#pugnacious

You flick your lashes up and twist on your heel. Suzanna gives you a guilty look as you pass. It isn’t the groomer’s fault. Your mother does as she wishes, so much so that she can’t help make others align with whatever those wishes may be. Well, you’ve agreed to do your duty, she’ll have nothing else out of you. 

The furrow in your brow eases and you put on a smile. The one you’ve trained since you were a girl. It’s rather convincing. Even she buys it sometimes. Though, since you’ve grown into adulthood, your mother does seem rather wary of you. Good. 

You roll your shoulders to free yourself of the last of the tension and breeze inside. The furor of the evening’s preparations greets you in a cacophony. You see Nancy frantically pulling lacy table mats from the closet and Annalise thunders demands in the kitchen. 

Before you can reach the stairs, your mother appears like a witch in one of those childhood movies she forbade you to watch. Well, all your friends had them and no matter what she thinks, she cannot command all. You keep your lips curved and bat your eyes innocently. 

“There you are,” she proclaims and gives a sniff, “and you don’t smell like a barn.” 

“Mother,” you retort, “I am on my best behaviour. Do you need to rub the salt in?” 

“I am only making sure you are on schedule. Tonight is very important.” 

“Oh, wow, I had no idea it was,” you say dryly. 

“Get it out now,” she snaps. “Our guest will not appreciate that lip, nor will I stand to be embarrassed.” 

“Motherrrr,” you draw out the word, “you needn’t worry for me. I gave my word and despite my lineage, I do know how to keep it.” You tilt your head wryly, “but you will have Lottie back in the stable tomorrow or you might question my integrity.” 

She frowns, “I only sent her out to be shoed. Don’t be so paranoid.” 

“I know what you’ve done, mother. She’s my horse.” 

“You are not a girl anymore,” she girds. 

“Don’t I know it,” you sidestep her and proceed upstairs. 

To describe your mother cannot be done in a single word. You have more than a dictionary’s worth for her; overbearing, conniving, heartless, soulless... Yes, well, you have faith that whoever she’d bartered you to cannot be worse. You don’t know that there’s any in existence who could even match her. 

“Wait,” she calls after you, “have you seen your sister?” 

You don’t ask which one. Either of them are prone to disappearing. Better they do than you. You would be certain not to be found. 

As you come down the hall, your name wrenches you back like a leash. Your father keeps his voice low as he waves you closer. You turn and stride toward his office door. He can be as stubborn as your mother but he has his moments of softness. At least, for you. You think it’s only his natural obliviousness that makes him seem unkind. 

“Eh, how’s the Queen of Darkness then? Has she sacrificed a maid yet?” He whispers. 

“Father, really? Even if she heard you, she can’t be bothered,” you shake your head. “She has horse-napped Lottie so that I can have no joy on this special day.” 

“Oh, lovie, don’t be so pessimistic. It is about time. You need a husband. Eh, I need you to have a husband. You and the others. I count myself a lucky man that I’ve found you such fine suitors and you should measure your own fortune the same,” he tuts. “There aren’t many true gentlemen left.” 

You hold back a sigh. He can be amiable but he still rules over you all with the same iron. As you are to your mother, you are still merely a title bearer. Your duty comes before anything else. Yes, well, your husband will have his duty too, won’t he? 

“Right, well, I don’t need another lecture. So if you want me to thank you on my knees for a stranger, I will not do so. I am already marrying him, that should be enough gratitude,” you insist. 

“Oh, daughter, don’t be so hard. Sometimes...” he hesitates, “yes, sometimes you do remind me of your mother.” 

“Rude,” you snip back. “Father, I shall see you at supper.” 

You turn and storm down the hall. You slam your door. You’re already over today. But you can’t be. This isn’t just about you, it’s about your sisters. Chicky, your youngest, will be fine. She has her way of just getting by, but Wren... she’s another matter. You’re more nervous about them than yourself. 

You get out of your riding clothes. It’s as if your mother is setting you up. As if she wants you to act out. She does love drama. Even when you’re going along with her machinations, she does her best to ruin them.  

You pull on your red robe and go to your en suite bathroom to start your routine. Cleanse, moisturise, tone, makeup, hair... You leave your lips bare, not trusting yourself not to lick it off. At least your mother can be thankful that you enjoy getting all prettied up. As you set away your makeup, you hear a door in the hallway. 

It’s safe to assume it’s your missing sister. It’s closer than Wren’s door, it must be Chicky. You peek out before you emerge and go to knock on her door. You enter and give her wry look. She has paint behind her ear. You won’t mention it. 

“There you are. Mother’s been squawking all day.” You intone. 

She glances at you in the mirror and shrugs. You give her a pointed look. Playful, not serious. You laugh and frame your hips with your hands. 

“Please, let me do your hair so she doesn’t tear it out.” You insist. It’s as much a favour to her as yourself. You need to keep busy. 

“If you want to,” she gives another shrug. She’s not as particular as you about her hair. 

You near her and eye the dress hanging from the vanity drawer. Pink, short, and fluttery. “Oh, that dress is so you.” 

You touch the neckline and play with one of the facsimile petals. She takes her blush stick and blots her cheeks.  

“What about Wren? She’s usually much more elusive than me,” Chicky asks. 

“Oh, yes. She took her nose out of her book for five seconds to get the witch off her back.” You recall your other sister’s dull stare as she faced your mother at her bedroom door. You take a comb and start at the ends of Chicky’s hair. “Even after a lifetime, she can’t really accept that this is what we were born for. I worry for her but she locked her door.” 

“And probably climbed out the window,” your sister chortles. She’s probably right. 

“Always the most clever of us.” You agree and focus on your task before you find your voice again, “are you nervous?” 

She looks at you in the mirror. Her shoulders rise once more. She tries to act like she doesn’t care but you know she does. You do too. 

“Strangers, aren’t they? But mother and father were too,” she says. 

“Mm, and look how well that turned out. I don’t think they’ve been alone together since right before you were born,” you hiss. 

“Likely not... but mother says the men are well-bred. Polite.” 

“Frigid,” you smirk. You know exactly how gentlemen are. And you’ve gathered that these men are older and established. Will they even have the energy? They are looking for status, not lovers. “You must read between the lines. That is how society talks. They never say the truth, the toe around it until it kicks you in the teeth.” You slide a pin into her hair, “I’ve asked around but people never talk about interesting things, do they?” 

“No, not really,” she pouts then stretches her lips in a goofy smile. “Am I pretty, sister? Will mother approve of me?” 

You laugh and shake your head, “oh, it will be quite the night, won’t it?” 

“Don’t act as if I will be the only menace. And I’m not so worried about mother, as she shouldn’t be of us. We have to impress these men, not her, right?” She argues. 

“Impress? Well, I shouldn’t need to try for that. He can win me over. Tradition and all,” you retort. You aren’t looking to endear a husband, he’s already been snared. You will be what he needs. A wife in title, not in your heart. You won’t delude yourself to think society has any room for love. 

You give a start as the door clicks. You look back as Wren enters and pushes herself to the door. Her eyes are wide and her hair is just as manic. She never has been able to rein in her strands. Her mane seems to reflect the stubbornness she carries so quietly. 

“I saw one,” she says. 

“Saw one?” Chicky drones. 

Wren hushes you and scurries closer. There’s a leaf in her hair and you can smell the oak on her. She’s been in her tree again. He glasses stick of her tresses crookedly and her book threatens to slip from under her elbow. 

“He’s tall. Blond. Look!” She gestures to the window. 

You look to your other sister and she stands. You both approach the window and peer through. Wren hovers behind. 

“Oh, wow, isn’t that typical? Aan 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 scoffs dryly. 

Wren whimpers as you hear her fussing. You can’t imagine tonight will be easy for her. She doesn’t do well with strangers. And by her expression, they might assume she’s annoyed rather than anxious. If only they knew how lovely your sister truly is. 

“Mm, he has manners. He is chatting rather intently with Reginald.” You remark. 

“Yes, Reginald can be rather chatty,” Wren grumbles. Well, she may be a bit grumpy. 

“Well, Kes,” Chicky faces you, “you said you asked around. What did you hear?” 

“Like I said, gossip is rarely useful,” you sigh. Marcianna offered you crumbs and you don’t have the patience for all those other gabbers. “Mine, Conrad... he’s not much history in ‘society’,” you nearly spit the last word. “From what I’ve gathered, he comes from a well to do family. I heard more of his brother than him. Frustratingly mysterious.”  

You cross your arms and sit, “then there’s Laufeyson, Wren’s match. He does have quite the reputation. A tricky man. I’m not entirely sure why mother and father chose him but no offense, Wrenny, you are a middle child.”  

You don’t mention all that you heard of him. To think your mother chose him for her. Well, it isn’t a match you would have made but if need be, you can set more than your own betrothed straight. 

“Mm, I’d say better than no one but no one sounds rather nice,” Wren bemoans.  

Chicky laughs, amused by the comment. You can’t help by empathise. Wren is right; no one does sound lovely.  

“And me?” Chicky asks.  

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

“Boring?” She sniffs.  

“I wouldn’t expect any of them to be more than,” you check your nails. “But we should try to pretend they are interesting.”  

“Forever,” Chicky adds.  

“Forever...” You echo. “So is our lot, yes? We must make the best of it. Get through tonight, then the wedding, and when all is said and done, we can still be us.” You hook one leg over the other and lean on your hands. “I’ll take Lottie with me. She’s a loyal stead and I’ll need something fun to ride.”   

You wink and Chicky giggles as your implication. Wren whines and sways at the very thought. Oh, how will she ever face her wedding night?  

“Wren, you can take all your books and add a thousand more to your shelves. You could build yourself a castle and lock yourself away to read forever,” you try to comfort her, “and Chicky,” you turn to your other sister, “you can 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 refocuses through the window. You haven’t the heart to tell her that the man below is hers. She’ll find out in due course.   

“I do too,” You say. “Think of it this way, we want out of this house. This is how we get out. Then we have our own titles, our own rights, and our husbands, well, they can have their own hobbies.”  

Chicky turns back completely and nods. She returns to the vanity. She’s in a rare state of apprehension. You don’t dare mention it. 

You put your attention to your other sister and lighten your tone, “So, Wren, you look ready to meet your beloved.”