Four men arrived, all on black horses. No one spoke to Mira of why they came, but she knew all the same. Each of them looked at her with great interest before turning to speak with her father.

One of them was considering taking her as his wife.

There was a man who had broken his nose at least once before, with tar-black hair and deep brown eyes. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and his complexion darker than any Mira had seen before. There was a blond man who did not look very clever, with a wideset jaw and thick shoulders, an older man with kind eyes, and a boy—about her age—with the faintest stubble on his chin.

Mira hoped it was the older man who’d come to see her. She didn’t like the idea of having a dumb husband, and the broken-nosed man had a mischievous glint in his eyes. And always, when a man misbehaved, his wife was found to be, somehow, at fault. Mira did not want to shoulder the blame for the smirking man’s misconduct.

It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. I do not get to choose.

She let her eyes fall to the uneven, grey slabs at her feet, still damp from the morning’s rain. Pools of muddy water gathered where the stones sank deepest into the ground, reflecting the endless stretch of grey clouds above.

Mira did not see these things—not truly. She only kept her eyes on them in hopes of appearing humble and like she wasn’t listening to what they said. Of course, she was listening—with great care.

The older man was Lord Terrowin; Mira had heard the name before. He might have been the one her father fought alongside when Sir Asher died, and his castle became overrun with the Northmen. Or perhaps he was the one who paid Lady Caston’s ransom when Lord Caston could not. Maybe he was the one who’d taken Lady Caston captive in the first place. Mira could not remember.

If anyone said anything else of interest, Mira couldn’t hear it. The wind groaned as it wove through the parapets, drowning out the other sounds. Her father led the guests into the keep through the oaken doors that were never used unless there were visitors from afar. And Mira hung back for a few moments, catching a second glimpse of the travellers before the grand doors creaked shut behind them.

If they went to her father’s study, it would make for easier spying. But before Mira could peer into the study window and find out, her mother spotted her lurking, and a warning appeared on the woman’s sallow face.

“You can trust your father with this.”

Mira’s mother didn’t speak these words; she didn’t say anything at all. It was only what Mira wished the woman would say. In the daydream, her mother used a stern voice—the one she saved for mild reprimanding. If Mira could detect any kindness in the words, her fantasy would shatter.

She tried to make it look like she’d been on her way to the sanctuary, not to the window of her father’s study, but Mira knew her mother was not convinced.

She wanted to sigh. Not only has she secured herself a lengthy conversation about respecting privacy after the guests were gone, but she’d also created the unnecessary obligation of visiting the sanctuary to save face.

Arsi’s sanctuary was Mira’s least favourite place on the grounds. It was a dreary place where the air tasted dusty. Her knees always ached after a visit from having to kneel on the cold stone floor. And sometimes, when she was trying her hardest to be pious, or at least, to appear pious (for Mira knew these were two very different things), she would kneel in the alcove dedicated to Eirren. Then, not only would her knees hurt, but they would bleed. The ground was made to be rough to increase the praying person’s suffering and, therefore, the show of devotion. Of course, she had to be careful not to let her bloodied knees touch the inside of her skirts until the scabs sealed over. If her blood seeped through and stained the cloth, she’d be scolded for being unclean.

“My lady, have you come to unburden yourself?”

There was nothing likeable about Hanild, the sanctuary maid. Always the woman looked dishevelled—wispy strands of hair digging out from beneath her head covering, begging to be free. Even her skin wanted to escape her; it clung to the bones wrong, threatening to slide clean off her face at any moment.

Mira shook her head. She’d learned very young never to confess anything to Hanild unless she wanted her mother and father and all the lesser maids to know of her sins as well.

“A passage then, my lady?”

Mira nodded, hoping Hanild would choose one of the sweeter psalms about love or gentleness, or at least a shorter passage if it was to be severe.

The decrepit woman cleared her throat and opened her book. “On duty….”

Mira stopped listening almost immediately. Instead, she thought about Lord Terrowin and whether he would allow his wife to go riding off the grounds of his estate and if he preferred women who smiled or women who frowned. There were only two types of wives as far as Mira could tell, the ones who pretended each moment was splendid and the ones who wore a mask of seriousness and dignity at all times. Sometimes a smiling wife could become a frowning wife—if there was a death or a war—but a frowning wife could not become a smiling one.

Mira’s parents never spoke about marriage, but many times already, they mentioned guests and gave Mira fine clothing and jewellery to wear when meeting them. The guests always came in parties of at least three, so she never knew which man was the prospective husband. Indeed, at first, she hadn’t known the secret aims of the sudden and frequent travellers or why she was given so many pretty things to wear. It was her older brother Dayne who explained that the men had come to look at her and meet with their father and do their calculations.

“Calculations?”

Dayne set his tongue between his teeth, as he always did when he regretted saying something. “Father would like to know they have the means to care for you.”

Her brother didn’t lie often. When she was nine, and he was eleven, he said that as long as he did something terrible after she did, the demons would come for him at night instead of her as they could only remember the last bad thing that was done. And so, whenever Mira was in trouble, Dayne would curse to draw the creatures towards himself.

Of all the methods her mother and the sanctuary maids and the gods designed to garner obedience, Dayne’s lie had been the most effective. Mira didn’t want her brother’s tongue ripped out of his mouth or his eyes yanked from his head by devils. Of course, as Mira grew older, she figured his words to be lies. In the same way, his explanation of the suitors and their calculations was a lie.

After Mira adjusted to the idea, she started playing a game in her head, trying to guess which man had come to Arcliff to see her. She would make up stories about where they came from and what it would be like to marry them based on tiny details like how well-groomed their horses were or whether they kept their hand on their drink in the evening. No one told her how the decision was made, but so far, she had not seen any of the men a second time.

Foul guilt stirred in Mira’s stomach when she met the cold glare of Arsi (goddess of judgement) carved into the soggy stone walls. I’m sorry. She tried to listen, only she’d missed the beginning of the passage and had no sense of what Hanild was speaking about. When the maid finished reading, Mira thanked her and made her way back out into the misty light where damp, muddy air cleared out the sickening taste of the sanctuary remaining in her mouth.

***

One of the best parts about having suitors was the number of allowed baths; Mira couldn’t very well appear dirty when meeting a potential husband. And so, Mira’s handmaiden Orlaith had lugged bucket upon bucket of water from the courtyard well to the kitchens and heated it before hauling the warm water up to the second floor of the keep where she filled a basin. This was a luxury that usually was only deemed acceptable once or twice per moon. Orlaith even scattered violet wyfmolle petals and fragrant lotten leaves into the water so that Mira wouldn’t smell like a person anymore.

The woman was a decent handmaiden, or at least, she was much better than the previous one had been. Though, if Mira were being honest, she often imagined having another maid. One that told stories or sang songs, or did just one thing the wrong way. Surely it would not harm Orlaith to leave a single hair out of place and wink, so they could share a secret.

Mira’s cousin Alynne was close friends with her handmaid; they were always whispering to each other and giggling and sometimes would stay up late in the evening talking. The handmaid once came to Alynne’s defence in a disagreement with her parents and was forced to wear a tongue blade for four days as punishment for speaking out against the lady of the keep.

Once stern-faced Orlaith had excused herself, Mira relaxed, letting hot water seep into the fabric of her bathing gown as the scent of wildflowers lulled her into a dreamy state.

Maybe if I fall asleep and begin to drown, Rowan will rush in and press his face to mine. Mira saw the blacksmith’s apprentice do this once before when a farm child fell into the river. She thought the little boy was dead, but Rowan plucked him out and breathed life back in through the mouth.

She often thought of that day—not so much about the child, but more about Rowan—envisioning his big hands holding her face instead of the little boy’s. It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. I’ll be given to some old lord soon enough, and I won’t see him again.

The prospect of marrying an old lord wasn’t entirely unappealing. She would get to go to a new castle; it might even be overlooking the sea. Mira always liked the sea. Maybe she would move to a big town, with lots of people and girls her own age. There could be dances and circuses.

There might be none of these things.

When Mira was clean and dry, Orlaith tied her hair back so tight that it hurt her scalp. Within an hour, the pins and twine would make her head ache, but of course, ladies were not to complain. A woman does not disagree. She is quiet, speaking only when given permission. She is calm, modest, and dutiful. Mira’s mother recited the passage so often that she couldn’t help but memorize it. It surfaced in her mind sporadically, sometimes repeating itself for hours, driving her mad with irritation in the process.

Mira was then flattened by a gown of her mother’s choosing—the stiff kind of dress that felt like there were planks of wood sewn inside. It was the sort of dress that restricted her movement, forcing her to take short breaths and even shorter steps, making the journey downstairs to the great hall painstakingly slow.

From outside, Mira could hear a lively tune. It was her aunt, Lady Maeve, who was playing—Mira knew by the jumpiness of the melody. There were other noises too, the hum of pleasant conversation, the drum-clink of goblets being set down on hardwood, the sharp, pointed sounds of knives and spoons on bronze platters; her mother might even have brought out the silver. If that was the case, Mira needed to be especially mindful of her behaviour, for silver meant esteemed guests. There were smells too: bread and gravy and kidney pies, maybe even a roast of some kind.

She tried to take a deep breath before entering the hall, only her corset made that near-impossible, and she had to settle for a shallow, nervous gulp. She maybe should not have been nervous, but always, when being presented to new men, Mira wanted to be liked. It was foolish—childish even—a silly-girl thing to want, but it was the truth.

Of course, if she’d known then how her life was to unfurl—the things people would one day say about her—she would not have worried about something so slight as Lord Terrowin thinking her posture poor.