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From inside my purse, I fished my silver cigarette case, which was engraved with my mother’s insignia. She had given it to me as a gift on my eighteenth birthday, just a week ago. I took a clove cigarette from the case and struck a match.
The scent instantly calmed me. It reminded me of much better, happier days. Of making clove-studded oranges with my mom or poking them into a ham at Christmas.
“Filthy habit,” my father said. “I should never have let your mother encourage it. Women of her country have no sense of propriety, making themselves so obvious with those things. And the expense of them, when we have barely enough as it is!”
I took a long draw and exhaled luxuriously in my father’s face. “Look who’s talking.”
He huffed at my disrespect, but let my sullied comment pass, knowing my foul mood was a direct result of his actions.
The carriage slowed to a stop and then rocked slightly as our driver climbed down. Crunching footsteps in the snow were followed by the squeak of a gate being moved aside, and then the carriage rolled forward slowly again. I peered out the window into the gray light.
On my side of the carriage, mere inches from the window, was an ivy-covered raw rock wall. On the other side, much further away, sprawled the Greengallow Estate. It sat on a stone outcrop with a sheer drop on my father’s side of the carriage.
Smugly, I watched him stiffen and lean away from the window.
What a coward.
He wasn’t afraid of losing every penny he had; he wasn’t afraid of risking the life of his own daughter to pay his debts, oh no. The only thing he was really and truly afraid of was heights. Positively petrified of them.
If poker were a rooftop game, my life would’ve turned out very differently.
I turned my attention more fully to the estate. The house was lit up brilliantly from inside, every window gleaming. That, at least, was a welcome difference from our home, where we burned rush lights instead of real candles, and skittered down unheated hallways into the few rooms where we could afford to light fires to ward off the bone chilling Praquean winters.
The valley below the cliff was so immense that some of it was still in partial late afternoon light. Whipping from each corner of the imposing main house were flags with the Greengallow family crest, a sickle beneath the heavens, three stars within its curved blade representing the three sheaths of corn allegedly gifted to the first Greengallow by the king himself, many centuries ago.
I stubbed out my cigarette on the inside of my cigarette case and tucked it back in its place, to save it for later. The carriage driver assumed his place again and we started to descend further along the long drive toward the imposing manor. The closer we got to the house, the tighter the strap around my chest snugged until each breath was a struggle.
“Father,” I started, my voice softer in an attempt to put aside our differences for the moment. “Do you think he’s as bad as they say?”
My father turned to face me. We had both heard the rumors. Like all the Greengallows, Petre was deeply entangled in the Praquean Mafia. One of its leaders, just like his father. But there were darker rumors too—that Petre was petty, cruel, and quick to violence.
Especially with women.
My father patted the back of my hand. “If you watch your tongue and show him respect,” my father said, “I’m sure you’ll be just fine. I’m sorry, my child. Marriage is not about love as you read in your books. It is about connections. Creating allies and fulfilling larger causes.”
I huffed, swallowing hard, and ran my thumb over the engraving on my cigarette case. I didn’t need to say it, he already knew what I was thinking. Why was it that he was allowed to marry for love, against his family’s wishes, but the same wasn’t true for me? Perhaps women weren’t supposed to have such thoughts, but I did. Though I’d had few luxuries growing up, my time at boarding school had made me strong and confident. I was an experienced fencer and an accurate archer. They even taught us to fight alongside the more traditional studies of embroidery, literature and poetry.
The unique teachings of Saint Theodora’s made me understand my own power, and I could spot the weaknesses of my opponent. And yet, I’d never planned on having to defend myself from own husband.
The word husband made me nauseous.
“I hate you for this,” I growled, the setting aside of our differences short lived. “I never minded being a paper princess. But if you had listened to mother, to me, and stayed away from the gambling dens,” I said, staring at the quickly approaching estate, “none of this would have happened. None of this would be my future. None of this…”
