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“Your mother came to see me.”
“I know.”
“She told me something strange I wanted to confirm,” I say, one hand on my doorknob.
“Confirm?” he asks. “She wasn’t clear?”
I falter. It’s true. But why would I think it wasn’t?
“But… Carlton won’t agree to it. And you can’t force me. The Society won’t allow it. The Rite protects me.”
“Hm. Well, Carlton will agree. He’ll give us his blessing, I’m sure. If you don’t mind, I’m tired.” He steps past me.
“Do I get a say?” I ask, turning to watch him move toward his room.
He stops. Pivots back to me. And I feel small and so completely out of my element. Out of my league. I think of Julia. How she approached him, so confident. And I just feel like a little girl as I stand in my T-shirt with all its holes, a pair of jeans, barefoot as he stands there looking perfect in his suit minus the jacket. Looking elegant and in control. Because he is in control. Of everything.
As if reading my mind he steps even closer and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
“You weren’t complaining at the chapel.”
I blink away, embarrassed. But it’s what he wants. My shame. More ways to humiliate me.
“I don’t want to marry you,” I tell him outright.
“You prefer Joseph Manson?”
“No. I don’t want to marry anyone. I just want to go to my violin lessons and maybe school and I don’t know, just live a normal life. And not be someone’s pawn. Yours or my brother’s.” I feel my eyes fill up and I hate myself a little for my weakness.
“You’re a Bishop, Isabelle. And you are a pawn. Mine. You were your brother’s before and now you’re mine. If you had any delusion about that, about being free before I came into your life, let me dispel it here and now. Carlton Bishop has no brotherly love for you. He never did.”
“I don’t—”
“As for school, we’ll see. I’m not opposed.”
I stop at that, bite my lip. “You’re not?”
“I’m a modern man. If you want to go to school, by all means.”
“What about my lessons?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Violin. I study with a small group one night a week.”
“We’ll see.”
I’m surprised and confused and then irritated all over again. Why does he have to give me permission to do something as normal as going to school or taking violin lessons.
“I already missed some lessons. I need to call Paul and—”
“Who’s Paul?”
“Paul Hayes. My teacher.”
“Hm.”
“Maybe I can go next week. Maybe—”
