Page 134 of Sinister

Dread fills me to the brim, and immediately, ideas form in my mind.

I need to find a way out of this. I cannot let this happen.

Of course, I’d known that sooner or later I would be married, but not now and certainly not to this man who’s three times my age!

“And of course, I’m very excited about the wedding,” my brother adds smoothly. “Leah and I make the perfect couple.”

I turn to look at them, my brother and Leah.

First, I feel a deep sense of relief. Then the questions abound.

Leah? But she’s so young. Far too young.

The shock doesn’t wear off, not even as the conversation continues around me. Everyone begins discussing the engagement—who will be invited, which members of the Radcliffe elite are expected to attend.

My brother preens. My father wears a smug, satisfied smile.

So this is what he’s been working toward all along: his attempt to climb the social ladder, to secure a place among the powerful. All of it—his pious persona, his strict adherence to the rules—has been a performance, a mask he wears to suit his ambitions.

The more I watch the carefully curated cheerfulness between the families, the more disgusted I become. This entire evening is a transaction dressed as celebration.

And now it makes sense: his willingness to fall in line with Mr. Snowden’s plans, his quiet compliance, his eagerness to please. He’s not just a friend. He’s a would-be in-law. A union with Leah ensures access to her inheritance, her dowry—wealth that would pass to my brother, and by extension, to him.

Looking at small, quiet, painfully meek Leah, I feel a cold fury build in my chest. I can already see how they’ll mold her into the same shape they forced upon my mother: voiceless, compliant, used.

The dinner ends, and the men retire to the study for cigars, leaving the women to take tea in the drawing room. Mr. Snowden urges Leah and me to spend time together, to “get to know each other better,” since we’ll be “family soon.”

In the drawing room, my mother sits alone in the far corner, distant and uninterested in the conversation. That leaves Leah and me, side by side in silence.

After a few minutes, I finally ask, softly, “How old are you?”

She startles at the question, flicks her eyes toward me, then quickly looks down again. “I’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” she murmurs.

Ah. So that’s the plan.

They’re waiting for her to reach marriageable age—barely. Even in our community, marriages don’t happen until nineteen or twenty. Barely eighteen is unheard of. Unthinkable.

I bite my lip, holding back the words I’m not allowed to say—the fury threatening to spill out. Fury not only at my father and brother for going through with this, but at Mr. Snowden, too.

Because it’s not just that he’s marrying off his too-young daughter; it’s that he’s raised her for this. She’s been trained to sit still, to speak softly, to avoid eye contact, to submit. She is a doll. A lifeless, decorative thing.

And suddenly, I wonder if I’ve been too hard on my own community. Perhaps it’s not just our congregation that silences its women. The outside world does it, too—packages them into quiet, compliant forms and calls it virtue.

They are used, displayed, married off . . . but never heard.

The realization makes my blood boil.

“Do you want to marry him?” I ask quietly.

She takes a deep breath but doesn’t answer. Instead, I catch the subtle shake of her head.

I don’t know if it’s meant as a message, a quiet defiance she can’t voice, or just an involuntary tremble of her body. But either way, I see it.

I ask Leah what she enjoys doing in her spare time and a few other questions to try to get to know her better, but after several failed attempts to get her to speak, I give up. She only stares at her feet, fidgeting with her hands. Even a simple nod now seems too much. With a quiet sigh, I rise from the sofa and murmur something about finding the ladies’ room.

I make my way back toward the sprawling hallway, drawn again to the paintings—especially the one I remember being titled Sinful something. But just as I turn the corner, a servant appears in front of me, startling me.

“What is it you’re looking for, Miss?” he asks in a somber voice.