Dragon Rose(61)
“What is it?” I demanded. “Are they well? What has happened?”
Obviously comprehending the path my thoughts had taken, Melynne replied at once, “Oh, no, my lady. Nothing like that. They are all well, as far as Linnart knew. Only he thought it was something amusing that Liat Marenson had been dangling after you, and now he’s apparently gone and gotten engaged to your sister Therella!”
If meek little Melynne had slapped me across the face, I could not have been more surprised. For the space of a few breaths I could only sit there and stare at her, thinking I must have heard incorrectly. “Master Marenson, the wool merchant?” I managed at last.
“The same. The rumor is that the wedding is planned for Midwinter.”
Less than a month away. He didn’t waste time, did he? I reached for my cup of cider, hoping to wash some of the sick taste from my mouth. Therella was not quite eighteen. And they were going to marry her off to Liat Marenson, a man of forty-five? These things happened more often than they should, of course, but I had not thought my parents would subject Therella to such a marriage.
“Thank you, Melynne,” I said faintly. “I think I would like to be alone now.”
She dipped a curtsey, expression neutral, but I thought I saw the curiosity in her eyes. No doubt it was fairly obvious that I was less than pleased by her news. “Of course, my lady.”
Once she had gone, I rose and went to stand in front of the fire, but its warmth did little to dispel the chill that seemed to have settled in my bones. Liat Marenson and Therella? Why in all the gods’ names had my parents allowed such a thing to happen?
Surely the thousand gold crowns they’d been given in exchange for me couldn’t have been spent so rapidly. It would take a household far more profligate than ours to run through such a sum in so short a span of time. There seemed to be only one other logical explanation, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
My sister had wanted the match.
She had always been far more interested in young men—and, apparently, the not-so-young—and always talked of what it would be like once she set up her own household. While I used what little free time I had to sketch the streets around us or the people I saw from day to day, her hands were always busy with a needle, whether embroidering a pillowcase or tatting a length of lace to trim a chemise. All these bits and pieces she stored away against the day when she would be mistress of her own house.
I could almost picture it, even now. A chance meeting when she went to market, or an encounter at the home of an acquaintance. An apology for her sister’s outlandish behavior, with the intimation that of course Therella herself would never have acted in such a way. Perhaps then a few carefully placed compliments, and Liat Marenson would have fallen into her hand like a ripe plum. I could not even allow her youth as a rebuttal against such behavior, as I’d seen such cunning in the past, during times when she managed to cajole even our father into agreeing to some scheme or another. Our mother, of course, saw through such duplicity, but I could not expect a man being flattered to have that sort of insight.
No, when I thought of it that way, I supposed it was no real surprise. Therella wanted comfort, and luxury if she could have it; a man more than twice her age was a good enough bargain, if by such an agreement she would be mistress of one of Lirinsholme’s finest houses. Had she been glad, then, when I botched things so completely, and finished the job by giving myself over to the Dragon of Black’s Keep?
Such a thought was perhaps uncharitable, but I knew my sister well enough that I did not put it past her. At least she would have a husband who wanted her, or thought he wanted her. Whereas I…
I leaned my head against the mantel, once again feeling myself perilously close to tears. This was ridiculous. Could I look forward to a winter where all I did was weep, and wring my hands over my situation?
“Oh, damnation,” I said aloud, and pushed myself away from the fireplace. The day was clear, and the light was good. I should not waste it, but should go back to my painting.
By some effort of will I did return to my chamber, where the white morning light sent everything into clear relief. By its unforgiving glare I could see that I had been a bit too heavy-handed the evening before, and some of my work would have to be undone.
I did not precisely sigh, but I did feel my mouth tighten as I laid out my pigments and brushes once again. And as the light touched the stranger’s painted eyes, it seemed almost as if they met mine with some sort of secret amusement, as though he were laughing at some joke unknown to me.
“If it’s that amusing, I wish you would share,” I remarked with some acerbity, dipping my paintbrush into the linseed oil so I might freshen the pigment I required for a flesh tone paler than the one I had used the previous night. “I think right now I could do with a good laugh.”
But of course the painted mouth did not move, and nothing happened except I experienced that same sensation of creeping despair as the day before. This time, perhaps, it was subtly different, in that it was less amorphous, more an ache within, as I thought of Theran, and how he had rebuffed me.
It was the cry of a child, really, that plea of “but I love you!” These things were not always so simple. Love given was not always returned. A lesson I would rather not have learned, of course, but…
But nothing. It hit me then, cold and rough and painful as the winds that had buffeted me in the garden the day before. I loved him, but he did not love me.