He was, no doubt, referring to her figure. With her blindfold obscuring most of her face, her age could be difficult to predict, and her form was somewhat insignificant. Plus, her father liked to dress her in white lace that drowned her. No doubt Tremayne liked the idea of some pure, virginal foreteller, and thought it played up to the image some people had. If unicorns existed, he'd have probably chained one to the lawn.
"So... You didn't ask what age I was," Cleo said slowly. "You evidently didn't ask much about me at all. Did you ask if I were pretty?"
"No."
That could be interpreted in two ways. Either he didn't care, or it didn't matter to the situation at all, for there was no changing it. Perhaps both.
"I told you, I was angry. I was thinking that I clearly didn't have very much choice in this and that I was going to be married to someone I didn't even know." He let out a slow breath. "And I knew your father. I wasn't... hopeful of much."
"You thought I was going to be an overbearing troll with a big nose and thick dark brows and piercing eyes that squint a little, didn't you?"
"Are you certain you cannot see a thing? That sounds very much like your father."
"I know his face," she admitted. "It's the only one I remember."
"I was thinking," he said slowly, as if chewing over the words, "that your father is not a very nice man at times. I couldn't imagine his daughter being... well, being you."
"What does that mean?"
"You are not at all like your father."
Cleo resumed her walk, taking slower steps. Sebastian, her fiancé, fell into step, which was possibly the strangest thought she'd ever had to encounter. My fiancé. What strange words. They didn't feel real. None of this felt real.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, tilting her head up at him.
This was a secretive silence, full of a sudden tension between them. She was beginning to like his silences. They told her so much.
"You are not... without your charms."
Cleo burst into laughter. "Do you know, I quite think you've never courted a young lady before, have you?"
"No." The word was bleak and a little cold. "What was required of me was never courtship. I could tell you that you were the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen, but none of it would matter. I have seen beautiful women before and thought them the ugliest monsters I've ever encountered."
What a strange way to refer to it—it was never courtship... She felt something akin to a chill run over her skin. "I'm sorry."
"For?" The shadows in his voice fell away.
"You sounded sad," she said. "I hate it when people are sad. There is too much of it in the world."
"It's not sadness, Miss Sinclair. I'm angry." This was a whisper. "I'm very, very angry, and it terrifies me. Sometimes I think it's going to eat me alive."
Cleo's skirts swished in the grass. "You shouldn't be afraid of yourself, Bastian."
"Bastian?"
Cleo hid a small smile. "I like the sound of it. We may as well be familiar. I know it's very fast, considering I only just met you, but then my father did barter me away in marriage to you. And you sound nice. I can trust you."
"Miss Sinclair—"
"Trust me." She deliberately bumped against his arm, swinging her basket happily. "I know these things."
"But you know me not at all. I have done... a great many things that I am not proud of. Indeed, I begin to wonder if there is anything to be proud of."
That stalled her. He felt so right to her, that it had to be her seer abilities. She'd never been wrong about a person before. "Did you mean to do any of these things?"
"No."
"Then why did you do them?"
