Chapter 22 Semi-Porcine Transformation
Agatha
I allow the thug to lead me through the inn, quieter this morning than it was last night, and outside to a closed carriage. My back stays stiff, my chin tips up haughtily, and I sweep into the carriage as regally as if I were the one who ordered it here.
He slams the door behind me. Still I do not slouch. It’s the Poise.
Duke Mansfield! Of course it would be Mansfield! I try to convince myself it’s fine. I’ve always planned on marrying him, haven’t I? Don’t I deserve the life of a duchess? Isn’t he the richest man in Candor—and isn’t that what I care about?
The ghost of Lem’s touch, a whisper of his gruff voice, will intrude, despite my best efforts.
My stomach lurches as the carriage takes off down the uneven streets of Glen Violet.
The sounds of morning—whinnying horses, shouting children, clanging blacksmiths—squeeze through the cracks around the window coverings.
The air inside the carriage is stuffy, but I don’t bother trying to pry open a window.
Why should I care if I suffocate, if I’m already clattering straight to the greasy arms of Duke Mansfield? He’ll suffocate me anyhow, squeezing and controlling until I’m a tame, passive, smiling creature again.
This is what I wanted. This is what I wanted. I rub my arms where goosebumps are forming under my skin.
Why do I suddenly care so much? Tears prick the backs of my eyes.
It’s not fair—not fair that I was resigned to this life, that I had made myself into a beautiful shell of a woman, neither expecting nor hoping for anything more than living out the godmother-blessed role assigned to me before I said my first word.
But to give me a taste of freedom—a taste of what it would be like to speak my mind—to exist, not as Lady Agatha, but as just Agatha—to be hungry and dirty, but welcomed by strangers—to be as wild as the rhododendron that stubbornly twine themselves wherever they please—to live with Lem—
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes.
Mansfield won’t get the satisfaction of seeing me crying like a frightened child.
The Poise must carry me through. Shoving my feelings aside, I focus only on surviving this with dignity.
I will not let the duke get the upper hand.
He may have brute force on his side, but I still have my Gifts, and I’ll use them.
When the dark carriage thuds to a stop, and the red-headed thug lets me out the door, I am quite composed. Back straight, hands folded, hair neat, cheeks pinched, skirt smoothed and dusted as much as could reasonably be expected after days of walking.
I say nothing to the man, but follow with a high-headed imitation of cool confidence, only my eyes flicking to take in my surroundings as he herds me through a weedy courtyard and up a set of stone steps into the duke’s manor.
Despite the weeds, the exterior of the house is quite nice, made of dark brick with painted trim.
It’s larger than Father’s manor, and clearly in better repair.
I wonder what Father is thinking now. Does he regret his hasty choice to marry me and Lem? Does he wish he had me back? Does he feel any pity for my situation? Or has he already forgotten me?
And what of Stepmother, and my brothers? Are they now bearing the brunt of Father’s disappointment, or has he pinned his hopes on one of them to make his fortune now that I’ve let him down?
I hope he doesn’t mean to try to get another godmother-blessed daughter; I doubt Melusine would take kindly to Father offering her another motherless infant.
At the top of the steps, my captor yanks open a heavy door and prods me through.
The interior of the house is as dark as the outside, paneled with mahogany and boasting wine-red runners over the floors.
A polished suit of armor—how cliche!—watches me warningly from a corner of the entry hall, while a portrait of the duke leers from the opposite wall.
Ugh. I had managed to forget just how repulsive he is. Even with his features softened by an over-generous painter, his face is just too … well, ugly.
How shallow of me. I, of all people, should know what a sham beauty is. It’s not as if being pretty has had any real effect on my character. So what if Mansfield is ugly? I got used to Lem’s plain face easily enough. So easily, in fact, that I’ve begun to admire him a bit.
The watchful eyes of the portrait follow us down a high-ceilinged hall with the same red runner.
I hope I’m leaving muddy footprints all over it.
Except that wouldn’t affect the duke; he certainly isn’t the one cleaning around here.
I rescind my petty hope, after all. As we tread the everlasting carpet, I watch out for anything that looks like it would help my escape.
My escape? The thought surprises me. I’m not trying to escape. I tell myself, firmly and desperately, that I am very grateful for the duke’s rescue and I want nothing more than to be his adoring servant for the rest of my days.
Yes, yes. Those are the thoughts I need to focus on. I must think them until I’m able to say them, because if I say anything I’m actually thinking …
We reach a set of stairs, as dark and forbidding as everything else in this gloomy crypt, and the thug begins to ascend.
Gathering my skirts in one hand, I keep pace with him.
My other hand rests lightly on the wooden banister, and I force my mind to focus on the sensation of the polished wood gliding under my fingers.
This house is very nice. Everything is very fine. I’m honored to be here.
The thug leads me to the first door at the top of the stairs. He knocks and waits for the duke’s reply before opening it. It swings inward, and he jerks his thumb for me to step in.
I do.
I can thank Melusine for the fact that my steps are steady, my palms dry, and I’m not curling my lip at the hideous man sulking in a maroon armchair next to an open window.
“Lady Agatha,” Duke Mansfield greets me unpleasantly. “You’ve led me on quite the nasty chase.”
Now’s the time to perform. I suck in a careful breath and bow my head, deep enough to be respectful, but shallow enough not to be groveling. “Your Grace.”
Oh, how I had wanted to slip a different word in there—“you boor” and “your greasiness” both suggested themselves to me—but I managed to wrestle both my mind and my tongue into submission. One point for me.
His gaze rakes over me, taking in my mud-splattered dress and my scuffed boots.
He lets his eyes linger until I have to focus very hard on not fidgeting.
“Well?” he demands. “Don’t you have anything to say to me, you poisonous minx?
” He spits the epitaph as if he’s been practicing it, which, I presume, he has been.
For him to say anything remotely clever, he’d have to think of it at least a week in advance.
No, I chide myself. I cannot afford to think like that! If I were to say it—!
I lower my gaze to the floor. Men like that. “I should not have spoken as I did,” I say, quite truthfully. I can’t quite cough up a plea for forgiveness, though.
He snorts. His voice is grating and sarcastic. “No, you shouldn’t have. But don’t worry. I intend to make you pay for it.”
I grit my teeth. This is … not ideal. If I must be united to the duke, I must, but it would be more pleasant if he were not quite so obsessed with the idea of revenge and payment and humbling me and whatnot.
What happened to my Gift of Charm? I’m supposed to be winsome, am I not?
Oh, yes. The Charm is attached to my voice, so as long as I have to suppress it, I have no way to mollify the duke.
I close my eyes for a second. I need to focus, and trust that I can say something both true and charming. There must be some way for my Gifts to coexist?
“I have no money.” I latch my thoughts onto payment. My gaze flutters up to him in an attempt to look naive and slightly pathetic. “I don’t know how I can pay—”
This inspires another snort. Must he snort so much? Is it not enough that he resembles a pig in appearance—must he do his best to sound like one, too?
Maybe the duke is cursed. Did he annoy a fairy and get a semi-porcine transformation spell? Or is he a pig who swallowed a potion that turned him into this excuse for a man?
Focus, Agatha! If I keep letting my thoughts run wherever they want like this, I’ll be in real trouble. I press my lips together tightly.
“Money!” That abominably greasy leer still plays around his mouth. “You won’t pay in money. Aren’t you supposed to be clever? Haven’t you worked it out?” He pushes himself out of his armchair.
The best thing I can do is change the subject.
I let my gaze slide to stare absently at a wall and curl a loose strand of hair around my finger.
“Father didn’t want me to be clever. Do you—” I look at the duke’s ugly—stop it, Agatha!
—I look back to the duke. “Do you—do you mind?” It’s a close call, getting that last question out, but I hope the way I choke on it helps my performance.
He wants someone to be under his thumb; I should be able to act that.
Sound young, sound small, sound simple. Fawn and admire.
Excise any bit of intelligence, any scrap of superiority, any hint of willfulness.
Shrink. Fade.
Wither.
It’s harder now, with Melusine’s last gift still warping my tongue, but I can do it. Even if it hurts stuffing myself back into this little box.
I didn’t realize, until I was out of that box, how cramped and crinkled it left my spirit. Then, a few days of glorious promise and intoxicating freedom, and now—must I really diminish again and be only the Lady? Must I play this part with no respite until I die?
The duke strolls across the room and stares in a way I presume is supposed to be menacing. “Your father was right,” he says. “No one wants a clever woman, unless she knows how to hold her tongue.”