Chương 1: The Price of a Daughter

Do you want to hear a funny joke? It's called life. That had to be what this was: a cruel little joke told by something high above me that had run out of mercy and decided it would be amusing. How else could my second life possibly be worse than my first? I did not remember my first life clearly, at least not in any way that felt real anymore. There were no names I could hold onto, no faces that remained sharp, and no grand tragedy worth remembering.

Only a few fragments remained: a heart that had learned not to expect much from parents who left me alone more often than they loved me, which, looking back, had almost been a kindness. This life had not been nearly so gentle. My bedroom door swung open without so much as a knock, although that should not have surprised me. Why would anyone bother knocking before entering a daughter's room? Privacy was reserved for people who belonged to themselves.

Marta stood in the doorway with her arms crossed beneath her chest and her mouth pinched into the same sour line she wore whenever she looked at me. She was the head maid of the house, keeper of keys, collector of secrets, and one of the cruelest creatures living beneath my father's roof. It was not because she possessed any real power. She simply had enough of it to enjoy using it against someone lower than herself.

"Get down to the parlor," she ordered. I slowly pushed myself upright on the bed. Marta's eyes narrowed behind her black-rimmed spectacles. They were small and beady, the sort of eyes seemingly made for finding dust, weakness, and convenient excuses for punishment. I hated her, but it was not the kind of hatred that made me brave. It was the tired kind, built from years of having no power to do anything about it. A weary breath escaped me as I looked toward the open doorway.

Nothing good waited in the parlor, because nothing good ever happened when my family called for me. Even meals were rarely considered worth summoning me for. If I did not hear the bell myself, I ate cold scraps afterward or went without anything at all.

"Now," Marta snapped. Apparently, I hadn't moved quickly enough for her liking. Her thin lips curled upward.

"Unless you would prefer that I tell your father you're being disobedient again." The word struck harder… A chill ran through me before I could stop it, and my hand drifted toward the back of my thigh, where the memory of the cane lingered. The last time I had spoken back to my father, he struck me fifteen times while Elias counted each blow aloud and my mother looked away, pretending she couldn't hear me cry. In this house, punishment wasn't an isolated event.

It was weather, always gathering somewhere beyond the walls. Marta noticed the movement of my hand and smiled with satisfaction. Then she turned and marched away, her heavy footsteps fading down the hall. I sat there for another moment, trying to steady my breathing before finally making myself stand. The mirror across from my bed showed me exactly what this household had always seen. A girl with midnight-black hair hanging in uneven curtains around her face stared back at me.

Her eyes were so dark they appeared almost inhuman, although they were merely brown if anyone cared to look closely enough. No one ever did. Her skin had grown too pale from spending far too many days indoors, and her dress was clean but old, mended in several places my mother pretended not to notice. The face reflected in the glass was not ugly enough to inspire pity, nor was it pretty enough to earn forgiveness. It was painfully ordinary, and ordinariness had always been my greatest crime.

My brother, Elias, had been born two years before me and had somehow inherited every good thing this family possessed. He had their pride, their patience, their money, and all their hopes for the future. Tutors were brought in to educate him. Tailors arrived to take his measurements. Father spoke to him of grand futures filled with estates, family names, wives, sons, and legacies. Whenever they spoke to me, it was always in corrections.

I was expected to lower my eyes, fix my hair, never interrupt or cause trouble, and remain grateful for whatever they chose to give me. Elias loved that word because it gave him another way to make me feel guilty for being unhappy, as though I should have thanked them for every miserable thing they put me through. In my first life, I had amounted to nothing. In this one, I had somehow become something worse.

I was a daughter with no beauty to sell for a grand price, no inheritance that needed protecting, and no talent anyone cared enough to cultivate. I was merely a burden waiting for the right buyer, a commodity tucked inside a faded dress. When I looked at the girl in the mirror, I felt nothing for her except exhaustion. Whatever waited downstairs had been decided long before Marta opened my door. That was how this house operated. They never summoned me to ask for my thoughts.

They called for me because it was time to obey. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. I left my hair untouched and made no effort to smooth my dress, refusing to hide what years beneath their roof had turned me into. My footsteps were slow as I descended the stairs, not because I possessed any sudden courage, but because every part of me wanted to delay the moment I entered the parlor and discovered what fresh disaster had learned my name.

By the time I reached the parlor, my mother, father, and brother were already waiting for me. All three of them were smiling, and that was the first thing that frightened me. My father's smile was stiff and satisfied, while my mother's was thin enough to cut paper. Elias wore his openly as he lounged in his chair, looking like a cat resting beside a bowl of spilled cream. Across from them, seated upon the better couch, was a man I had never seen before.

He was old and heavy, dressed far too richly for his shape, as though velvet and gold might distract from the flesh sagging beneath his jaw. Most of his hair had abandoned him long ago, leaving pale, shining skin above a deeply wrinkled brow. His cheeks were swollen and red, his lips glistened with moisture, and his small, eager eyes moved slowly over me. It was more like an inspection than anything else. My stomach turned beneath his gaze.

"Helena," my father began, speaking with the careful warmth he only used when lying, "this gentleman is Lord Vane." The old man smiled at me, and I immediately wished he had not. My father clasped his hands behind his back before delivering the words with a nauseating calmness.

"He is to be your husband." I stared at him, unable to form a response. For several seconds, the room became impossibly quiet, leaving only the steady ticking of the clock above the mantel, Elias's barely restrained laugh, and the violent pounding of my heart against my ribs. Surely I had misunderstood him. Was I dreaming? That was the first thought my mind managed to assemble. It was neither a good thought nor a useful one, but it rose anyway, stupid and desperate.

This had to be some manner of nightmare, or perhaps a sick little performance designed to frighten me into becoming a more obedient daughter. Any moment now, my father would begin laughing, my mother would tell me to correct my posture, and Elias would call me gullible for believing anyone would bother arranging a husband for me. Then my father kept speaking.

"Lord Silas Vane is one of the most prestigious merchants in the province," he explained, as though prestige could make the man's eyes seem less foul.

"His holdings touch nearly every road between here and the coast. Any daughter with sense would understand what an appealing match this is." I continued staring at him, almost certain my expression was asking whether he might be the stupidest man alive. Lord Vane pushed himself up from the couch with visible effort. His jeweled rings flashed as he gripped the head of his cane, and his breath escaped in a damp little grunt.

When he turned toward me, his gaze traveled down the length of my body with the slow patience of a man inspecting livestock he had already purchased. I stepped backward, but he answered by moving closer. When I retreated again, everyone else simply watched. That was the worst part. It wasn't his approach, the wet shine clinging to his lower lip, or even the pleased smile that tugged at his mouth once he noticed my fear. The worst part was that my family watched me retreat from him and appeared annoyed.

There was no shame in their expressions, only irritation. My father's eyes hardened, my mother's fingers tightened around her handkerchief, and Elias tilted his head as his smile sharpened into a warning. Behave, their faces told me, or we will make you do so. Lord Vane finally stopped close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne struggling and failing to conceal the sourness beneath it.

"She does have her own appeal," he remarked. How generous of him. Not that I cared what he thought of my face, or any other part of me. My father gave a short, pleased nod.

"She is untouched, raised properly, and pure as the day she was born. Do with her as you will, my lord, so long as our agreement is honored." There it was. This wasn't a proposal, and it had nothing to do with marriage. It was an agreement, nothing more than a transaction decided between men. Something cold moved through me. I had always known they thought little of me. No one could survive eighteen years in this house and remain innocent of that truth.

Still, knowing that you were unloved was different from watching your father sell the rights to your body across a parlor rug. Elias rose from his chair, and my stomach tightened as he crossed the room. He moved with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once feared consequences. When he reached me, he leaned close enough that his breath brushed my ear.

"I heard his last wife survived one week before they found her dead in bed," he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"The one before that threw herself from a window. She told the servants she would rather meet the stones than endure another night with him." My hands slowly curled into fists. Elias's smile widened beside my ear.

"There was another one as well, a pretty little thing from the western farms. They say he kept her as a toy until she disappeared. I am certain you can imagine what became of her." My throat tightened until breathing became difficult. He pulled back just far enough to enjoy the expression on my face.

"Enjoy your new life, sister, however long it lasts." The word "sister" had never sounded uglier. Elias lingered for another moment before adding, "You also have my thanks. Your sacrifice has cleared my debts and purchased a house for my betrothed. I suppose you were useful after all." For several heartbeats, I could not breathe. His words did not surprise me, because surprise would have been a mercy. The true horror came from realizing that some part of me had always known exactly what I was to them.

I was not their daughter, their sister, or even their blood. I was currency that they could sell whenever they wished. Lord Vane glanced toward the doorway.

"Bring it in." Two of his men entered carrying a heavy chest between them. When they lowered it onto the floor, the boards groaned beneath its weight. Vane approached and flipped open the latch with one soft hand. Gold gleamed within the chest. My price gleamed inside the chest, and everyone in the room seemed captivated by its shine. Greed brightened my father's eyes, while my mother turned away without shedding a tear. Elias watched every coin with the reverence of a man witnessing his prayers being answered.

Large hands suddenly seized both of my arms. I lurched backward.

"Wait." No one listened. The men holding me were broad and thick-necked, built like doors fitted with fists. I twisted against them hard enough to hurt myself, though not enough to make any difference.

"Father," I pleaded. He kept his eyes fixed upon the gold.

"Mother, please." Her handkerchief rose to cover her mouth, but her eyes remained perfectly dry. My gaze found my brother.

"Elias." He merely smiled. The men began dragging me toward the parlor door. My heels scraped across the rug as I fought them with everything I had, but I had spent my entire life being taught obedience rather than strength. One of them tightened his grip until pain shot through my shoulder and raced down my arm. Behind me, my father's voice cut through the room with cold disapproval.

"Do not make matters worse, Helena." The sheer hypocrisy almost dragged a laugh from me. They had sold me to a monster, yet somehow my fear was the part they found unpleasant. The last thing I saw before they dragged me from the house was Elias standing beside the open chest, his fingers already dipping into the gold. My mother didn't follow me, and my father never called my name. The door closed behind me, and with it went the last illusion that I had ever been part of that family.