I should have known I’d end up here eventually. Rotting in a hole. Though the accommodations Evander made for me in the prison cell aren’t exactly shabby.
Evander is kind like that.
I’m pretty sure he threatened the guards within an inch of their life if any of them lays a hand on me, because they keep even their eyes averted.
My cell is simple, like he wants to make a point about this definitely being a punishment for my behavior. The bed is lumpy, and I toss and turn every night until my back is tangled in knots.
If I’m being honest with myself, I sleep the day away, too.
But the cell is clean, and my latrine is changed out three times a day, so it rarely stinks in my cell. And my food, while devoid of pastries and scones, is prepared in an assortment of colors. Like Evander is concerned I’ll miss out on key nutrients.
Like I’m a child he’s worried won’t grow if I don’t eat my vegetables.
Andy’s been kind to me, even if he hasn’t visited. I’ve no doubt he’ll make good on his promise to visit the Queen of Naenden and inquire about the magic that possesses me.
He’s nothing if not kind.
It sort of makes it worse.
For the first time in my life, I envy my stepsisters. They’re vain and they prattle on about senseless things, so I’ve never coveted their position. I’d take my stepmother’s loathing over her suffocating affection any day.
But my stepsisters are used to being rejected by potential suitors. It’s the kind of thing that’s bound to happen if you make a habit of throwing yourself at men well above your station, refusing to settle for the sweet farm boys who dote all over you and would happily rescue your family from squalor and raise them to a level of mediocrity.
Apparently, my stepmother considers squalor to be a more reputable position than having her daughters tend pigs like lowly farmhands. So she sics them on counts and nobles and a great many males who might have taken them on as mistresses, but never as wives.
Wives are good for three things:
Status.
Money.
Heirs.
And we have none of it. Who knows, maybe my stepsisters are abundantly fertile, so I take it back. But one out of three isn’t exactly passing with flying colors. The no money part, especially.
Well, they have the little I made working at the palace all those years.
Evander has no idea, of course. He would probably have my stepmother’s head if he knew.
But she has something over me even Evander cannot fix.
I don’t envy the way my stepmother forces my stepsisters to primp and preen and throw themselves at men who will never desire them.
I envy the truth in their words as they comfort one another.
What is Sir Fudgerumple thinking, refusing a beauty like you, Elegance? The man has a wart for a nose, stars above!
It’s probably for the best, Chrys. I know Mother can only see his fortune, but I’ve heard he keeps his mistresses tied up in his cellar. Can you imagine the noise? No, you’re better off without him.
My sisters might be horrendous when it comes to character, but they’re byproducts of my stepmother’s cruelty. It doesn’t originate with them. Besides, they have each other.
And they have the kernels of truth they take comfort in—the endless reasons the scoundrels their mother tries to marry them off to would have been a bad match, anyway.
I have no such comfort when it comes to Evander.
At least he’ll be with Ellie. At least he’ll be happy.
The guards tell me they’re to be married tonight.
I’m happy for them. I really am, even if happiness feels more like nausea in this scenario, like having my heart cut into tiny ribbons with the blunt edge of a blade.
At least I hadn’t irreparably ruined any hope of them being together the night Evander let me go.
Let it go.
That’s about the best I can do.
About as positive as I can manage. Given the situation I find myself in, I figure I’m not doing all that badly.
My chest aches, not from the chill of my prison cell, of the frigid air that burns my nostrils and lungs. Apparently, the guards will only bend so far to Evander’s will. A fire would benefit not just me, but my prison mates.
I have to admit; I don’t mind them suffering.
The first day I arrived, the male in the cell next to me had gone on and on about my breasts.
I’d woken the next morning to his cell empty.
My new neighbor is better, but only because I prefer verbal abuse to some perv undressing me with his eyes. But she’s a mercenary who’s known for slaughtering the families of her targets, so I don’t know that we’re on track to becoming the best of friends.
