“Mother told me, too, though.” I stared into space for a moment. “I will think of something,” I whispered. “I have to.”
Knowing I would have to see Ban Morin again that night was excruciating. Would an announcement be made? Would I be expected to sit next to him—to beaffectionatewith him? I cringed at the thought.
My Hair was worse than ever that night. It frizzed out around my head in spiky chaos, resisting every attempt the maids made to subdue it—even Mieka. In the end, I sent them away and gave it a tortoiseshell comb to chew on. It seemed toenjoy tangling itself around combs and breaking off their tines, like a dog gnawing on a bone, and it could keep itself occupied that way for an hour or more. By the time I had finished dressing, the Hair had calmed down enough for me to braid it over one shoulder, shuddering once or twice but eventually lying still enough.
Last of all, I put on the gloves. I still did not fully understand their purpose, but I knew it was nothing good. They seemed to shrink and expand according to Milady’s will. They lay still enough on my skin now, but I knew that, at a word or a glance, they could tighten, making my hands not entirely my own.
When I entered the drawing room, Ban Morin smiled. I was uncommonly aware of his mouth now, knowing that I might have to deal with it intimately in the near future, and the slightly protruding tooth and the shine of spit along his lower lip made my stomach churn. His hands, too, richly beringed and strong, with long nails polished to a sheen—these I would have to learn, as well, if I were betrothed to him. I swore to get out of here, one way or another, before that was a possibility.
The way he looked at me hadn’t changed—that knowing, penetrating look, with a slight smile, as if he saw all my thoughts and found them amusing. I knew I had a thin-skinned face, easy to read.
“Take off your gloves,” he said. I glanced at Milady, who nodded. Immediately I felt them loosen and peeled them off, flushing a little. Ban Morin watched me greedily, with an odd intensity, and that made me all the more self-conscious of my bony, raw knuckles and ragged nail beds.
“Wonderful,” he said, taking my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs slowly against the backs of them. He meant it to be soothing, perhaps, or even pleasurable, but it made my skin crawl.
“I suppose Milady has told you of our arrangement,” he said, not stopping that soft caress.
“Yes,” I managed to say through a tight throat.
“It must come as a surprise,” he said, with a slight smugness that suggested he imagined it must be a good one.
“It was,” I said, swallowing hard. “If you don’t mind me asking … Why?”
“You are modest,” he said. A courtly pleasantry and entirely unhelpful.
There was that low laugh again. I snapped my head round, trying to pinpoint the sound. The room was filled with brightly dressed noblemen, mingling and talking, but I was looking for something in particular—and I found it. That patch of strange, unfocused air upon which my eyes were reluctant to alight. It felt like trying to blink away water, or to clear your eyes of the day’s first bleary haze upon waking. I concentrated, but the best I could make out was a darkly dressed male figure, a moth among the butterflies, before my eyes lost their tenuous purchase on him and blurred once again.Patrick.
“Netta?” Sawl Morin was saying.
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically, turning back to him.
“No need to apologize,” he said. “I see that I was being a bore.” His tooth glinted.
“No, not at all,” I said, stumbling over my words. “I just …”
“It has been a momentous day,” he said. “For both of us. I do not blame you for being a little flustered.”
He rested his hand on mine again, making it look like a pale, weak little animal caught in a trap. I could feel the cool metal of his rings.
“Your rings are beautiful,” I said, for something to say, and immediately cursed myself. He would think that I was thinking of his wealth, the jewels that would soon be mine.
“That reminds me,” he said, withdrawing his hand. He reached into a pocket and drew out a little engraved box, holding it out to me. I hesitated, then took it.
“What is this?”
“Look inside.”
There was an intricate little lock on the box, made of acontrasting wood, and it took me a moment to manipulate it correctly. When it unlocked, it snapped open with some force, startling me.
“Do you like it?” he said.
Inside the box was a ring. An engagement ring, I supposed, although it was heavier and clumsier than I would have imagined a woman’s engagement ring to be. The metal was yellow gold, with a flat face like that of a signet ring, engraved with letters and studded with gaudy gems: rubies, emeralds, and a purple stone I didn’t know. As usual, the letters slid and slithered under my gaze.
“It’s beautiful,” I said weakly, even though “beautiful,” wasn’t really the right word for this bright, vulgar thing. It looked like a golden toad squatting on its velvet pad.
Ban Morin took it from me and slid it onto my ring finger with a smooth, decisive motion. It could have been my imagination, but I thought I felt it squeeze and tighten around my finger when it reached its destination. Like Sawl Morin’s own rings, it was cold.
“It suits you,” he said.
