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“You are truly blessed, my dear, but you must grow up. And you must make a choice. Either you will accept him, or you will stand firm and reject him, knowing it will hurt him, but it is your future that matters.” She kissed the side of my head. “Think wisely on what it is you want—who it is you want.”
When she turned to leave, I sat back down and rested my forehead upon the top of the piano.
“Has she gone?”
I turned to see Abena’s curly hair poking out from the side of the chair.
“How long have you been there?”
She brought her hand away from around her mouth, covered with a mess of sweets. “The whole time!”
“Abena!” I gasped as she rose and skipped toward me. “I thought you went to do the pots?”
She made a face. “I hate the pots.”
“Is that not the point of punishment?”
“Why am I always the one being punished?” She sighed, and I moved, allowing her to sit beside me. “All I do is talk.”
“Ladies are not to talk much or often or truthfully. So I am told,” I replied.
“Then why do we have mouths?”
“Well, in your case, it seems it’s for sweets.” I laughed and used my handkerchief to clean her face.
“If it was just for sweets, I would be…mute?” She tilted her head to the side. “Those are people who cannot speak, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Right, so if my mouth was just for sweets, I would be mute.”
“Very good argument, and I concur. But as we are mere ladies, nobody will listen to our arguments, even if they are logical, because they think us illogical beings.” For wanting everything men had. How nonsensical.
“I do not understand.” She shook her head.
“Neither do I,” I replied, placing my hands upon the keys.
“So what are you to do?”
“About?” I questioned as I played.
“Mr. Yves. You dislike him.”
“I do not. I just do not wish to marry him.”
“Is that not because you dislike him?” she pressed.
“Well, Abena, it is complicated.”
“Why?”
“Because it is.”
“I do not understand.” She frowned again. “If you do not like someone, do not marry them. If you like them, marry them.” She lifted her hands in front of herself like scales. “You do not like Tristian, so do not marry him. You like Evander. Marry him.”
My head whipped to her. “Who said I like Evander?”
“You?”
