You Are Mine (Mine, #1)(7)
What type of change will tomorrow bring? Mother always talked about tournament deaths, which leaves me unsure. I've seen many injuries, but never seen anyone die. Neither have I met anyone from another country. Though it's doubtful Father will let me actually meet anyone, I'm still curious to see what they're like. Especially the barbaric Envadi. Will Thomas have to duel against any of them?
Cynthia waltzes into the room full of news about treasures she found while searching for a servant. I barely hear, more concerned with what tomorrow will bring. At least while Thomas participates, I will have one less thing to fret over. Except it's those moments when his arms and lips have time to reach me that I dread. I'll hope he does extremely well and has no time to spare for me.
Chapter Three
Thomas's box offers not only a perfect view of the field where the main events will be held, but also a great place for keeping an eye on other council members and those of power. Especially since we're right next to the Grand Chancellor's box. At least that's what Father has been going on about since we arrived. I can't tell one way or another.
The boxes sit at varying heights and sizes, held up by pillars. There seems to be no pattern, except that none are bigger or taller than the Grand Chancellor's. Our own is several feet off the ground, just a little lower than the tallest. Even so, being this high off the ground has me gripping my chair tight whenever I think on it. I've never been so high before.
The smell of dirt and grass wafts in. Two chairs made of wood waited for Cynthia and me when we arrived an hour ago. It's been making my backside ache ever since. The warlocks have cushioned chairs and small tables nearby to hold their food and drink. On the side by the stairs is a table with a jug of water. Several servants, mostly tarnished, but a few like the one I saw at Thomas's house, stand by it. A canopy hangs over our box, orange like everyone else's from Chardonia. The women in nearby boxes all wear dark colors and an orange band like Cynthia and me. Some gather in their boxes chatting in little groups or stand next to a warlock waiting to be shown off. Most sit alone.
Other canopies and bands come in varying colors, each color representing a different country. Green, yellow, blue, red, purple, white. I don't recognize where they're from. Classes didn't cover the colors of other countries, only our own. And there are so many of them. Never have I seen so many colors in one place.
A few warlocks, mostly those with purple bands, have a gun strapped to their waist. Those with red bands have dark skin and hair, the likes of which I've never seen before. But it's not nearly as surprising as what some of the women from other countries do.
They prance around with no warlock nearby. Not a single man within twenty paces of them! That makes them stand out more than their excessive height, though in truth there aren't more than a dozen. A few of the others, with a white band around their arm, wear shockingly bright colored dresses. A few of the other brazen women walking about wear colors from other countries besides white, but none wear orange. None of these unaccompanied women have marriage or engagement tattoos on their necks. Are they all single or do they not mark themselves as we do? I sigh and slouch in my chair.
“Sit up straight,” Father says.
I frown, but resume a more dignified posture and brush the wrinkles from my deep violet gown. Thomas enters the box for the first time since showing it to us. He wears simple black breeches and shirt, with the orange band tied around his right arm, dressed as the other participants from Chardonia. His gaze lingers on me as he walks toward Father. An older gentleman wearing tan robes follows him. White hair brushed back from his forehead in waves contrasts with his dark mustache and short beard. A skinny young man, also in dueling clothes, finishes the group.
“Councilman Stephen, I trust the box is to your liking,” Thomas says.
“Very much so, thank you.” Father pushes to his feet. “We're grateful to be privileged enough to be next to your box, Grand Chancellor.”
The older gentleman nods his head. The Grand Chancellor stands but a few feet from me. My stomach twits. I continue to hold my rigid posture as he speaks. “Pleased to see you here, Stephen. You remember my son, Nathaniel.”
“I do. Are you trying to get on the council, Nathaniel?”
The young man, whom Father was so disappointed already choose a bride, looks to the Grand Chancellor who says, “Remember I won't have any political talk during the break.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
Thomas motions toward me. “And this is my future wife.” I wonder if it would have been worse if I was Nathaniel's right now instead of his. From the stern expression on the Grand Chancellor's face, probably much, much worse. Thomas continues the introduction, “Councilman Stephen's eldest daughter, Serena, and her sister.”
I keep my eyes down and smile fixed like I'm supposed to. Always submissive and pleased with them on the outward, but inwardly wishing they weren't here. Yet, I feel their scrutiny as much as if I looked them in the eye so I'm careful to keep the proper pose. We practiced in class, but having it happen under a real setting, and by the Grand Chancellor, makes it harder not to squirm. Next to me, I can only make out the dark brown of Cynthia's dress.
“Indeed. She's lovely. Heard rumors her blood was good quality.”
News of my magic is spreading that much? I should be flattered, instead I feel contaminated somehow. If I'm already bought by another, why does it even matter?