“Merchandise,” I echo with a chuckle, though my stomach plummets. If she asks me to stay away from the club, I won’t be able to grant her wish. A visit from Cane and Meathands this morning confirmed that getting disqualified was not part of the plan, which means I didn’t make last week’s payment. Subsequently, my secret is set to come out one week earlier—the end of July instead of the beginning of August. I can’t miss any more payments, and since I can’t afford the ridiculous amount of interest, I have to participate in the fixed matches.
She begins to draw, the sound of graphite on canvas filling the air. Once again, I feel like I’ll lose my mind after what can only be several minutes.
“Can we talk while I stand here? I need a distraction. Either that or an abundance of smoke breaks.”
“Fine, we can talk,” she says, tone begrudging. “I’ll do your face last. But don’t you dare move anything else.”
“As you wish, Daph. Let’s talk about my case study, then.”
The grumble she makes tells me she’d like to talk about anything else. Too bad for her.
“I told you we could alternate choosing which principle to follow,” I say, “so I’ve brought my manuscript with me for you to read. You can familiarize yourself with the topics we could address.”
“Ah, is that what that stack of papers is all about?” She tilts her head at the stack I left on the small table near her parlor door when she told me to freeze upon entering.
“It is, but you don’t need to rush to read it. I already know which topic we can start with. It’s a foundational principle for everyone seeking a mate. And that is: to find a partner, you must go to where your potential partner is. In other words, socialize. So our first experiment will be a social one.”
She releases another displeased grumble.
“Is there anywhere specific you might like to go? If you’re looking for a husband, we need to go where you might meet him.”
“Mmm. Meat,” is all she says.
I scoff. “Don’tmmm meatme and ignore my question.”
Another grumble. “I don’t socialize. I don’t even know where people go.”
“Fair enough. I suppose I’ll pick our location. What kind of husband are you looking for?” The question makes my pulse quicken, though maybe it’s merely my nerves fraying as I continue to force my body to hold still.
“He must be tall and muscular with a rippling abdomen and excessive sex appeal.” She says it in a rush, as if it’s rehearsed.
“Is that just what you want in a model?”
“The bare essentials.”
“Model work aside, what doyouwant in a husband? Personally?”
“Someone who will marry me by Lughnasadh. And, if I allow myself to be particular, he should have no qualms about me continuing my career after we marry. And I suppose he shouldn’t insist on having children for at least a few years, as I intend to enjoy my career thoroughly first.”
My heart falls. She has yet to state a single quality that has to do with her wants. Only her needs. Her work. And why the hell does she need to marry someone by Lughnasadh? I state the question out loud.
She glances up from her canvas to meet my eyes. Her lips pull into a grimace. “Well, as it turns out…I’m sort of…engaged.”
My breath catches in my throat. It takes me several long moments before I realize how tightly I’m squeezing the pillow. With a slow exhale, I loosen my grip and splay my hands in their proper position. “You’re engaged,” I say, doing my best to control my voice. Why am I so worked up over this surprising discovery? “To whom?”
She rubs her brow, leaving a smear of graphite on her forehead. “A honey badger named Clyde. It’s not a real engagement. Well, it’s sort of real. Sort of not. I can get out of it.”
“I think I’m going to need a better explanation than that.”
Her shoulders slump. She rubs her brow again, darkening the smear on her skin, and returns to her sketch. “Every Lughnasadh I return to visit Cypress Hollow, an unseelie village in Earthen Court’s northern forest. I consider it my hometown, as it was the first communal place I lived in. One of the most popular celebrations during Cypress Hollow’s Lughnasadh festival is matchmaking. And the primary matchmaking ritual is handfasting. Not the kind of ceremony modern couples act out during their weddings these days but an older version. One that serves as a trial mating—an engagement of sorts—for a year and a day. After said year and a day, during the following year’s Lughnasadh festivities, the couple may permanently seal their vows or dissolve them. But they must agree one way or another, or the village elder will make the final choice. And I can’t trust Elder Rhisha to take my side because Clyde is her damn nephew. Cypress Hollow has strict rules about mates and commitment, so if I end up mated to him, I’ll have to stay in my village with him and give up my life here.”
“You don’t want that, right?” I ask, and my pulse kicks up in anticipation of her answer. Why does it feel like my heart will crumble if she’s impartial to staying in Jasper versus marrying a honey badger?
“Of course not,” she says, and my lungs loosen. “I regretted performing the ritual as soon as I awoke the next morning. Especially when I remembered I can’t paint as a pine marten.”
“You can’t?”
She flourishes her free hand. “I need thumbs. I tried my best with paws, but my art was atrocious. Even more so than weasel-man.” She says the last part under her breath. “Besides, the residents of Cypress Hollow have no interest in the kinds of paintings I like. They favor functional art or woodworking, not illustrations of scantily clad ladies and gents on the verge of coitus.”
