Page 3 of Scarred
We have slotted many moving pieces carefully into place, ensuring that when the crowned prince was in need, I would be the one there to accept his hand. It’s only been one year since the death of my father, and two since that of the king, but finally, we’ve received word.
It’s time.
Arranged betrothals, while not uncommon, have gone slightly out of fashion in recent years. After all, it’s 1910, no longer the 1800s, and in all the storybooks, and even here in the poverty-ridden streets of Silva, people marry for love.
Or their idea of it, anyway.
But I’ve never been one with ideas of grandeur, thinking some white knight will ride in on his steed and save me like some helpless damsel in distress.
There may be distress, but I’m no helpless damsel.
Besides, sometimes the only way to enact genuine change is by becoming part of the machine and ripping out the broken pieces yourself. So, if I have to smile, flirt, and seduce my way into the new king’s good graces, that’s what I intend to do.
It’s my duty, after all.
To both my familyandmy people.
Silva, which was once known for its abundant lands and groundbreaking industrialization, has now become barren and lame. Cast to the side like an ugly redheaded stepchild, unworthy of the crown’s time or attention. Now we’re not known at all; drought and famine mixing with the despair that runs through the city streets like cracks in the pavement.
I suppose that’s what happens when you’re situated deep within a forest nestled high in the clouds. You become hard to see and easy to forget.
“You understand what’s at stake?” Uncle Raf asks, bringing me out of my reverie.
Nodding, I wipe my mouth with a white cloth napkin, placing it back in my lap. “Yes, of course.”
He grins, his skin crinkling as he taps his fingers on the bulbous top of his wood cane. “You’ll bring honor to our name.”
The heady sense of his approval lights me up like a cannon and I sit a little straighter in my chair, smiling back at him.
“And you’ll trust no one except your cousin,” he adds.
He glances at my mother, ever docile and quiet as she eats her meal, taking small bites, her unruly black hair so like mine creating a curtain around her face. She rarely makes eye contact, always choosing to keep her head down and her fingers busy with needlework and dusty books, rather than forge a relationship with the daughter who’s taken over everything since my father left her a widow.
I suspect she never wanted to be a mother, and that she wanted to marry even less. She’s never said the words, but there’s no need when her actions speak so loudly. But my father wanted her, and that’s all that mattered.
And when she grew with child, they expected it to be the next male heir to the Beatreaux line.
Instead, they got a wild raven-haired female with a sense of adventure and a mouth that speaks out of turn. And my father loved me all the same, even if my mother never showed a lick of affection.
The day I lost him, a piece of me was lost too; curdled like sour milk and left in the center of my chest to fester and rot.
He went to plead with the monarchy for aid. Took it upon himself to travel through our forests and over the plains until he made it to the Saxum castle. But the crown didn’t listen to his plight, and my cousin Alexander sent word that they had him hung for treason. Because he dared to speak out and say they needed to do more.
Alexander tried to save him, but there’s only so much he can do when he’s head adviser to the king.
My uncle Raf has been indispensable ever since, and while he’s done nothing but support me, I still ache to be held in the arms of my father. Instead, all that’s left is a family pendant that I wear around my neck like an oath; one that reminds me every single day of what I’ve lost.
And who’s to blame for my sorrow.
So now, while other girls my age spend their time daydreaming about falling in love, I spend mine learning how to play into political warfare while still portraying the etiquette of nobility.
If you want to burn down hell, you must learn to play the devil’s game.
The metaphorical crown being placed on my head is almost as heavy as the knowledge that everyone depends on me to see things through.
And the Faasa family’s reign has been allowed to go on too long, their power and influence having decayed with time, becoming less about people and country and more about overindulgence and greed.
So, I’ll go to court. And I’ll do what needs to be done to save my people and seek justice for those we’ve lost.
