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I read about sultans and long horse races across the desert. Mysterious ways that ancient tribes used the stars to know where they were, where they were going. How they used the position of the sun, moon and stars to tell what time of the day or night it was.
Oh, the dreams I’d had here. The nights of laying in my bed, planning and making up stories of how it would be to discover how to map distances and locations by the heavens alone. So many secrets held in the night sky and the bright sun of the day.
I’d thought maybe I’d live on our southern border where the sun was warm most of the year and there was an ocean that my mother said was the same color as my eyes. I’d teach fencing, my favorite class of all, and win tournaments where almost every other competitor was male.
And how I’d always wanted a family. A husband taken as a partner instead of a trade.
Love.
How I’d dreamed of love. Because, I believed it too was written in the stars.
Yes, I was angry with my father, with this situation, with those horrible Greengallows, and most of all with myself.
Especially with myself. Maybe if I had stood up for myself when I had the chance; had I said no before any of this had gone so far, then perhaps, just maybe, I wouldn’t be facing a marriage to such a monster.
Inhaling hard, I flung open the window in the corner, letting in the frigid night air. The sharp coldness made my eyes water but I looked up into the night sky. The moonlight showing the white clouds as they drifted over my much loved stars.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Cold enough, I closed the window and turned, continuing my pacing, then paused halfway across the rug, unclasping and releasing the ribbons on the front of my dress. I slipped my shoulders and arms free, and let it fall in a sad, silky pile.
I gave it an ungrateful kick, which only made me angrier at myself. Anger was understandable, but the idea of being spoiled and petulant on top of it was not okay.
With teeth clenched, I carefully gathered up my dress and hung it on its old satin hanger in my wardrobe, took off my petticoats and underclothes, then slipped on a nightdress, not bothering with anything underneath. And kept on pacing.
What I needed, I knew, was a plan. Marrying that insufferable, dangerous man was not an option. Not at all. But how in the world was I going to get myself and my family out of this mess?
The door opened, and in walked my roommate, Natasha. I watched her cross the room to her bed, expecting her to say something to me, but she didn’t. It didn’t even seem as if she’d noticed me.
“Natasha?”
She startled, her breathing quick as she turned, her hand going to her throat. Her eyes were watery, though whether with tears or some sickness I couldn’t tell. It was hardly surprising if she was suffering. It had been less than three months since her parents had both died of an illness that had mercifully passed her by. She came from a wealthy family, and she wanted for nothing, but she had loved her parents dearly, especially her mother. She hadn’t been the same, and while I had tried to comfort her as much as I could, she had grown a little more distant, particularly of late. “Valeria, I wasn’t...”
“It’s alright. Is something the matter?”
“What?” She glanced down at the floor before continuing. “No. Of course not. Nothing is the matter. I wasn’t expecting you to be here, that’s all. Your wedding is the day after tomorrow. Why wasn’t the door locked?”
I snorted a humorless laugh on a shrug. “I forgot. And you surely needn’t remind me of my pending nuptials. The horror of it all.”
“You don’t want to be married?” She looked up, her hand going to her wrist, rubbing at it. She seemed distracted, like she’d rather be somewhere else. “You mustn’t run away, Valeria. Promise me you won’t run away.”
She’d grown so thin over the months since the tragedy. Her skin pale, nearly gray, with dark circles under her green eyes. But, whenever I tried to talk to her about what had happened, it only upset her more, so I’d taken to leaving things be, hoping she would return to her old self in time.
I huffed, shaking my head. “Where would I run to?”
“You mustn’t. Petre Greengallow. He... I mean, he would...” She opened her palms, as if expecting me to know what she meant. And the worst of it was, I did know exactly what she meant.
“I know,” I said, letting out a deep sigh. “He’s not a good man. He’d hurt my family. Probably kill my father. He said as much just this evening.”
