Page 180 of Sinister

And everything clicks into place. No.

“Besides my son marrying Miss Leah Snowden,” he says, pausing to glance at Mr. Snowden, as if seeking confirmation, “I am also pleased to announce that my daughter, Petra, will be marrying⁠—”

No. No.

The blood drains from my face.

Now I understand. The times he told me not to wear my veil when Mr. Snowden was around. The strange looks. The dress. The silence. All of it.

He intends to marry me off to Mr. Snowden.

A widower. A man at least three times my age.

It makes sense why, though. He has no heir, only a daughter. A man like him would hate to leave his wealth to his daughter and new son-in-law.

And that’s why he wants me.

My father did not just sell my brother; he sold me, too.

But perhaps, just perhaps, the fates are on my side tonight; because as my father begins to name Mr. Snowden as my intended, something strange happens.

Mr. Snowden freezes.

His eyes widen, fixed on something beyond the glass doors leading out to the garden. His face goes pale, like he’s seen a ghost.

He abruptly places a hand on my father’s arm and whispers something into his ear, shaking his head. My father hesitates, clearly startled, but Mr. Snowden quickly excuses himself and vanishes into the crowd.

Trying to salvage the moment, my father clears his throat.

“Ah, that was . . . a mistake. Please excuse my, uh, rash announcement. Let us celebrate the engagement of my son and Miss Leah. Eat, drink, and enjoy the dances tonight.”

The orchestra resumes its playing.

And I finally exhale. Thank God.

But I don’t walk away. I walk straight up to him.

Without thinking of the consequences. Without caring that I’m not supposed to speak.

I plant myself in front of him and ask, “What did you mean by that?”

He glares down at me with that familiar, condescending look.

“What do you think I meant?” he snaps. “You are to be engaged. That is not up for discussion.”

“You can’t be serious,” I whisper. “You expect me to marry Mr. Snowden?”

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Yes, you will marry Mr. Snowden. Perhaps we didn’t announce it tonight, but we will—soon.”

“What?” My voice rises, trembling. “He’s three times my age, for God’s sake!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he snaps. “You will marry him because I say so. I am your father, your guardian, and I know what’s best for you. And what’s best for you is Mr. Snowden.”

“No,” I say. “I won’t do it.”

“Excuse me?” he sputters.

“I said no.” My voice is louder now, firmer. “I will not marry him.”