Chapter 4
Chapter Four
T hat night, after I cry myself to sleep, I dream of the woman in the market. The one I met when I was eleven.
My dream plays out exactly the way it happened.
It’s the first day of spring. Blue shadows layer the market square while icicles drip toward nonexistence, a steady dribble against the cobblestones. Half of Pine’s End browses in the newfound sunshine. The scent of roast mutton warms the air.
I’m trailing Brendan through the market, aimlessly enjoying the tender kiss of spring, when I spot the woman.
I stop in my tracks. It’s rare enough to encounter a stranger in Pine’s End—this town would barely exist if not for the cotton mill—but that’s not what has me frozen.
The woman is Marked. A black triquetra peeks through the ties of her cloak, but where my tattoo looks like a crown, hers is inverted. Its downward-facing point resembles a falling teardrop rather than the upthrust jewel of a diadem.
She’s...a Null .
My jaw slackens. I’ve never seen one of my counterparts before. They’re just as rare as Charms, and most don’t display the evidence of their curse so openly. They don’t show off their Marks, the way my parents insist I do.
Beside me, a woman with a toddler stops to pluck something off the cobblestones. “Would you look at that?” Pleasure thickens her voice. “Someone dropped an entire gold piece. What’re the chances?”
I barely register her pocketing of the coin. The chill nips at my bare throat as I start forward.
The Null doesn’t notice my approach. She stands at a tented stall, inspecting a bolt of sapphire silk. When I’m halfway to her, a crack echoes though the crisp air. A block of snow breaks free atop the stall and slides down the canopy, then lands directly on her head. Slush drips from her forehead and nose.
I stare in horrified fascination. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, but she doesn’t look surprised. Something flashes in her eyes—embarrassment, maybe? She brushes the frozen chunks away, her movements sluggish with resignation.
The stall owner offers her a rag. He hesitates upon seeing her Mark, but she snatches the cloth, anyway, then hands it back when she’s finished. Her dark brows carve a vee between her eyes as she hurries away.
I glance behind me. Brendan is distracted, haggling over a bar of soap, and I clutch my cloak closed to hide my Mark. I dart after the Null, intercepting her just as she ducks around a vegetable stand.
My free hand shoots out, clamping around hers. Bare skin to bare skin .
She turns to face me, puzzlement creasing her features. The crisp day—or maybe the snowball to the face—has coaxed color from her cheeks.
“What is it, sweetie?” she says. “Are you lost?”
My grip tightens. I don’t know how long this is supposed to take. No one does, considering it’s done so rarely. Some say a few seconds. Some say a few minutes. Some say it’s different every time, depending on the Null and the Charm.
My parents have always insisted I never chance it at all.
But now a buzz hatches in my fingertips, the tremor of two opposing magics equalizing across the bridge of our skin.
A heartbeat later, the woman realizes what’s happening. Her eyes widen. She tries to pull back, but I cling to her, reveling in the building tingle.
“Let go,” she hisses. “What’re you doing?”
“Don’t you want me to?” I say, plaintive. Because I do.
I want to.
“Yes, of course, but...but...you’re a child .” Panic pitches her voice upward.
One heartbeat. Another. The world narrows, locking us into a moment of cosmic convergence. The thrum of the market fades, until nothing remains but the accelerating hum of our joined hands.
A heady sense of release overtakes me. My luck is dying. Bleeding out. In another moment, there will be no more rules. No more being paraded around. No strangers clamoring to get near me, no stares glued to my chest as though I were born without a face.
The woman searches me with bewildered eyes. “Stop,” she says, and this time she yanks. Hard.
A pair of large hands clamps down on my shoulders, wrenching me backwards. The connection severs. A burst of magic crackles across my skin.
“Bria!” Brendan’s voice is thunder in my ears. He grips me by the shoulders and shakes me. “What’re you doing?”
I gape at him as spots burst in my vision and fade. For a moment, I wonder how he found me. Shouldn’t my luck have prevented it? But then my glance falls on the Null. She stands unmoving, a fist pressed to her belly. She’s still plenty close enough to cancel my luck.
Right.
Brendan has gone pale. “You can’t touch her, she’s cursed. What were you even thinking?”
A sob swells in my chest. The woman’s Mark is still there, which means mine is, too. But I cage my reaction with a swallow. “I’m sorry,” I lie. “I just...lost track of you. I was going to ask if she’d seen a boy with brown hair. I didn’t realize. I didn’t see her Mark.”
The Null woman fixes me with a piercing stare, and I beg with my eyes. Please don’t tell .
“Okay.” Brendan’s breath rushes out of him. “Okay, it was just an accident. But we need gloves. You have to wear gloves, so there are never any mistakes.”
“Yes,” I say, like the pliant, dutiful sister I am. “No mistakes.”
The Null watches as Brendan leads me away. The bustle of Pine’s End reasserts itself, and soon I’m awash in the hustle of vendors, the clatter of mule carts, the fragrant waft of cinnamon.
But a dull ache drags at me. I was so close. For one vivid, shining moment, I was almost normal.
When we reach the edge of the square, Brendan unlaces my cloak, then studies my triquetra as if counting each point. “Mom and Dad would’ve killed me,” he mutters. “You have to be more careful.”
“Right,” I say. “Careful. I will be.”
The memory—or dream—shifts and dissolves, releasing me into wakefulness. I open my eyes and blink up at the ornate canopy over my bed. A wash of gray light filters through the curtains.
Shame smolders in my belly. I sit up in the predawn and run my hands through my long brown waves. Fortuna help me, I hate that dream. I hate remembering what I did to that woman. I hate knowing I almost took away her choice.
I may have been a child, but that’s no excuse. Regret set in even before Brendan pulled me through the doors of our gigantic, unearned house that day, pleading with me not to tell our parents what he’d almost let happen.
I swore I wouldn’t.
I also swore—privately—never to do to anyone else what I nearly did to that Null. Never again would I treat someone as their Mark. As a means to an end. I, of all people, should know better.
Which is why, in ten years, I’ve never touched Weston, never grabbed onto him by “accident.” Why it would’ve had to be his choice.
At the thought, my chest twists, and I flop down again, giving the window my back. I should probably get more sleep. But when I close my eyes, only jagged pain awaits. Someone has hacked a decade’s worth of hope out of my skeleton and left a ragged, dripping wound behind. The agony of it steals my breath.
Is this what normality feels like? Maybe. Most unMarked people have probably, at some point in their lives, wanted a thing so badly it’s fused with their soul, only to have it wrested away.
Maybe I’m not cut out for that, after all.
I stay in bed, but sleep eludes me. Today, my brother will sell me to the highest bidder. He’ll ensure my luck provides our family with yet another infusion of riches, and our parents will probably celebrate by extending the trip they jaunted off on six months ago. They’ll gallivant around the continent for another year or three, and I’ll spend my days making superficial conversation with Calder or Bastian or Theodore. At night, in bed, I’ll turn my gaze away. Stare at the wall until they’ve finished.
I burrow deeper into the sheets. I don’t actually care who it ends up being. Their faces blur together in my mind, a hazy composite of every man that isn’t Weston.
There may be ninety-nine choices, but to me, they’re all the same.
At least, that’s what I go into Brendan’s office believing, when I drag myself up to the third floor, two hours later. My attendant, Minnie, has dressed and brushed me and laced my corset tight enough to pinch.
Which I don’t mind, today. It distracts from the serrated pain in my heart.
Brendan looks up from the papers he’s perusing. Excitement glows in his face.
“What?” I say, wary.
“You’ll never believe it.” He can barely contain his grin. “We’ve had a hundredth proposal. Just this morning.”
My pulse stutters. “What? From who?” I try and fail to mask the hope in my voice .
“Well, as luck would have it...” Brendan pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect. “The duke of Alverton. He’s offered a fortune for you. And not a small one.”
The light flickering within me abruptly gutters out. The duke of Alverton. The duke of Alverton? No, he’s a cutthroat shark of a businessman, twice widowed and with a reputation for being just as ruthless with his wives as his investment partners.
I don’t even question those rumors, because my mother used to invite the late duchess to tea. Even as a child, I understood that something terrible had befallen that woman. She cringed at the faintest sound. She only spoke when addressed directly. Every time I saw her, she reminded me of a horse whose spirit had been broken.
I’d sooner hurl myself from a third-story window than be shackled to the duke of Alverton.
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. Anyone but him.”
Brendan frowns. “Lower your voice, will you? He’s come all the way from the country. He’s downstairs right now, waiting for my answer. Waiting for my agreement .”
Each word drives another stake through my heart. I grope for a nearby chairback to prop myself up.
This can’t be happening. My luck should prevent the duke from even thinking of offering for me. I glance down at my chest, half expecting to find it bare, but my triquetra stares back, a mocking black gleam in the early light.
“Impossible,” I whisper.
Brendan’s frown deepens. “It’s not. Which says something, doesn’t it? Your luck wouldn’t let me pair you with someone you wouldn’t like. Which means you’ll probably fall in love with him. You’ll probably be deliriously happy. You’ll have a dozen strapping sons.”
The floor tilts, the room receding. Fortuna, I don’t want a dozen sons. I can’t stand the thought of being kept, of being milked for my luck and forced to bear children for a man old enough to be my father.
I want...
Panic squeezes me until my fingertips tingle. Out. I want out. I need to run.
I stumble backward, then turn on my heel and flee. Bitter tears sting my eyes. The hallway rushes past, then the staircase, then another. I barrel down the final step and crash into a solid body. I reel back, peering up at a face I’ve never seen before.
My insides liquify. He’s...handsome. Older, yes, but the years have carved a rugged symmetry into his features, the kind only men get to enjoy. A few silver streaks thread hair the color of iron. His waistcoat is cut from rich red brocade, the shirt beneath as spotless as freshly milled paper.
He smiles. “Bria Radcliffe, I presume?”
My throat works, but nothing emerges.
His eyes trail over my hair and face, ultimately landing on my Mark. His sapphire eyes glint. “Very pretty.”
I don’t know if he means me or my tattoo. Nor do I care. I try to push past him, but he catches me by the arm, spinning me around and backing me against the wall.
My thoughts ricochet inside my head like rubber marbles. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be able to offer for me, shouldn’t be able to lay hands on me at all.
This is one stroke of bad luck after another, and it makes no sense .
The duke leans close. His proximity accelerates my breathing. A smile flickers across his mouth. “Not only pretty, but responsive, too, I see. That should make things less of a chore for me.”
I whimper. Fortuna’s blessings, how is this happening?
The duke grips my jaw and turns my head, inspecting me from this angle and that. I screw my eyes shut, but the wall prevents me from retreating. When I dare to look again, he’s gazing at me with open avarice.
Or at my Mark, rather.
Movement flashes behind him. When I glance past his shoulder, silence fills my ears, a white roar that blots everything else out. It’s...Weston. Standing in the foyer, not ten feet away. He looks stricken.
Suddenly, the situation makes sense. With him here, my luck might as well not exist.
“Birdie?” he says. My nickname drops into the quiet, small and misshapen.
I don’t stop to consider. I just open my mouth. “Help. Help me. Please .”
At my broken plea, Weston’s brows lower, his uncertainty hardening into the surly look I know so well. He crosses the foyer in three long strides, then grabs the duke’s shoulder and wrenches him away. “Get your hands off her.”
Outrage twists the duke’s features. He shakes off Weston’s grip and looks him up and down. Then up again. He has no choice, considering Weston’s height. “And who might you be?”
“A friend of the Radcliffes’.” Weston throws his shoulders back. It’s an obvious dare. A hit-me-and-see-what-happens challenge.
The duke barks out a derisive laugh. “A friend? Is that right?” His gaze lingers on the worn fabric of Weston’s shirt. “Well, whatever you are, you’d do well not to touch me.”
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and Brendan appears. “ Weston? What’s going on? What’re you doing down here?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” the duke says hotly. “This...vagabond just saw fit to assault me.”
“Because I asked him to,” I cut in. “Because you laid hands on me.”
Brendan shoots me a look clearly intended to silence me. “Alverton’s your intended. It’s not inappropriate for him to touch you.”
Weston pales beneath his golden tan. “Intended? You’re… No. You’re marrying Bria to him?”
As the dust-storm of my panic settles, rational thought peeks through. Why does Weston sound so horrified? Does that mean he actually cares? And what is he doing in our foyer at eight o’clock in the morning? He must have a reason for showing up so early.
Which means maybe... Just maybe...
Hope flares in the dead canyon beneath my ribs. “Ask,” I say.
Weston’s attention swivels toward me. “What?”
“Ask.” Desperation hurls words up my throat. “Please. For the love of Fortuna, just ask . I can’t marry him.”
Weston’s eyes are pools of yellow fire, his focus so concentrated that it’s like a hot poker tunneling through my skin. The moment looms, threatening to crush me beneath its weight.
But Weston ultimately straightens, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. His gaze swings to Brendan. “Let me marry Bria. ”
Air whooshes from my lungs. My entire being implodes into a cloud of glittering light.
I can’t believe it. One hundred and one proposals. Thank the goddess, one hundred and one.
The duke is the first to recover, his laugh slashing across the quiet like a whip. “What? Don’t be ridiculous, boy.”
Brendan glares down at his best friend, his expression thunderous. “What did you just say?”
Weston raises his chin. “I said I’ll marry her. Don’t yoke her to this...” He surveys the duke as if contemplating someone far beneath his station. Which, really, he is.
“…brute,” he finishes. “I can even make you an offer. Not as large as his, but I have some money. And I’ll give Bria a home. I’ll protect her. I’ll give her my...” He trails off.
Tingles trail down my spine. I wait.
Weston swallows hard. “Everything. I’ll give her everything. Even if we never touch.”
A squeak flies from my throat. If I weren’t leaning against the wall, I would crumple.
But Brendan’s frown deepens. “What’re you talking about? A Null can’t marry a Charm. And my best friend can’t marry my sister .”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, yes, yes. I can.” I don’t even care about Weston’s insistence on no touching. I’ll convince him. I’ll make him see.
“Double,” the duke says.
I flinch. I’d almost forgotten him.
“What?” My brother’s focus shifts.
The duke gives me a once-over and smiles. The sensation is like being slathered with rancid butter. “Now that I’ve seen her, I’ll double my offer. ”
My brother goes rigid. A gleam sneaks into his eyes. One I recognize.
My heart swan dives into my feet. “Oh, no,” I say. “No, please. I want Weston.”
But Brendan isn’t listening. He’s calculating . I can see the numbers spinning behind his eyes, soaking into his mind. Poisoning him.
Our family doesn’t need any more money, but that never stops my brother from wanting it. Now his decision takes even less time than I expect it to.
“You’ll marry Alverton.”
My next breath scorches my lungs raw. The duke says something, but I can’t hear it over the catastrophic roar of my bones crumbling.
I anchor my palms to the wall. Any moment now, Fortuna will intervene. She has to. Except...
No. She isn’t here. Not as long as Weston is.
“Why don’t you come up?” Brendan says to the duke. “So we can iron out a contract?”
Alverton polishes his fingernails against his shirtfront, then follows my brother up the stairs, leaving Weston and me alone.
I struggle to breathe. I can’t... Goddess, in all my daydreams, I never once imagined Weston proposing and being denied.
Which is stupid. I should have. I should’ve known Brendan would be blinded by a hefty enough price tag. I just assumed that things would all work out.
They always have before.
Weston stares at me, his brows crooked. My brother’s refusal has gouged a wound into him—it’s there in the way his shoulders sag, in the way his throat works around a painful-looking swallow.
A thousand unspoken words pass between us, but I can already tell it’s a lost cause.
“Just take me,” I plead. “Take me with you.”
He shakes his head. “Birdie, I?—”
My whimper cuts him off. “Don’t tell me you can’t. If you can marry me, you can steal me. Run away and take me with you. Just...don’t let Brendan marry me to that horrible man.”
He just stands there, looking as forsaken as I’ve ever seen him. “I don’t have a choice,” he says. “I’m not that lucky. Clearly. Even when I’m standing next to you. If I stole you, the duke would chase us. He’d catch us. You know that.”
I gulp. I do know. Because wherever we went, as long as we were together, we wouldn’t have my luck to shield us.
Weston turns away.
I want to cry out, to run after him, but my feet are rooted to the floor, nailed there by the weight of realization. He doesn’t actually want me. He only made this gesture out of some misguided sense of nobility.
I want to throw up.
Weston pauses at the threshold, but he doesn’t look back. A moment later, the door opens and closes. The enormity of what I’ve just lost crashes over me.
I slide down the wall. My one chance at freedom, at a life with the man I love...
Gone.