Mine to Tarnish (2 page)

She glances around as if trying to see who else I could be addressing but doesn’t speak. Of course she doesn't, I shouldn’t have either. I’m about to return to the group when the tarnished whispers, “It’s not your fault.”

I can’t help but watch in a stunned stupor as she hastens from the room. This is the first time in a long time a tarnished has replied to my inappropriate comments.

Servants, both lower class and tarnished, enter the room. I’m not hidden amongst the others, but displayed like a dress in the window of a store. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be called from the group regardless of where I am. My owner has summoned me for inspection.

Once a dozen servants are lined up on both sides of the doorway, a thin man enters, wrinkled and spotted with age. I wait for another to enter behind him, the man who is my owner, but no one else appears. Perhaps there was some mistake. My owner isn’t coming today. Someone else is inspecting me in his place. That must be it. My owner’s assistant has come to inspect me and report back.

The warlock stops partway in the room and suddenly flings a fiery orange spell. It whirls through the air until it hits a servant.

“
Stand up straight,” the old man barks.

The servant’s lips are pressed together so tightly they are almost as pale as his face, but he manages to pull his already straight shoulders back more. I don’t want to speak with a man so quick to discipline harshly. I will never survive. My only hope is that he is only here to do a quick inspection of me before reporting back to my owner.

The man doesn’t bother moving farther into the room before saying, “Where is she?”

He means me, but I don’t want to get any closer than I already am. I take a step back. The class matron is instantly at my side, pressing on my back, trying to urge me to him. When I still don’t respond, she pushes harder until I stumble forward.

The old man lifts a brow. “Katherine?”

I force out, “Yes, sir.”

“Get over here, wench.”

A hiss struggles to free itself from me, but I keep it snug inside. My steps are automatic, moving without thought, because if they were listening to me, they’d be running the other direction. Finally, they stop much too close to him.

The old man doesn’t seem to be bothered by my hesitance. He crosses to me as he twirls one finger in the air in a curricular pattern. The servants must understand the cue because they huddle around us in a tight circle, far enough away there’s still room to move but close enough together it’s hard to see the faces of the others watching this display. I’m trapped.

The warlock grabs my hand, yanks off my glove, and throws it on the ground. I gasp, hugging my naked hand to my chest, trying to cover it with my still gloved one.

“No need to be squeamish, just inspecting the goods. Give it here.” His lazy, cracking voice does nothing to ease my fears. When I don’t return my hand, he says, “What’s the problem?”

“
A woman always wears gloves in public.”

“
She must also do as warlocks wish, and I wish to inspect my goods. Besides, we’re not in public.” He motions to the servants encircled about us.

If he thinks this is supposed make me feel better, he’s sorely mistaken. He casts a dark gray spell that darts to my hand and jerks it back to him. A second spell, silvery with flecks of green, pricks my finger like was done at testing. As my blood bubbles on the tip of my finger, I resist the urge to cover it back up to hide it from him.

Instead of using a spell to inspect it like was done at testing, he dabs it with a handkerchief. After he pulls it away, his eyes stay on it as he casually throws a yellow and green spell at it, closing the wound. As much as I appreciate not having an open wound, I know it’s only because no one wants to waste my potent blood.

He mutters to himself as he studies the handkerchief with my blood on it. During the lull, I begin to notice something even more unpleasant. A stench. Is it the heat of the day getting to the water closet? It may be, except the more time passes, the more I realize the unpleasant odor is coming from him. Body odor tainted by strong, spicy cologne. And…rotting vegetables?

The stench chokes me and makes me realize the problem isn’t just that he’s old and harsh but that he also smells. I snatch my glove off the ground and shove my hand back into it, pulling it up past my wrist. It feels safer, but the stench is still too strong. Hopefully I’ll not have much interaction with him. I press my fingers under my nose, trying unsuccessfully to block the stench as he continues to stare at my blood spotted on the handkerchief.

“
The magic is just as good as promised.” He folds the handkerchief several times and tucks it in his coat pocket. “Now for you.”

“
Excuse me?” Isn’t disgracing me to get my blood enough? What else can there possibly be?

“
Don’t talk. Just take your hair down.”

“
But a woman—”

“
A woman must obey. Take it down.”

I gasp. In front of all these people? I refuse to take it down. He can’t really expect it. Yet when I don’t move, he motions to a servant. The servant immediately moves behind me and starts ripping the pins from my hair, yanking strands with them. I wince and reach to stop her, but she swats my hand away.

A few seconds later, my hair is down, flowing to my waist. Shame and anger shear through me. I brush my locks behind my shoulder, trying my best to hide them while keeping special care to lower my face. If I break that rule now and look at him, there will no hiding the hostility coursing through me.

He pulls my hair back over my shoulder, running his fingers through the length of it. I clench my jaw and try not to breathe deeply. Try not to do anything.

The glee in his voice does nothing to calm my rapidly mounting panic. “You’ll do nicely. My newest possession.”

His newest possession? As in, him? This smelly, cruel man is my owner?

No. No, no, no, nonono.

He snaps his finger, and the servants begin to exit the room. “I’ll be waiting at your Father’s when class is completed. You had better be less defiant when you join me.” He strides from the room, the cloud of stench lessening, but still lingering.

It can’t really be him. It can’t. There’s nothing that could be worse than having him as my owner. Nothing. I can’t look at anyone, even through my lashes. Instead I keep my head lower than I ever have before. My blood has been taken, my hair let down, and my manner deemed unfit.

The class matron storms over. “Return your hair to its proper bun this instant.”

Must she persist even after everything she just saw? “It’s not my fault.”

She raises her hand, and this time there’s nothing to prevent the slap. My face stings, but instead of complying, I let my anger overwhelm my shame. “You are as bad as the men.”

I twist away, the abandoned hairpins crunching beneath my feet. Everyone in the room is gaping at me. I spin away from them as well and stride out of the room like my new owner did moments before. But only he can carry such airs. Mine are false, unfit for a woman. Yet, even false, it's better than letting the shame inside me loose for all to see.

Chapter Two

M
other enters my room, her face not betraying whether she’s here to congratulate me on such a good match or if she’s here to scold me for not spending more time with him. I’ve been in his foul presence since arriving home from class an hour ago. Two hexes, my hair forced down again, and my nose still senses his lingering stench. It’s more than adequate for a lifetime.

She sits next to me on the bed, the only place there is to sit except the floor. “A message just arrived from your class matron.”

There’s no escaping her, even at home. I turn back to my stitching. At least being forced to work at Father’s clothing shop has taught me a useful evasive skill.

“
Is there anything you'd like to share with me?”

Most definitely not. If there’s any reason to feel contrite for breaking rules, it’s making her feel guilty for teaching me to. She taught me there are times we can get away with not following them, but also need to be cautious in front of others. Yet there’s no changing what happened.

“Is her message related to the bruise on your cheek?”

I shrug, wishing mother hadn't noticed its darkening beneath my face paint.
At least she can't see my back that's still stinging from the earlier punishment.

“
Oh, darling.” She wraps an arm around me. “I’m sorry.”

Tears leak out, but just a few. We don’t say anything, there’s no use. No matter how sorry she is or how much we both wish things were different, they never will be. Our lot in life is to be punished and used whether it’s wrong or not.

She lets silence give room for our thoughts. Once I start picking at the loose threads on the dress I'm working on, she says, “Nigel and your Father have decided you are not to return to class.”

“
Truly?” As much as I’ve wished for it, I didn’t think it would happen. The small but good news makes me feel as if there’s some light to this day.

Mother’s chin quivers and the bit of hope in me deflates. “They think something stronger is needed to quell your defiance.”

Of course that’s what it’s about. If only they knew the thoughts pounding in my head. I don’t even want to think what this could mean.

“
Nigel,” she continues, “is going to stay with us until your engagement next week. Afterward, he’s leaving an adviser here to train you and will check on you once a week until the wedding.”

Just the thought of having to be around him more has my nose itching to sneeze and the rest of me itching to hide. “He’s going to be here all week?”

“Yes, and after that, your brother is going to be following you and the adviser around as a way of learning more about warlock’s duties.”

Jack would. Anything to make himself look better. My younger brother, striver of all things council and rule related. As if he could ever make it onto the council.

Mother continues, “Nigel wants you to join him in the garden after our talk.”

I sigh and take my time putting away my sewing, letting the task keep my hands busy if not my thoughts.

“I’m sorry this is so hard on you. But as hard as it’s made things, I’m not sorry I’ve taught you that you are worth something. You are. Don’t let him hex it out of you. You are my daughter. Remember you are a person just as much as they are. Let that keep you strong.”

I fiddle with a stray spool of thread. Even if she’s right, even if we are worth as much as the warlocks, they are still the ones that own us. Nothing will change that.

“There’s one thing I have for you that may make it easier to… cope with the situation, both now and when you are wed.”

What could she have for me?

“Apparently, he’s tarnished five other wives. None of them were able to get with child. He’s anxious to have an heir.” She pulls a small pouch out of her shoe, hands it to me, and lowers her voice. “This is a sleeping powder. If you mix it with a drink, it’s unnoticeable.”

I glance at the closed door, not trusting that we are truly alone. If discovered, this would mean some very serious hexes. “Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s the only thing I have to help you fight back. A large pinch is enough to knock out a full-grown man and he wakes feeling normal. It may help you avoid some punishments or, frankly, just him because he’s…” She pats my arm. “I just wish there was more I could do.”

I wish the same. “Where did you get this?”

“Some of the tarnished who knew Tilda still interact with me. They helped me procure it from the woman owned by the town apothecary.” She shrugs. “He drinks himself dumb a lot.”

That's better than a punishing owner. Perhaps even better than Father, who only ever wants me to work and hexes me when I don’t fulfill his requirements. “I don’t know what to say.”

And I don't. I always knew mother had ideas different from other women, but not this. The Woman's Canon says a woman never leaves her owner. This is big. This is rule breaking. Almost as much as when Tilda tried to leave.

“
Thank you, mother. This may help more than you know,” I say, already thinking of how I can put it to use. Not the use she was planning on, but one born from Tilda’s previous attempt. The sleeping powder’s existence will be so much more valuable than mother could have guessed. An idea is forming that is not at all related to her suggestion, but if it works, I’ll only need it once. She’s given us an escape, and I won’t take it without trying to bring her with me.

“
If I use this to leave, will you come?”

She holds me tighter, a sob choking her words. “No, my darling. I wish I could but it’s impossible. Ever since Tilda ran, Father has me hexed to stay. If I attempt to leave, I’ll be in too much pain to move.”

I bite my lower lip to keep from crying.

“
You have to be careful if you do this. They’ll tarnish or kill you if you’re caught.”

“
I know. It’s worth the risk.” Only, I hope it doesn’t come to that.

She pulls me into a hug. “I love you, darling. I’m sorry things are so hard.”

There’s no stopping the tears. I grab her hand, gripping it as if my life depends on it. “I love you, mother.”

The tears come harder, both hers and mine. Tilda. The same reason that gives me the possibility of leaving is the same reason mother can’t.

She whispers in my ear. “Whatever you have planned, we need to do it now. Quickly, gather your things.”

The hurt grows, but the tears slow. “Now?”

“This is the perfect moment. He wants you alone in the garden. You can take him the drink and have the entire evening and tomorrow morning to escape. I’ll put them off as long as I can afterward, claim you’re unwell. We don’t know if another opportunity like this will happen. There’s someone in town that can help you. A group of tarnished.”

Escape sounded good when it was in the near future. Making it happen now feels too rushed and scary. Yet it’s indisputable that her words are true. I must go. Now.

“Tarnished? How will they be able to help?”

“
I don’t know exactly, but they helped Tilda. They’re the ones who helped me get the sleeping powder. They should be able to help you.”

Should? “Are you certain? Is it safe?”

“Tilda trusted them. That's enough for me.”

It’s enough for me as well, save that Tilda has been dead seven years.

“Besides, you have a better chance with them than on your own.” She gives me detailed instructions on how to find my way there and has me repeat them until I get them right. “Tell them I sent you.”

“
I will.”

“
Hurry and put your things in the pack,” she says. “Take the sewing kit from Father’s shop. By the time he realizes you’ve kept it, there won’t be anything he can do about it. I’ll return shortly.”

She leaves to fetch a glass of wine for Nigel while I hurry to gather what few things I have: clothes, face paint, a brush and pins. Not the Woman’s Canon. That is most definitely staying here. By the time everything is in a pack, Mother has returned with the drink. She hands me the glass of wine and takes the bag from me.

“I’ll hide it out by our tree.” She gives me a final squeeze before letting go. “Go now. Nigel will be growing impatient.”

“
I know.” I stop one last time. “No matter what happens, I’m grateful you’re my mother.”

Her smile is small and sad, eyes radiating love. As I leave, I focus on that feeling, the love and care she has always given me. This is likely the last time I’ll ever see her.