#precarious

Still, your denial is a hefty a shield as those pages. Neither can protect you from the inevitable. The hours tick away on your watch and countdown to your fate. 

The bell will soon toll with the screech of your mother’s voice. She will be certain to sniff you out of your nest. You sigh wistfully and close the book. How many hours had you wiled away just like that? How many days had you spent ignorant to your own freedom? It is all coming to an end, though can’t truly say you ever lived outside captivity. Yet, what you know is always better than the unknown. 

Your brow twitches and you rub it to calm the tight muscle. You nearly knock your round glasses off in the process. As you straighten them, you can already hear your mother’s remonstrance. ‘Why don’t you wear your contacts? We spent all that money on them.’  

Well, mother, they make my eyes burn. 

Like everything else, you keep the gripe inside. She never cares when you do speak up. Only your sisters care and they’re just as powerless as you. 

Some might say you’re spoiled. Ungrateful, even. Look at what you were born into. Not everyone has a nice house and fancy cars and sprawling lawns. Oh, and don’t forget that title. You have one of those too. Well, no one ever asked you if you want all that. They just put the mantle on your shoulders so you could stagger under its weight. 

The familiar lurch of the front gates draws you from your spite. You dread that sound more than anything. It means there’s a guest and you were never one for people. 

You duck to see through the leaves and watch the car roll through the gates. The older model is painted a shade of robin’s egg that sticks out even at a distance. You sit up and check your watch. It’s very early still, yet, you don’t have much time at all. Not as it keeps on rolling by. 

You tuck your book in your sweater and tuck in the hem to keep it from slipping. You turn to scale down the trunk, careful as you lower yourself to the next branch and the next, before gently dropping into the grass. You stand and adjust your glasses as you try to track the vehicle’s advance towards the house. 

You hug your book through the wool of your sweater and sprint across the lawn. You stay behind the hedges and the spiked shrubs around the front of the house. You duck behind the plinth that holds a full-bellied vase of lilies.  

You peek out from behind the stone as you watch the blond man step out of the car. He peers up at the facade as he shades his gaze from the sunlight. It’s a nice day for the worst of your life. 

He’s tall and his golden hair has a subtle wave, even combed back neatly. He wears a brown suit with a plaid pattern in a tan tint, and he stands with fearless determination. He measures the house. He does not see a future wife, he sees the riches waiting. 

You skirt around behind the greenery and enter through the side door before you can be spotted. The hubbub of the cooks and the maids overshadows your covert quest. Even as the second-born daughter of a prestigious family, you go unnoticed. You scurry up your stairs as your father’s voice booms from behind you. He isn’t calling for you, he never does. 

You hurry down the hallway and the book slips from your sweater as the bottom pulls loose from your waistband. You push your glasses up into your hair as they slip down your nose. You catch the novel and press it under your arm as you charge towards Chicky’s door. You let yourself in without knocking, breathless as you slam yourself against the other side. 

Your sisters turn to you in surprise, your own must be just as plain. You only expected one, not both. 

“I saw one,” you blurt out. 

“Saw one?” Chicky, your younger sister, repeats back. 

You shush her and storm away from the door. 

“He’s tall. Blond. Look.” You point to the window, hoping he has yet to breach the walls.  

Your sisters glance at each other then behind them. Chicky stands and she goes with Kestral to look. You hover near the vanity and glance your reflection. Oh, you are a mess. You pull a leaf from your hair and glower. And you are to meet your betrothed today? 

“Oh, wow, that is typical,” Kestral sneers. “An antique car. Well, Wren, you should hope he’s yours then. By the looks of it, he’ll spend more time with that beast than you.” 

You squeak and shake your head, swaying on your feet so you almost topple. The thought makes your stomach bubble. You scrunch up your face and put your book again your chest. 

“Mm, he has manners. He is chatting rather intently with Reginald.” Kestral says. 

You frown at the mention of the valet. He is so nosy. 

“Yes, Reginald can be rather chatty,” you mutter. Chicky tilts coyly. You’re not sure why. 

“Well, Kes,” Chicky says as she turns to you, “you said you asked around. What did you hear?” 

The question makes your heart knot even if you are just as curious, though rather scared, to hear the answer. 

“Like I said, gossip is rarely useful.” Kestral gives a long sigh. “Mine, Conrad… he’s not much history in ‘society’,” she gives a lilt to the words with a gesture, “from what I’ve gathered, he comes from a well to do family. I heard more of his brother than him. Frustratingly mysterious.” 

She sounds as aggravated as her words suggest. She sits on the bed with folded arms. “then there’s Laufeyson,” the name sends a shiver through you. You remember when you first heard it spoke. Your father’s demands echo in your head. ‘You will do as I bid.’ As ever father. 

“He does have quite the reputation,” she continues. “A tricky man. I’m not entirely sure why mother and father chose him but no offense, Wrenny, you are a middle child.” 

You blink dolefully, “Mm, I’d say better than no one but no one sounds rather nice.” 

Chicky giggles. She always finds things so funny. You wish you could be like her. That anything could make you so happy. 

“And me?” your younger sister prompts. 

“Pine, proper gentleman by my measure. Never as toe out of line. No mystery. No scandal. He sounds like he was created in a factory.” 

“Boring?” Chicky wonders. 

It’s all boring and it’s all terrifying. You trace the edge of the book with your fingernail and rock. Their voices haze together as you try to imagine what your life will be. It’s right there, closer by the minute, but you just can’t imagine it. You can’t imagine the man who you’ll spend your life with. 

You squeak at the very thought of him seeing you. What will he think? And after that? You’re expected to… to… oh my. No, you could never. 

“Wren,” Kestral’s voice snaps you back, “you can take all your book and add a thousand more to your shelves. You could build yourself a castle and lock yourself away to read forever. And Chicky, you just be you. Go out shooting or dancing or shopping. As long as our duty is met, we will be free. Truly. No more mother, no more father. We will laugh in their faces and say ‘no’.”  

“I hope you’re right,” Chicky speaks your thoughts aloud. 

You don’t believe she is right, though. You don’t see it happening. As much as you would love to build a little hermitage, you don’t think any husband will stand for that. Even if your father would rather swallow glass than spend time alone with your mother, they still make their appearances. Together. 

“So, Wren, you look ready to meet your beloved,” Kestral teases.  

You blanch, “oh. Sorry. I... was reading.” 

“You? Reading?” She chuckles. “I’m only kidding. But if you want me to work on your hair, I think I might have you looking a kitten rather than a lion.” 

“Hm, yes, maybe,” your brow spasms again and you nearly slap your glasses off trying to stop it. 

“What are you wearing then?” Chicky asks. 

“Um, clothes. Er. They’re in my room,” you shrug.  

“Well, yes, I would hope,” she smirks. 

“Sorry,” you apologise again. 

“I’ve got to fetch my dress, might I get yours as well?” Kestral offers as she stands. 

You shake your head, “that’s fine. I’ll... I’ll figure it out on my own.” 

You turn for the door and she calls after you again, “we’re your sisters, you know? If you need anything... well, we’re in this together, aren’t we?” 

“Sure, uh, yes,” you murmur over your shoulder as you clasp the door handle. “See you at dinner.” 

“See you...” Kestral drones in disappointment as Chicky clucks. 

You inch open the door and peek out before you plunge into the hallway. You hurry down to your room and hide inside. You just need time to think. Get yourself straight. 

You check the mirror on the wall. Ugh! Your hair. Your face. Your everything. 

You go into the en suite bathroom and rinse your face. You moisturise with the tinted lotion Kestral gifted you and scrape your lashes with mascara. Ugh. You hate painting yourself up like a doll. So you keep it minimal; lotion, lashes, lips. 

You pop back into your room and pull out your chosen attire. Your mother approved after you moped her into submission. All the dresses she showed you had you turning your shoulder to you. She finally relented and let you choose something less... risque. 

The pattern of the silk reminds you of an empress you read about. The blue and gold pair well and the red patches add some depth. The pantsuit is as comfortable as you’ll be given the circumstances. 

You’re not like Kestral. You can’t pull off elegance, and you’re far from cute, like Chicky. You’re just yourself. That fact is not a happy one for your parents. You’re not sure it’ll be any more endearing to the stranger you’ll call your husband. 

You put it on and tie up the belt. You have some bronze heels to match and a satin band to try to rein in your hair. The sapphire on the headband adds a touch of shine to appease your mother. When you look at yourself all done up, you’re still not ready. 

You wonder if that blond man is the one you’re expected to wed. The very thought makes you sick to your stomach. He doesn’t look like a good match. He’s too suave, too handsome, too pristine. Well, no aristocratic gentleman would present himself otherwise. 

You retreat from your reflection and sit at your desk. You stare at the book, mourning it like a friend. You aren’t naive or foolish, though many people assume that you are. A marriage means you won’t be alone. You won’t be able to just sit and read and hide away from the world.  

Your mother might be demanding but you expect nothing less than a tyrant to replace her. By your father’s foreboding, any husband would be right to put you in your place. Based on how disappointed your own parents are, you can’t imagine someone without any familial obligation will be any less disillusioned.