“You did like my sister, didn’t you?”
“She wasn’t bad,” I reply carefully. Not my type, I think, but Jensen didn’t need to know that.
We stopped the talk after that, steering away from the more emotional matters. The guys drank to me, perhaps out of pity, out of that wordless knowledge that yes. Being married to a Hartson of all people sucks balls. It’s a marriage I can’t escape from. Not without condemning my entire family to death.
All I can do is sit here and drink.
6
Pearl
I’m in hell. I’ve died and ended up in this accursed household. The moment the head servant walked into the room to change the sheets and clean it, spotting me there, her face had twisted up into an expression of intense dislike.
“You should be out of these rooms already,” she states, standing in a way as if she wants to lunge at me and strangle all the life out. “Why aren’t you with your husband?”
“I don’t think I want to be seen,” I say to her. Ethel, I think her name is. “I’m a Hartson in a house of Claymores.” I barely refrain from saying that I’m in a house of murderers, because I know I can’t afford to aggravate these people any more than they already feel. “People need to let it process that I’m here.”
“Nonsense. Go out. Be seen.” She forces me out of the room, even though I’m vaguely certain that she shouldn’t have the authority to do so. My experience navigating the entire household is galling, to say the least. Servants stop and whisper about me. Some of them aren’t exactly subtle about it. Guards glare with a molten anger, and the family members of the house more or less ignore me entirely. The presence of the Graves guards that lope after me, however, prevent anything worse from taking place. I don’t wear my sash or anything corresponding to yellow, since I suspect that the sight of the Hartson colors might drive some of these beasts to commit a “crime of passion.”
I do take the time to learn the names of the two Graves trailing me, proudly wearing their gray and black. Morgan and Danny. They at least don’t have any kind of agenda to kill me. That doesn’t stop the whispers, though. It doesn’t stop the hate.
“Protecting you might be harder than we thought, princess,” Morgan says, his dark eyes glaring around the kitchens. I’ve headed here for some food, because no one thought to bring me any. Probably deliberate.
“I’ll try not to get stabbed too much,” I tell him.
“Can’t be sure about that. We’re in a place with a lot of sharp utensils, you know.”
I hide back the grin, because there’s a sea of eyes looking at me. When I make the request for food, the kitchen staff stand there as if surprised a Hartson has the audacity to order them around. Right before they have to do that mental check in their heads, that I’m the heir’s wife, that technically, I have authority over them now.
I’m given a hard piece of bread, and when I grab a buttering knife to spread the mixture across it, one of the younger servants shrinks back. Like I’m going to stab her with the butter knife. Yes. “What, you think I’m going to eat the bread raw? Are there any syrups? Jams? Anything else I can use?”
The younger girl, who can’t be older than twelve, simply gawks, until an older, more robust woman barges past with a storm brewing on her face, and reaches inside a cupboard to take out a dark orange jar. “Here. I would appreciate it if you don’t come in here acting like you own the place,” the woman says. “We’ve got work to do.”
“I was hungry. No one brought me food. Surely that means I go to the kitchens if I want to get some?” That’s how it’s done in the Hartson home, anyway. The kitchens are a busy, mobile place.
The woman glances not too subtly at the Graves guards behind me. She licks her lips. “Yes, you can… but we’ll bring you the food to your quarters in the future.”
I sigh. The seven or so kitchen staff are now studiously ignoring me, apart from the fresh-faced girl and the older, chubbier woman. I know I have to somehow find a way to fit in this household, even though I’d rather not be here at all. “Thank you.” I think of the role these people want me to play. The Hartson monster. Someone who disrespects them in every possible way. So I grit my teeth, smile, and try to ignore the comments that erupt up like little hissing fires all around.
“I don’t think they’ll be foolish enough to harm you, princess,” Morgan says. I’m not sure why he insists on calling me princess, although I supposed technically the Claymores are the rulers of their patch of land. Not that we use that kind of terminology nowadays. “But still, I have to wonder if someone might just take matters into their own hands.”
“They’d have to be suicidal to do so,” I say, startling a servant bustling past with a chamber pot. Apparently there’s an ill member of the house, unable to move far from their bed. I watch them go with narrowed eyes. “Given the conditions of this marriage.”
Danny lets out a snort of boredom. “Your two feuding families have been hot debate for a while, miss. Seems you can’t go a month without hearing about some altercation or another. You don’t even know who started the feud in the first place!”
I huff out frustration. “Of course I do. All the Hartsons know what happened.”
“Do they, though? Because the Claymores have a contradicting tale. Your husband said as much.”
I color at this, though I know that they were eavesdropping. The reason why we made the sounds in the first place was for their benefit. I just dislike the reminder that there will be no privacy here. “Yes, but he’s clearly been lied to. All of them grow up, swallowing the lies.” It gives me a headache to consider the fact. How do I make them see the truth?
“Clearly,” Danny says, following me into Desmond’s suite without a care in the world, “you’ve both warped your own histories to justify why you’re right, and the other people aren’t.” Morgan hesitates, clearly intending to guard outside, but eventually stalks in as well. I chew on my food, irritated.
“Nonsense,” I snap, though my tone is slightly nullified by all the bread stuffed in my mouth. “Obviously one of the reports is wrong, and it’s theirs.”
“Sure ‘bout that?”
“With my life,” I say fiercely, glaring at the lanky guard, just daring him to contradict me. Our way is right. We have the truth of things. The Claymores – they only know lies.
“If you say so,” Danny says, though I see it in his eyes that he thinks I’m ignorant. Stupid. Morgan shakes his head, tapping Danny on the shoulder to leave me to scowl and brood with my food. My day continues to endure a steady decline of joy, especially when the Graves guards take time off. Twice I’m tripped in the corridors, and presented with insincere apologies for “not seeing me” as they did their work. I refused a drink given, about ninety percent certain it had been spat in, because of the way the serving woman looked entirely too pleased to give it to me. My dinner food has too much pepper in its mixture, and when I send away for another one, the next one is completely tasteless, with no spices in it at all.