“The King’s letter,” her father continued, his gaze never leaving Kat’s face, watching her reaction with cold calculation, “requested one of our daughters for this union.
Naturally, we assumed it would be Celeste.”
Kat’s eyes flickered to her sister, who immediately sobbed harder, pressing the handkerchief to her face as if to muffle the sound of her distress.
But Kat could see her sister’s eyes over the edge of the lace, could see that they were watching, calculating, making sure everyone was paying attention to her performance.
“I’m so frightened,” Celeste whimpered, her voice breaking beautifully on the words.
“They say he’s a monster, that his scars are so terrible that children faint at the sight of him, that his rages—” She dissolved into fresh tears, her whole body shaking with them, and their mother immediately wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close and stroking her golden hair with gentle, soothing motions.
“Hush, darling,” Lady Vivienne cooed, her voice soft and loving in a way it had never been when speaking to Kat.
“Hush now.
You’ll never have to go to that godless place.
You’ll never have to look upon that scarred face or endure his heathen ways.
I promise you, my precious girl.
I promise.”
“However,” Lord Edmund said, and something in his tone made Kat’s blood run cold, “we have decided that you will go instead.”
The words hit her like a physical blow, like a fist to the stomach that drove all the air from her lungs.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t process what she’d just heard.
The room seemed to tilt around her, the elegant furniture and golden light blurring at the edges of her vision.
“I—I d-don’t—” she stammered, her hands clenching in her skirts, twisting the gray fabric until her knuckles ached.
“It’s perfect, really,” Marcus interjected, pushing off from the mantle to circle her like a predator circling wounded prey.
He moved with casual grace, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of cruel amusement.
“Celeste is far too delicate, too precious for such a match.
Her beauty, her grace, her gentle nature—all wasted on a scarred brute who lives in the frozen north among pagans and barbarians.
But you?”
He stopped in front of her, looking down at her with those cold blue eyes that were so like their mother’s.
He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, and he used that height advantage deliberately, looming over her in a way that made her feel small and powerless.
“You?” he repeated, and laughed—a sound without warmth or humor, just pure cruelty.
“What do we care if the Shadow Lord’s temper finds an outlet in you?
What do we care if he beats you or locks you away or throws you from his battlements like he did his first wife?
You’ve been nothing but a stain on this family since the day you were born.
At least this way, your existence will finally serve some purpose.”
“Marcus,” their mother said, but there was no real reprimand in her tone, no genuine disapproval.
If anything, she sounded almost pleased, as if Marcus had simply stated an uncomfortable truth that needed to be acknowledged.
“Though he’s not wrong, Katriana.
Your hair—”
She gestured vaguely at Kat’s head, as if the sight of it pained her, as if she couldn’t bear to look directly at those cursed red curls.
“That cursed red,” Lady Vivienne continued, her voice dripping with disgust.
“The servants whisper that it’s a dark omen, that you brought misfortune to this house the moment you were born.
Even the old women in the village cross themselves when they hear of you, make signs against evil and mutter prayers to Seorr for protection when your name is mentioned.
Do you know that?
Do you know that people believe you’re cursed, that your very existence is a blight?”
“I’ve k-kept to the l-library,” Kat stammered, her voice breaking, her stutter getting worse as panic clawed at her throat.
“I’ve n-never caused any tr-trouble, I’ve never—”
“Your very existence is trouble,” her father cut her off, his voice sharp as a blade.
He stood now, rising from his chair to tower over her just as Marcus had, and Kat instinctively took a step back, her body remembering all the time his anger had found physical expression.
He’d never struck her—that would have been beneath his dignity—but he’d grabbed her, shaken her, shoved her away with enough force to send her stumbling.
“Do you know how many suitable matches we’ve lost for Celeste because of you?” he demanded, his face darkening with anger.
“How many families have hesitated to align with us because of the whispers about the cursed daughter locked away in our library?
How many times I’ve had to explain your existence, make excuses, tell lies to cover up the shame of having produced such a creature?”
“I didn’t ask to be b-born this way,” Kat whispered, and immediately regretted speaking.
The slap came so fast she didn’t see it coming.
Her mother’s fan cracked across her face with enough force to snap her head to the side, the sound echoing through the drawing room like a gunshot.
Pain exploded across her cheek, sharp and bright, and she tasted blood where her teeth had cut the inside of her mouth.
“How dare you,” Lady Vivienne hissed, her beautiful face twisted with fury.
“How dare you speak as if you’re the victim here.
You are the curse that has plagued this family for twenty years, and you will not stand there and act as though we’ve wronged you.”
Kat’s hand rose to her burning cheek, her eyes watering from the pain and the shock.
Her father watched the exchange with cold approval, his jaw set in a hard line.
“No, but you were.
And now, finally, you can be of some use to this family.” He moved closer, and Kat could smell the brandy on his breath, could see the network of fine lines around his eyes, the coldness in his gaze.
“The Archduke’s lands are vast, his wealth considerable, and his political influence extends to the King’s own council.
An alliance with him would be invaluable—trade agreements, political support, access to the northern territories and all their resources.
He wants a wife, and he is a pagan so he will probably overlook your…
defects…
in exchange for the Ashford name and a substantial dowry.”
“Which we’re happy to provide,” her mother added, still stroking Celeste’s hair, still comforting her precious daughter, “to be rid of you.”
The words were said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that they hurt worse than if they’d been shouted.
There was no anger in Lady Vivienne’s voice, no passion or heat.
Just cold, simple truth: they wanted to be rid of her.
They were happy to pay someone to take her away.
Kat felt something crack inside her chest, some last fragile hope that perhaps, somewhere deep down, her family felt something for her other than contempt.
Some foolish, childish hope that maybe they cared, just a little, that maybe there was some small corner of their hearts where affection for her might exist.
But there wasn’t.
There never had been.
“And the Archduke himself is no better,” her father added, returning to his chair and settling back into it as if this were just another tedious business discussion.
“The man still clings to the old ways, the pagan gods.
He refuses to worship Seorr, refuses to acknowledge the God who grants us holy magic and divine protection.
He refuses to set foot in the holy temples, keeps those heathen shrines on his lands—standing stones and sacred groves and all manner of ungodly things.
It’s a scandal, frankly, but his wealth and power make him untouchable.
The King himself turns a blind eye to the Archduke’s paganism because the northern territories are too valuable to alienate.”
He leaned back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, studying Kat with cold calculation.
“We could never subject Celeste to such a godless household,” he continued.
“Her soul is pure, her faith unshakeable.
She has been blessed with the gift of holy magic from Seorr—minor healing, as befits a noble lady—and to send her into that pagan environment, surrounded by old gods and heathen practices, could sever her connection to the divine entirely.
It would be a cruelty beyond measure.
But you?”
His lip curled in something that might have been a smile but looked more like a sneer.
“You’re already marked by darkness, Katriana.
Your hair alone suggests demonic influence.
You’ve never manifested even a spark of holy magic, never shown any connection to Seorr’s grace.
Perhaps you’ll fit right in with his pagan rituals and old gods.
Perhaps you’re exactly the kind of wife a man like that deserves.”
Marcus laughed at that, a sharp bark of amusement.
“Can you imagine?
Our cursed sister married to the scarred pagan lord.
It’s almost poetic.
Two monsters, united in unholy matrimony.”
Their father nodded, his expression one of cold satisfaction.
“You have no magic, no beauty, no social connections—you’ve been confined to the library for fifteen years.
You’re expendable, Katriana.
Celeste is valuable; you are not.”
“Which is why,” their father continued, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand, “this arrangement is so perfect.
The Archduke doesn’t care about your cursed hair or your lack of holy gifts or the fact that you’ve never set foot in society.
He lives so far north that our reputation means nothing to him.
He wants an alliance with a noble family from the southern territories, and we want you gone.
Everyone benefits.”