Hunted(4)

The merchant’s youngest daughter was renamed Yeva, after the temptress in the garden. She would have preferred Beauty, for at least there is beauty in all things, not only temptation, but Yeva she was to be. Her mother enforced the name as strictly as a warden minding his charges, but she died when Yeva was only five years old, so there was no one after that to insist her father use her proper name.

She had always been Beauty when they hunted together, always Beauty when he tucked her in at night. He called her Yeva now, because she was to be a fine lady someday, and her proper name was the one society knew. And yet there was always a half second’s pause before he said that name, a tiny catch in his voice that was all that remained of who she’d been before.

Though the servants were responsible for preparing dinner, Yeva and her sisters often helped. The three spent their days apart—Yeva with the baronessa, Asenka at the leech’s shop tending the sick, and Lena managing the household and spending time with her fiancé, Radak, whenever he was in town. He was a merchant like their father, and was both very much interested in merging empires and very much in love with Lena.

The evening was their time to be together, in the brief hour before their father returned, and they had little taste for sewing and gossiping as ladies were meant to do. Preparation of fresh bread to accompany the meal was tradition.

Yeva busied herself fetching herbs down from the racks, crumbling them between her fingers and breathing in the scent. Seasoning had been her job when she was too little to knead the bread, and so it remained even now she was old enough. Asenka shaped the dough, and Yeva rolled it in the crumbled herbs until there was a light crust coating the loaf. Then Lena wrapped it all in a cloth and tucked it close to the hearth to rise. She pulled out the risen loaf prepared the night before and slid it carefully into the oven, then she and Asenka washed their hands in the basin, pulling their aprons off, chattering.

Yeva drifted into the next room, preferring to leave the aroma of herbs on her skin. She took up her spot on the floor by her father’s chair, crossing her arms on the footstool and resting her chin on her hands. The smell of herbs mingled with the smell of the bread as it warmed in the oven, and she closed her eyes. At some point her sisters joined her, still chatting and laughing. Lena helped Asenka into her chair before taking her own. It wasn’t until a name caught Yeva’s attention that she opened her eyes and lifted her head.

“Do you think there’s any truth to it?” Asenka’s voice was low, with the strange wobble in it that showed she was thinking intensely about whatever she was saying.

“It’s everywhere. I can’t see that there wouldn’t be at least a grain of truth in the telling, if everyone is telling it. Yeva, have you heard anything at the baronessa’s?”

Yeva swallowed. She’d heard the name, but not the context. “About what? I had my eyes closed.”

They were used to her tuning out their chatter—Yeva was the quiet sister. Lena leaned forward, her face shining with interest. “There is a rumor that Solmir is going to speak for one of Tvertko’s daughters.” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke their father’s name.

Yeva’s heart seized. But before she could answer, Lena turned back to gaze at Asenka, whose own face carried a delicate pink flush. “Oh, it must be true. You’ve admired him for years, Ashka. And if he asks—why, then we can be married together! Think of it, a double wedding in the spring when the snows melt.”

Asenka bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. “Stop that!” she protested. “My face will fall apart from the smiling. It’s a rumor, nothing more. Leave it be, will you?”

Yeva kept silent, her stomach roiling. She prayed they wouldn’t ask her again what she knew, for she couldn’t lie to them. But how could she tell them that it was the youngest sister, not the eldest, who had caught Solmir’s eye? How could Asenka bear to see her sisters spoken for, when no one had cast an eye in her direction?

Asenka always sat so that her twisted foot would be covered by the hem of her skirts, but Yeva found her eyes going there anyway. Her sister walked with difficulty and great pain, but managed everything else with such ease that most people tended to forget the malady she was born with. At the leech’s office she was admired for her compassion, and for the long hours she spent limping along the beds, fetching down tinctures and salves without a word of complaint.

Yeva’s fists clenched around handfuls of her skirt, fury replacing the uneasy roiling in her stomach. Why should it always be beauty? Why could her sister not be sought after for her kindness, her empathy, her strength? Why could she not be loved for that, instead of passed over because of one misfortune of birth that supposedly marred her?

Anger prompted her to rise, mouth opening to burst out with the truth, the injustice of it. Her sisters looked up at her, mouths forming identical Os of surprise. But before she could speak, the sound of the door opening in the hall interrupted her.

“Father’s home!” cried Lena. “Yeva, how do you always know?” She helped Asenka to her feet, and the two sisters made their way to the hall. Someone outside the family might speak of the cruelty of naming a baby with a twisted foot after grace. But in everything but her step, Asenka was the most graceful girl Yeva had ever seen. Gentle of smile, long-fingered, slender and lovely. Her voice was always soft, her laugh never too loud in a quiet room. Even as she leaned on Lena, the way she walked was careful and smooth with deliberation.