A Noble Proposal

Icy air crept slowly into Mara Kolomae’s vast bedchamber. It mixed in lazy, invisible circles with the heated air given off by the fire-blackened hearth. Strong pulsating gusts coaxed the ivory-white curtains out the open windows. They snapped rhymically as the cloth was pulled taut, then left slack as the wind ebbed. Rich marble flooring caught the glimmer of flame, and reflected it upward, casting deep shadows across the ornately carved ceiling.

Mara sprawled in her overstuffed leather chair. Her feet kicked back and forth with feline grace, brushing the floor. Shocks of cold air sent tiny shivers up her spine. She hardly noticed. One delicate hand held a flute of sparkling wine, the other a painted wood-bound book. She shivered again, vibrating the vellum pages of The Tales of Mistwind. She took a long drink of her wine, and let the warming effects of the alcohol soothe her goosebumps.

The soft hum of bustling servants filtered through the heavy oaken doors, into her room. A soft knock startled her from her reverie. Mara slapped the heavy tome closed, then squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

“I will be out in a moment.” She said, irritation edging her voice. In one swallow she downed the rest of her wine. A gentle heat spread across her face. She leaned forward, reaching for the cold bottle that sat on the polished mahogany side table, and found it empty. The heat in her eyes should have melted the glass where it sat.

The stuffing in the chair wheezed as she sat back, sinking into the soft cushions. She huffed, vexed. If I have to do this, father could at least let me do it drunk, she thought. Gods, perhaps he is right. I am acting like a child. That did not suit her station, regardless of how it chafed at her soul. She had been born for this life. A noblewoman’s life.

A stray strand of hair fell over her face as she stood. She blew on it, and gave a longing look to The Tales of Mistwind. The ache to lose herself in the story almost overwhelmed her reason. She sighed, shaking her head. Gods I wish they would at least let me finish my chapter, she thought with a touch of petulance.

Mara was short. Bright blonde hair hung like a glittering gold waterfall to the gentle curve of her back. Her waist was thin, with wide hips and small breasts. Soul-piercing green eyes stood out against dark olive-colored skin. A loose, white nightgown, embroidered with colorful flowers hung about her frame. The flowing lace that accented the hem of her gown stirred playfully in the soft, twirling air. For the first time, Mara felt the chill.

She stretched thin arms above her head. Joints popping loudly, her jaw cracked as she let out a wide, bellowing yawn. Jittery nerves had barred sleep the night before, dark thoughts and unlikely scenarios plaguing her exhausted brain. The entirety of her body shook with a violent shiver, not brought on by the cold. Eyes closed tightly, she took a deep breath, trying to jar loose the low-level panic that gripped her mind.

Mara rubbed the weariness from her eyes, and gathered her thoughts. I need to get ready. By the sound of it, dinner will be ready soon, she ruminated. The excitement at what the hour brought warred with the desire to bolt, to run from everything. To live a free life. You need to do this. The thought brought her no comfort.

She plodded to tri-fold mirrors that sat on her vanity. All three stood imperiously, twicer her height, rimmed with gold filament. The polished metal glinted faintly in the firelight. She hated it. Or rather, she hated looking into it.

A candle rested upright in a silver sconce, cold and dark. Mara lit it with a match, and coughed softly at the heavy black smoke it gave off. The candle gave off just enough light for her to see herself in the mirror.

Her white nightgown hit the floor with a soft whoosh, and Mara was left looking at her pasty, slight body in the polished silver mirror. She frowned. Despite being lauded for her beauty, there was nothing about her body she would not change if given the chance. She traced a stretch mark on her belly with a long fingernail. She sighed, and let her arm fall to her side. I’m doing it again, she chided herself, stop doing that. Get yourself ready. You are a proud, intelligent noblewoman. He has to believe that.

A soft, assertive thump thump thump knocked at the door, startling again.

“I told you I would be right out!” Mara barked. She hated being interrupted, particularly when she was in the privacy of her bedchambers. Everyone knew a woman’s room was her haven.

“Lady Mara, the maids are setting the table now,” A gruff male voice, dripping with condescension, came through the thick oaken door. “Dinner will be no more than an hour from now. Shall I send Marica in to assist you?”

“No, Otis, that will be quite alright,” Mara replied tersely. Just leave me alone, she thought.

“I shall leave you to it then,” he responded in the same tone. Mara held her breath, and watched his shadow at the bottom of the door. After a moment, the man slipped away, and she sighed heavily.

She gave herself one more unsatisfied look, and then bit her lower lip. Time to get to work, I guess.

Mara studied herself in the mirror. Her face was soft, with a rounded jawline and puffy cheeks. She had dozens of freckles, only slightly darker than her skin, dotting from cheek to cheek across her slightly crooked nose. Her full lips puffed out in a pout, her slightly-too-large forehead wrinkled into a frown. Blond hair hung about her shoulders, unkempt. She sighed. One thing at a time I suppose.

She brushed her hair with an ivory comb, pulling apart knots as she went. Lavender oil went on after, then a small spray of perfume. She pulled out her palette.

Paints, bah. The chalky, richly colored substances galled her, but she applied them with the steady assurance of a practiced hand. She had to stop several times to study her face, agonizing over every detail. When she was done, all of her freckles were hidden under a layer of off-white powder, and her cheeks were an unnaturally ruddy shade.

She strode to the imposing dresser standing in one corner of her bedchamber, her naked skin tingling in the cold air. Tall, elegant oak, stained a deep brown, it was a family heirloom. A carved frieze flowed along the front, depicting the first Arthenian wedding. Mara rolled her eyes at the image. As if they are that amazing. Hinges creaked as she parted the heavy doors. They swung outward, revealing a vast array of dresses in myriad colors. The young woman perused the collection, expertly choosing three outfits she considered nice enough for the occasion. She took them back to the mirror to try on.

She discarded a navy blue selection immediately. The fabric was too thin, almost transparent, the hemline too short. Much was expected of her, she could not afford to appear too forward.

The first dress she tried on was deep maroon velvet, so dark the candle barely showed its true color. Bold, rich color complimented her skin pleasantly. It caressed her torso, not too tight anywhere, but came down into flowing skirts around her hips. She slipped out of it, setting it aside.

Last, she tried on a sky-blue dress. It accented the lines of her chest subtly. The hem brushed lightly against the floor. Gods above, this thing is horrendous, she thought. The color was all wrong, and the snug sleeves bothered her to no end. Red dress it is, then.

The soft velvet tickled her skin as she stepped into the dress and pulled it up. Clasping the buttons on the back was always a struggle on her own, but she managed it, and went to the mirror to study herself. Gods, I look good, she considered, then smiled. It felt odd, smiling. She spun in front of the polished silver, inspecting herself. The smile returned. She nodded in satisfaction. Why can’t everything look this good on me? Whatever, let’s get this over with.

*****

“This whole blasted trip has been ill-fated since the beginning,” Octavian Arethenia said, his voice deep and resonant.

Felix looked up from his book, eyeing his father speculatively. “What do you mean, father?”

“Just look,” he motioned to the passing cityscape beyond the window of their carriage. Decrepit buildings sagged on every street corner. “First the delays in Aronfort, now this travesty of a city.”

“I am sure it is not all like this, father,” Felix replied, hoping the conversation went no further. Several tense moments passed without a sound.

“Bah.” Octavian spat, and stared out the window. “I am having second thoughts about this marriage, boy.”

“You are always having second thoughts. As you said yourself, forging a bond between Shipsford and Aron is of the utmost importance.” Felix set the book down, sensing that his reading time was over.

Octavian glowered at him. Father always did hate when I was right, Felix thought. That brought a small smile to his face.

“What are you grinning at, boy?”

“Nothing father. We came all this way, let us at least see it through to the end.”

Octavian grunted, crossed his arms, and settled into his seat. Felix studied his silent father for a moment. Clothed in full royal regalia, he struck the figure of a hardline warrior king. The gold embroidery on his forest green tunic highlighted the planes of his impressively muscled chest. The jet black cloak highlighted every inch of his height.

“When you are king here, take care of these people.” Octavian said. Felix started from his thoughts, and looked up at his father’s face.

“Sir?”

“Take care of them. The poor have no place in a civilized society.” Silence once more stretched between father and son.

He knows that is not my philosophy, Felix thought. He ground his teeth absently, more from frustration than anger. He turned to the window, staring blankly out at the city rolling past them.

There was an eerie quality to the decaying buildings that hugged the roadway. It felt like the world wanted the people of Rudston to suffer, as if taking retribution for an unknown slight. Felix had seen many poor families before; Shipsford was not immune to famine or plague, regardless of what his father thought. But this was different. These people lived in true squalor, true suffering. He shook his head. He started to turn away, but movement caught his attention. He looked at the market around them, trying to find any sign of what he had seen, but could not. He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought, and looked away.

An hour passed unremarked, before Octavian spoke up again. “Draw close. Are you ready?”

“I will not let you down, father.”

The carriage rolled to a stop before a massive oaken gate. A wall, at least a dozen feet high, stretched out on either side of the open portal. A sharp knock came at the door, then it opened silently.

A bald man, wearing a green tunic that bore the Golden Lion heraldry of House Arthenia, bowed low before them. He spoke in a quiet, humble tone. “Your Grace, Master Felix, we have arrived.”

Octavian stepped out of the carriage. He possessed lithe grace despite his bulk, a quality to his movement that promised imminent violence. Felix followed him, his thin frame promising less violence, and more reading.

“Are you ready, boy?”

“I am, father.”

“Good. Today, we make history.”

Two guards, liveried in black deeper than the night, winged Felix on either side. The gates opened up into a lavish garden, reds and blues and yellows dotting the landscape despite the frigid temperatures. A round man in a red tunic stepped up to meet them.

“Your Grace,” he said in a surprisingly high voice. “And Master Felix. What a pleasure to have you here at last. Welcome to the Kolomae Estate.”