Page 3 of Dragon Chosen
Agnes dashed out of the door, leaving me to try to work out what the hell to do next.
Chapter 2
Fern
The sound of carriage wheels drew me closer to the window, and when I pressed my face close to the glass, I saw them. Men in fine clothing, stepping free of the conveyance, others arriving on spirited horses, only to dismount and hand the reins to our stableboys. Men whose faces were turned into vaguely handsome blurs by the warped glass in my bedroom windows. I blinked, sinking down so only my nose peeked over the window sill. One looked up then, forcing me to shrink back against the curtains. He seemed to scour the facade of our manor, looking for something.
Me? I dared to wonder.
He had a thick mane of wheat blond hair and a fine beard, I think. My eyes squinted hard, trying to make the details out. The dark fabric of his tunic made clear how broad his shoulders were, how trim his waist. My eyes soaked in every detail hungrily.
Perhaps he was the one.
My mind worked as hard as my heart had moments before as I sank down to the floor. Perhaps he was a good man, onewho would see my worth without the aid of a pretty green dress. What if he was just like Father said? A man who liked me for who I was, not the lie my corset told them. What if…? I shook my head, not wanting to get lost under the weight of all my ponderings and instead got to my feet and walked over to my wardrobe.
My dresses weren’t as pretty as Rose’s. Mother told me that was because my sister’s shape suited current fashions better, but Rose thought otherwise. She snuck into my room one night, carrying one of her dresses, swearing she’d ask the seamstresses to add some panels to it so it would fit me. We both knew that wasn’t possible. Any unsanctioned change would bring our mother’s wrath down on her, and Rose wasn’t used to that. I’d held her close and thanked her for offering. But just because my dresses weren’t covered in jewels and beading didn’t mean that I couldn’t look pretty. I flicked through the dresses, finally pulling out another green one.
It wasn’t pretty chiffon or satin, but the green cotton hadn’t been faded by washing. When I pulled it on over my head and then did it up, it felt comfortable. Surely that would be enough. As I stood before my looking glass, swaying the skirts back and forth, I tried to see the dress objectively.
Would the mysterious man with the beard see the colour of the dress and note the way it made my own blue eyes look a little green? Would he appreciate the way the front lacing of the dress created a fitted bodice at my breasts, then flared out, skimming over all my lumps and bumps? Would he take one of my hands, poking out from the belled sleeves and then press a kiss to my knuckles? That’s what Bryce, Rose’s husband, did the minute he saw her.
My hand smoothed restively over the front, failing to replicate the moment in my mind. Bryce was completely overcome when he saw Rose. He’d sunk to his knees and askedfor her hand in marriage before she even opened her mouth. Love at first sight, just like they wrote about in the many books I read. Their union had to have been written in the stars. Was that why the bearded man had bothered to look up and zero in on just my window? Was he unconsciously seeking me?
Only one way to find out.
I set my hair into a bun. Not as neatly or as intricately as Agnes would’ve managed, but if this was fate, it wouldn’t matter. That stray tendril of hair that spiraled down my neck would draw his hand, wanting to twist his finger around it. That’s what happened to the heroine in one of my favourite books. She felt shivers through her entire body at his touch, which had him smiling down at her, fascinated by her response. Right then I replaced the characters. I was the heroine and the bearded man was the male lead. Gods, it could be any of them really. If he and I were not suited, then surely one of the other men would do. Then I’d be like Rose, mistress of my own home and out from under Mother’s tyrannical rule.
I made for the door, then stopped. Looking around at the room I’d spent much of my life in, I had to wonder what the next phase would be like. My books were lined up on several bookcases. This was a pastime Mother despised because she feared I’d become some kind of bluestocking, but perhaps I would marry a man who would encourage my love of books. Gods, he might even have a library of his own.
The little watercolours I’d painted of the animals I’d caught sight of in the woods were littered across my desk. Perhaps I could set up a studio in my new home. Looking at the feathers and tiny skulls and curious coloured rocks I’d collected lined along my window sill, I knew I could find new ones wherever I moved. I smiled then, ready to meet my future, before pausing.
Darting forward, I grabbed one book, then two, shoving them deep into my dress pockets. I was sure I wouldn’t havea chance to read, but books had become a sort of talisman. I wasn’t just carrying around a story, but a whole other world I could get lost in. Part of me didn’t want to consider why I’d need that escape, but the other half wouldn’t allow me to leave the room without it. I nodded and then pulled my door shut, heading downstairs.
Why didn’t I take the main stairs? Why didn’t I step down gracefully, meeting the eyes of each of the men clustered in the foyer? I could hear their masculine voices, a low rumble in the background. Part of me knew how Mother would react when she saw my old dress, not the new one, so I took the path of least resistance, which meant going down the servant’s stairs.So far, so good, I thought as my feet touched the floor.Go down the hall, towards the foyer. Find Father and sidle up to him. He was always good at keeping Mother at bay. The only thing that could, really. I’d let Father introduce me to each of the men, and… My thoughts trailed away, because as I moved closer, I heard several men speaking amongst themselves.
“So your father put you up to this as well?” This was delivered in the low, sly tones men use when having an inappropriate conversation between themselves.
“Couldn’t help himself, could he?” another man said. “Not with that dowry. Pater is insisting I ask the little beast to marry me.”
Little. Beast?
My feet were suddenly stuck to the floor, unable to move nearer or away.
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” the first man said.
“Have you seen her? Fern, she’s called, and that’s far too pretty name for a pig.”
“Now hang on—” another man said.
“What else would you call something like that?” the second man continued. “Chubby little cheeks. Bright pink complexion.I’m fairly sure I heard her snort when she laughed at some idiot’s joke at dinner some years ago. Why?” There was a brief pause. “Were you hoping for a love match?”
He said that with such complete scorn. As if anyone thinking such a thing was possible was utterly stupid, and of course, that meant me. I heard the sound of glass breaking, but was that someone in the kitchen dropping a glass or just my dreams shattering into a million pieces?
My hand dove into my pocket, my fingers tracing the worn gilt lettering embossed there.
“Not really,” the first man drawled. “The elder sister? That was a possibility. A fine figure of a woman.”
“Takes after her mother,” the third man said. “Quite the beauty back in the day, I hear. It’s always an unfortunate thing when a daughter takes after the father.”
