It turns out the tester was wrong. Very wrong. It isn't even a week before I'm purchased by a warlock. Some man I've never met now owns me. According to Father, this man is wealthy and has had only the best of classes focusing on helping him become a councilman. Someone capable of filling Father's pockets and increasing his popularity. A man whom I'm on my way to meet. Thomas. My new Master. He summoned Father and I to keep him company during the yearly tournament. For a full week I'll be with my owner and soon-to-be husband.
My gut churns. I don't know if my carriage sickness is extra severe today or if my nerves are making it worse. The seat jostles beneath me like it has for most of the day. I bump against Cynthia in the dark carriage. I'm grateful Father let her come since mother isn't permitted to attend the tournament in her state. I just wish Cynthia could keep her excitement over our first tournament to a minimum until we're there. If women were allowed windows in the carriage, at least the scenery would distract me. But there's nothing but darkness, bouncing, and sickness. I groan.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel worse.” She stops wiggling, at least for the moment, and I only have to contend with the ruts of the road. She means well, when she thinks about it. “I'm sure we'll be to Thomas's soon, and you can get some fresh air.”
“I hope so.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
I rest my head against the carriage wall, but lift it when the swaying makes the nausea worse. “Talk to me. Distract me.”
“Certainly. I love your two new gowns. They're stunning. The dark green one is my favorite. You'll be smashing. I wish Father would let me get a new gown or two. You're lucky he got some for you.”
I think they're all too fancy, but of course she would want them. She has more dresses than she can wear between wash days. I don't know what she would do with more, but Father insisted I needed to look my best for Thomas to show off. “You make your gowns look beautiful, Cynthia. No one will know they aren't new.”
“Apart from being out of date. Still, I hope being at the tournament will give me a chance with some warlock. I brought three handkerchiefs to give away.”
I groan. “Three? Do you really need more than one?”
“Well, if I can't get in the marriage pool for another year, I might as well spread myself out and practice.”
“Practice what? They don't care about anything besides magic and money. We know you have a good pedigree, it's not like you can change the magic in your blood.”
She leans back and is quiet a moment before answering. “If I get someone to care enough about me, they may try to find me in the marriage pool. It's not unheard of for men to gain a preference for a woman before her blood is tested, you know. One of them could be better than Father.”
I wish this conversation was taking place somewhere easier to think. Somewhere we weren't being churned about. “If anyone can do it, I'm sure you can. But should you?”
“Men aren't all bad. Don't you remember Lewis from our weekly manners lesson? He was always so nice, making sure I was first in line to go home.”
If she really thinks that, it's because she didn't see how he looked at her when she was turned away. Or how he pinched the back of my arm while trying to steal a kiss. It left a bruise for two weeks. Though I should have given him what he wanted, I couldn't. Instead, I screamed and received a day-long silence spell. Of all the hexes I've gotten, not being able to talk was minor. And I wasn't forced to kiss his peeling lips.
Dreaming of a nice warlock is a dangerous thing. Yet, I can't take her hope away. Without hope, there's nothing but misery. I know. I close my eyes. “Can we please speak of something else?”
She returns to talking of dresses for a while, then moves on to the sisters we left behind. Little Molly learning to walk. Sally eager to begin classes. Bethany taking care of them all. As she prattles on, it's hard to pay attention, but I let her voice soothe me. No matter how hard I try not to think of them, her earlier words about men being nice come back to me. Despite what she thinks, men are rarely kind unless they're playing some sort of cruel game. To them, women are owned and used, that's all.
Finally, the carriage halts, and Cynthia's chatter ceases. I continue to sway. The bouncing resumes as Cynthia can't contain her excitement, again. I groan and try not to lose my breakfast. Shouldn't have eaten that biscuit.
“Sorry.” While she sounds sincere, she continues twitching beside me.