“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It will never happen.”
Ghosts are laid to rest when injustices are righted, when their duties are fulfilled. But my mother’s duty is to make me happy as long as I live. So there is no rest for her, and no escape for me. I will be happy and happy until it kills me.
“Pretend it does matter,” says Lord Anax. “Pretend that tomorrow you were set free and could do anything you liked. What would it be?”
I open my mouth to tell him he’s a fool, but then I remember he does not know I am a slave to my mother’s love. He imagines I have only living masters to fear. And it’s true, if I succeed in getting him to marry Koré, if all my stepfamily leaves the house, there will be nobody alive to rule me. I realize that while I have dared to dream of such freedom, I have not yet dared to imagine what could come after.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I would like a kitchen where I was mistress and I could decide what I cooked. And I would like . . .” As I speak the words, the desire unfurls like a crocus blossom. “I would like to have a great fluffy orange cat that would sit by the fireplace and purr.”
I’ve surprised him; I can see that in the tilt of his eyebrows. “Is that all?”
“It’s more than I have.”
“You’re not a timid girl,” he says. “You don’t lack imagination either. You walked into this palace and commanded me to marry your mistress. Why do you dare to dream so little for yourself?”
“Do you imagine everyone is so fortunate as you are?” I demand. “I’m already dreaming more than I ought, and far more than I’ll likely ever have a chance to get. And you, in what way are you better?”
I see his face stiffen; then he swallows and looks at his desk, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets, a careless posture that I know is a lie.
“You are heir to the Duke of Sardis—in ten or twenty years, you’ll be the most powerful man in Arcadia—but you can’t imagine anything better for yourself than choosing at random a wife you despise and pitying yourself to the end of your days because you broke your own heart.”
He lets out a breath, nostrils flaring. I should stop. But I’m drunk on truth, and though my body is shaking in anticipation of his anger, my mouth won’t stop.
“Why don’t you tell your father that you don’t want to marry?” I say. “He may want you to secure an heir, but he can’t force you—a firstborn son has rights—and if he does find a way to disown you, you’re not helpless. You’re a man, you’re wellborn, you’ve been to the university, and you have contacts in the Resurgandi; you can find a way to support yourself.” I think of the way Thea goes over the accounting books, late at night when Stepmother isn’t there to tell her it isn’t ladylike. “Why are you carrying on with this madcap plan? Why are you trying to marry anyone?”
He turns on me, and all pretense of lordly boredom is shattered by the raw, helpless fury in his face. “Because she asked me to.”
Even though I’d been expecting it, his anger rocks me back a step. “Who?”
“Lydia wrote me. Said she knew I despised her, but if I had any pity, I’d bestow my name on someone else so that her father would let her accept suitors and not doom her to spinsterhood.” His voice drops as he looks away, running a hand through his hair. “I’d taken everything else away from her. What else could I do?”
I stare at him. “But you said—that first day, you said you didn’t care—”
“Yes, yes, I said! I am the duke’s son and I often lie, my lady. Despite my exalted position, there are freedoms you have and I do not, and the truth, I regret to inform you, is one of them.”
My body stiffens, a thousand memories icing over my skin: smiling when Stepmother tells me I’m a stupid little girl, and afterward whispering, Mother, it’s so funny how she pretends not to love me. Koré saying I’m useless and slow and she can’t imagine why they feed me. Mother, I feel so sorry for Koré when she’s cross. Thea trying to make peace and only bringing down more punishment on my head because she’s too stupid and spoiled to think through the consequences of her words. Mother, Thea is so good to me.
“Do not,” I say quietly, “presume to tell me about withholding truth.”
Then I whirl and run from his study, run from the palace, before the cold ache in my chest can turn into real anger. But though I’m calm again by the time I reach home—though I smile to Mother and whisper, He’s so sweet, though I say to Koré, I think he’s weakening—his words are still lodged like splinters beneath my skin, and I hear them again every time I move. Lydia wrote me. Lydia wrote me.
What else could I do?
I go back the next day. I must, because Koré gives me a letter and I cannot let her be angry with me. But as I creep into the palace, I feel raw and helpless and naked, like a chicken trussed up for baking. A few of the maids nod at me as I pass, and one giggles—all the servants know about my visits now—and though yesterday I ignored them, today I flinch, as if they can know about yesterday’s fight just by looking.
I can’t believe I was foolish enough to goad him. If he’s set on marrying miserably, what of it, so long as he marries Koré? If he can’t forget this Lydia, what should that be to me?
Nothing. It should be nothing. I’m the girl who never gets angry and never wants anything, and that’s why my family is still alive.