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“Watch your tongue. I’ve put up with enough of your disrespect,” my father snarled and grabbed my wrist, sending my cigarette case flying. I was stunned—never had my father gone so far as to touch me.
But his grip was terrifyingly strong.
He raised his other hand to slap me. I stared it down.
“Go ahead. Do it. Hit me. It’s the sort of marriage you’re sending me to anyway, isn’t it?” My voice was thick and hoarse with emotion. The low light from the oil lamp rocking and squeaking on its hanging rod blurred with my tears. “Shouldn’t I get used to it?”
He released my hand with a glare. Behind his anger and cowardice then, I saw a glimmer of what was driving all this.
Fear and shame. And terror at what would happen to him if I somehow escaped this situation. They’d string him up in double-quick time, I had no doubt about it. Make an example of him to show the world what happened to men who failed to square their debts with the Greengallows.
My father got control of himself, at least a little, and said, “Endear yourself to all of them, Valeria. You are a woman after all, and God has given you womanly gifts. Show the father, Francis, the utmost reverence and respect. Get in the brother’s good graces. They call him Vasile. The prodigal son. He’s got his father’s ear, and his own sort of power, they say. If you ever need protecting from your husband, Vasile may be the one to save you. Walk softly, daughter, but ally yourself properly.”
CHAPTER 2
Vasile
“You need to find yourself a good woman. Settle down, have a family. Even your brother—”
“Mom,” I chided softly, chuckling a little as I took her hand. She was weak, but not too weak to needle me about marriage and producing grandchildren for her to dote on. “You know Petre is only marrying this girl for the status she’ll bring, don’t you?”
She grinned ruefully. “I know. I also know she’s a student at my old school. He’ll have his work cut out for him with that one, you mark my words.”
“Have you met her?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not yet. But I don’t need to. Saint Theodora’s produces young women of exception. She may never graduate, now that she’s marrying…” A dismissive wave of her hand. “Folly, if you ask me. A young woman should be educated, especially in a family like this. Sometimes we’re the only thing standing between our menfolk and utter failure. But that’s no matter. She will already be more than your brother can handle. In fact, perhaps you should rescue him from such a marriage. You know, a Saint Theodora’s girl might even prove a match for you, Vasile. You might even enjoy the challenge.”
She laughed, but it turned to choking and I passed her the glass of water. I knew I was supposed to be elsewhere in the house. The dinner was planned, I was supposed to meet this girl, Valeria, and congratulate and prostrate myself like some sort of asshole for my scumbag brother. Well, fuck that. My mother was far more important.
Although, from what she said, it might actually be amusing to see what he was up against.
I didn’t know much about the Valentines, apart from their royal titles, which was, I suspected, all my brother and father saw in this match. The one thing money couldn’t buy, apparently, though they seemed to have managed it.
I didn’t blame my father, and I knew he’d treat this young princess well enough.
But Petre was a different matter.
“I have no interest in stealing Petre’s bride from him, mother,” I said. “A step too far, even for me. I just feel sorry for the girl.”
“So do I.” She patted my hand. “But, you know, all that matters is that she’s married to a Greengallow. It’s really unimportant which one…”
I shook my head, laughing again. “I’m sorry, it’s just not going to happen. Let Petre have this win, if you can call it that. I’m far too busy with business interests to bother with women and marriage.”
“Hmm,” she said, noncommittally. “I’ll drop it. For now.”
I decided to change the subject. “What are your plans for the greenhouse vegetable garden this year?”
My mother’s sheltered vegetable garden was her pride and joy, a way of giving back to the community and a tradition going back generations to when growing our own food wasn’t just a hobby but a necessity. Nowadays, of course, deliveries were rarely delayed by so long that our stores began to look empty, and we had the coin to purchase more if it became desperate, so most of the produce from the garden went to local charities and less fortunate families. But a well-tended vegetable garden was still an expectation of the upper classes.
