leaving.
There is a light knock on the door. “May I come in?”
I turn and see my mother standing there, her face lined with concern.
“Yes. Come in.”
“It would kill her,” she says softly.
I pause. “I know.”
“You are clever. Cleverer than your sister.” I feel guilty taking the compliment. I feel guilty agreeing.
“But you are cleverer than most people, Lilith. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t send either of my daughters to that monster, but—”
“The crown didn’t exactly make it optional,” I say.
“No,” she says.
“There is no use mourning over any of it,” I say. “Just like there’s no use being upset that we’ve always had to work so hard, that nothing has ever been easy. It simply is.”
I’m practical.
Above all else, I’m practical.
