Melena

Yoszovar, 5 years before the Rise

“Melena?” Yeszy’s voice comes from behind the door, following the modest knock that I’m not used to from my maid.

This can only be bad news. I brace myself, clutching my brush firmly enough to feel the wood bend. I force myself to let go. “Yes?”

Yeszy pushes open the door but doesn’t come in, she merely pokes her head around the wood. I try to smile, since Yeszy isn’t to blame for anything she has to convey to her mistress, but I cannot hide my trepidation from her. Something’s up.

“You have a caller,” Yeszy says.

“Now?”

“Yes. Your mother is entertaining him and requested you come as soon as possible.”

“But I am not dressed to receive any guests,” I interject. I have made particularly sure not to be ready for anything social today — I have been painting in my nightgown all morning.

Yeszy takes a deep breath. “It’s…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, nor does she need to. Bile rises in my throat and a nervous fluttering in my stomach makes me gasp for air. I was foolish to get my hopes up, foolish to think that he would let me be. When he didn’t show up right after I fled, and repeated that over the next couple of days, I’d hoped he’d given up his interest in me. I mean, how much clearer does a girl have to be. Apparently, I was mistaken.

I close my eyes for just a second.

“I really wish I had better news to bring you,” Yeszy says. “Your mother was quite adamant. I don’t think she’s even been as strict with me.”

Gathering breath as if it were the strength I need, I make a second attempt at a smile, just to cheer Yeszy up a bit. “He isn’t planning on telling me this engagement is off before it even got official, is he?”

“Apparently not, Miss Melena.”

Yeszy uses the formal way to address me, making me wonder if Mother has sent somebody along to make sure Yeszy does as she’s told. Is this house turning into a prison, shackling even the servants? How thick are the shackles around my limbs, and how many locks are already in place? Is there even a way for me to get out of this?

“Melena?” Yeszy enters and quickly closes the door behind her so she can come to me as fast as she can. “Are you alright?”

I’m fighting too hard to keep in the tears to be able to answer. I swallow, almost falling apart when I feel Yeszy’s arms around me, and swallow again. A single tear slides down my cheek and I hastily wipe it away.

“Oh, Melena,” Yeszy says.

That is enough to break me. I start sobbing uncontrollably and hold on to my maid for dear life.

“There, there,” Yeszy mutters. “You’ll be fine. You’re so strong, so very talented in so many ways. You can take on any situation.”

Not this one, I’m sure. It isn’t just the thought of having to confront Horgas, or even having to tell him that I ran from him. It’s the whole future flung at me while I don’t want any of it. My vision clouds with tears, I look at the painting I’m so close to finishing. It looks all muddled and vague now, like my future. As if the painting itself lets me know that there is no more hope to be found in colors and brush strokes, and that all that is waiting for me is nothing but grey, faint nothingness.

“Do you want me to say you’re ill?” Yeszy asks in a quiet tone.

“No.” I wipe off the tears and even though my mouth still twitches a bit, I take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “I need to do this. Can you please help me pick out a dress and give me a hand with my hair and such?”

“Of course,” Yeszy answers within a heartbeat. She sighs as well. “I really wish you wouldn’t have to go through this.”

I answer with a weak smile. “Me neither. But as it is, I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

Yeszy shakes her head. “There is always a choice. It’s only the consequences we may or may not like.”

Strangely enough, that remark helps. I get myself ready and even the traces of my tears are expertly erased by Yeszy. Before I know it, I am outside the door of the drawing room where Mother has retreated. I can hear her voice, cheerful as if there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and at the sound of Horgas reacting to whatever Mother has said, I don’t even wince that badly.

Right. Go in there, pretend like I never saw Horgas, and remain polite. Not too charming, just polite. And maybe… Maybe it is a good idea to talk to Mother after Horgas is gone, so I can find out exactly how irreversible the situation is.

I swallow. The servant at the door, who’s been kind enough to wait for me to get ready, gives me a quick nod after I look at him directly. He opens the door and announces me like I’m the very queen. I might need to thank him for that later, for it actually makes me feel a bit stronger.

It doesn’t last that long, though. As soon as I catch Mother’s gaze and sense all reproaching words she’ll never say out loud when entertaining company, my courage simply leaks away.

Horgas, on the other hand, is beaming and immediately stands.

“Miss Melena,” he says, coming up on his toes as if he barely manages to keep from run toward me. “How lovely to see you. How are you?”

I incline my head most courteously. Mother will be proud. “I am quite well, thank you. How kind of you to call.”

“Of course,” he says, his smile simply radiant.

“Kind indeed,” Mother says. “Mister Maletti has been patiently waiting for you since he arrived and had to make do with my meager company all that time.”

She says it in a pleasant, semi-mocking tone, but I feel the sting behind the words ever so clearly. You’ve kept the most important man in your life waiting, you insolent child. How dare you! Sometimes I wonder where Mother stores all the anger she rarely shows, or where she lets it all out.

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The notion that she might have been the one installing all kinds of ideas about marriage into Ralonda’s head, makes me blink.

No time to consider my parents’ marriage. Probably best to never think about that too deeply.

“I assure you the pleasure was all mine,” Horgas says. “Though I have to admit that I’m very happy to see you, Miss Melena.”

“Thank you,” is the best reply I can think of.

“Please, let’s all sit down and have some tea,” Mother says. She is charming as ever, but the glance she throws me as she goes to sit… The only place available to me is on a sofa for two, next to Horgas. Where have the single armchairs gone? How planned is this spontaneous call in reality?

Mother busies herself with hot water and herbs, the tingling of the fine porcelain against cups and silver spoons the only indication that her state is off — I wonder how long she’ll be mad for. Long, probably.

“Did you have a nice journey over here?” I ask, just to appease Mother.

“I did, thank you. How has your day been thus far?”

“Quite well, thank you.” I smile politely, hiding my inner thoughts as well as I can. Of course, I’ve never been that good at hiding them. And he’s studying my face, so I presume he’ll see more than I’d like him to.

He doesn’t show it, though. His pale green eyes are somewhat bland, as if they are the mirrors to an empty mind. But I know that must be only appearance. Just as his hair looks like it’s been tussled by the wind, while I think every single lock is where he wanted it to be.

“And yours?” I manage to say without breaking my superficial smile.

“Quite dull, to be frank. I find I sometimes need challenges to break free from the repetition of day-to-day life.”

Does he know? Am I his challenge, provided that I fled from him? “Dull? I find it hard to believe that your life could be dull, mister Maletti.”

Now, his eyes show a bit of emotion. He glances at my mother for a fraction of a moment before returning his gaze to me. “Please, call me Horgas.”

I bite my tongue not to say how big of a challenge that will be. Instead, I nod as if I oblige.

“So your life is never dull, Miss Melena?”

How I wish it were. But between running from him and kissing Kayetan… “Never.” That came out better than I expected — my voice feels wobbly and unstable, but I sounded clear enough.

“So what is it that has you captivated?”

“I paint.”

Mother is going to murder me. Painting isn’t useful, it’s not a skill a woman should pursue and shallow suitors might even be repelled by the notion of a painting woman. Being murdered by Mother is worth it if he is repelled by me now.

“You paint?” he asks, looking more than a bit surprised.

“A passing fancy,” Mother quickly intervenes. “She enjoyed it so much as a child, a result of the schooling she received. Melena knows quite well it’s simply a thing to pass the time with. Nothing serious, really.”

Horgas seems to ignore her. “You enjoy painting?”

“Yes, I do.”

He nods appreciatively. “I do too.”

I blink before I even notice it, and a little fluttering of hope arises in my chest. Could it be that he…

“Or I should say, I did. Of course, I laid down my brushes and paints as soon as responsibility came calling. When one isn’t gifted, there is no point pursuing mastery, is there?”

“Can’t the arts be something one enjoys, even without being exceptionally gifted?” I retort. The disappointment in my voice is thick, and I know it. How foolish of me to allow myself a glimmer of hope. Horgas is the shining epitome of the Yoszovar bourgeoisie, of course he thinks exactly like them. Arts are for gifted men to wield. The lesser talents and the women are only to enjoy their efforts, and that is how things are. But men are still allowed to to what they like, even if they suck at it. If we women want to express ourselves, it needs to be in the form of useful things. Embroidering the blankets for the babies. Knowing how to sew clothes — even though there are tailors for that — and knitting scarfs for the underprivileged. We’re condemned to that.

Horgas shrugs at my suggestion. “Why would one bother?” he says. “If nothing can be achieved by something, then the exercise itself becomes quite useless.”

“Indeed…” I mutter. This whole conversation is useless. And yet here I am, living through every single agonizing second of it.

“Did you enjoy your time in the bathhouse the other day?”

Here it is. It is concealed as a perfectly legitimate question, yet I can sense the accusation behind the words. He knows I ran from him, he has to.

But there is no need to have him continue believing that. If I am consistent, adamant even, he might be persuaded into thinking something else altogether.

“I always do, thank you.” I smile the sweetest of smiles. “I tend to relax to the point of retreating into a bubble of my own. I just drift away, lost in my own thoughts.”

As I glance at him, it is quite clear that he still has his doubts. I push a little further. “Is there a special reason for you to bring up the bathhouse?”

I can feel Mother staring daggers at me from across the table, but I’m not letting Horgas out of my sight. Those eyes portray so little emotion, yet I can’t believe he’s not thinking very hard right now.

“Just making conversation,” he says. He hesitates for just a heartbeat. “I saw you there a few days ago.”

“You did?” I hope I don’t look too amazed.

“I was waiting in line when you left.”

“Ah,” I say, adding a little nod of understanding. “It was a long line. I must say I didn’t take the time to look and see if anyone familiar was in it. I was not in the mood for light conversation, as the heat had given me a slight headache.” Can I take it one step further? “You should have called me if you’d wanted to speak to me.”

“I have,” he says, and suddenly his eyes seem to breathe fire and he’s close to grinding his teeth. I swallow. This might not end well at all — or maybe this is the perfect ending. If he gathers that I actually ran away from him, maybe he’ll let go of this idiotic resolve to marry me altogether. That sounds like a perfect situation.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you,” I say, my heart now beating suspiciously fast in my chest. Can I play this exactly right? Is it possible to manipulate him into no longer wishing to wed me?

“You didn’t hear me,” he repeats reluctantly.

My heart flutters even more. He knows, and he knows I’m lying right now, and he will not simply let it pass.

“May I invite you to be frank with me?” he says. His tone has become dark and somehow I sense some kind of threat behind them. Well, it is just as well that he finds out I have no interest in him whatsoever. I look at him blankly, daring him to accuse me of telling lies right in front of him. And Mother, at that.

The silence lingers for a few heartbeats, only broken by the racket Mother makes with some saucers and biscuits.

“I am being frank with you.”

He shakes his head. “You heard me. And you decided to run.”

“I distinctly remember walking,” I say, straightening my spine. He shouldn’t get the impression I’m easily brought out of balance. He might be mad at me, but it isn’t just his future on the line here. I’m saving both of us from a living nightmare. This makes me grow a few inches taller still, and I look at him defiantly.

“You know very well what I mean. I called you and you ran. Or is it a habit of yours to go straight through a line of waiting men instead of walking by the mass?”

“Melena!” My mother drops a biscuit. “What is young Master Maletti talking about? What exactly did you do?”

Oh no. Not only am I at a loss for words — a clear sign of guilt, I also feel my cheeks flush. My breath quickens. Deceiving Horgas is one thing. He’ll be out the door soon. Mother, on the other hand, will be very much inside the same building. My room won’t be off limits if Mother really wants to throw a fit.

“I…” I swallow. “Alright, fine. I fled, yes.” I throw a cross glance at Horgas. “I didn’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to talk to you right now. I don’t want to be here! This is all a big mistake.”

“Melena!” my mother all but shouts.

But I don’t respond. I have already jumped up from the seat and without any regard for etiquette or proper behavior, I race out of the room and throw the door shut so hard, that the servant standing next to it is startled a second time — he already jumped when I suddenly yanked the door open and ran through it. The glass stained windows further down the main hall rattle in their lead rebates.

I couldn’t care less.

It is only when I’m in my room again, panting against the wooden panel of the door, that I realize how much of a fool I’ve made of myself. Screaming at a guest, running away, slamming doors…

With a deep sigh, I sink through my knees and land on the floor with a thud, my hands covering my face. There are no tears, I have no regrets, but I do feel… Strange. Guilty, perhaps.

I know I’m not ready for marriage, or even growing up. But behaving like a child doesn’t feel right either. I just… I don’t know who I am anymore.