In the morning, I open my eyes to an empty bed. Relieved, disappointed, and embarrassed all at the same time, I roll over and bury my face in his pillow. I climb out of bed and try to straighten my gown back out, but it is hopelessly wrinkled. Eyeing the closet, I hope it's packed full of clothes like the one in the safe house, but it's empty. Disappointed, I walk over to the dresser and pull the drawers open one by one. In the bottom, I find a gown folded neatly and pushed toward the back. It's not as nice as the one I am wearing but at least it's neater. The red linen is a little shorter than the white gown, stopping just below my knees, and the one shoulder is held together with tiny gold pins. The dress is both simple and beautiful.
When I make my way into the kitchen, I am met with astonished looks and barely contained laughs. I look down at my dress, run my hands through my hair, and look behind me. What are they giggling about? Grayson walks in, stopping in his tracks when he sees me, his face turning bright red. Is he having a stroke? He casts a horrified look at his men before rushing across the room and grabbing my arm. He hauls me back up the stairs like a child, the back of his neck and ears bright red. What have I done? He drags me into the room and slams the door.
"I'm sorry!" I cry. "I don't know what I did but I'm sorry!"
"Where did you get that dress?"
"The dress? That's what this is about? It was in the dresser. What's wrong with it?"
He stares at me for a few minutes before sitting down heavily into a chair. He shakes his head, and unbelievably, starts to laugh.
"I don't know what I am going to do with you," he says. "You need to change your dress. There is only one type of girl who wears a dress like that, and it's . . . inappropriate. I can only imagine why it's even here in the first place."
"I think it's pretty." I say. "I guess it is a little short."
"It's the color," he says. "There are women in the city who make a living entertaining the soldiers and government officials. They are the only ones who wear the color red."
"Oh no," I groan, falling on the bed. "Yesterday I flash my leg at the soldiers and today I come in dressed as a whore. What in the world will they think of me?"
"We call them entertainers, not whores, and trust me, they know you are nothing of the sort."
"You don't know what they are thinking," I say stubbornly.
He stands up, reaching out for me. Pulling me off the bed, he turns me to face the mirror, moving my braid to the side, exposing my left shoulder.
"They think you are a lady," he says as he runs his fingertips along my collarbone. "And someday, some very lucky man will be able to call you his, and you will wear his mark." he says softly. "And then they will think a very great deal of you."
"I will only be as worthy as my husband?"
"I think, in time, you will find a great worthiness all your own. It will be all yours, having nothing to do with who you marry."
He moves away from me, and I feel his absence immediately.
"What I don't understand is why I can remember what a whore is, pardon my language, but not that they wear the color red."
"It's the pill," he says. "It's designed to block information that could trigger memories. You are still able to access general information as long as it isn't directly tied to a memory."
"A pill can do all of that? How is that possible?"
"Honestly, we don't know how or why it works anymore. They haven't been used in a long time. In the past, the erased minds were re-educated with new information, but you were apparently left blank. I imagine the man who did this had even less knowledge of the way it works than we do."
"Wait . . . you said the pill blocks memories. Does that mean they are still in there somewhere?"
"I don't know," he says thoughtfully. "The terminology has always been "blocked" but I don't know if the meaning is significant."
"I really embarrassed myself out there didn't I?"
"Oh yeah," he laughs. "But they won't give you any grief about it, and I will have a word with them just to be sure."
He leaves then, shutting the door softly behind him. With an embarrassed huff, I shuck the disastrous dress and pull my white one back on. As I dress, my thoughts stray back to Grayson. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to wear his mark, I think, imagining the feel of his warm hand running along my skin. No, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all.
When I finally work up the courage to walk back into the kitchen, Grayson is standing at a counter eating out of a bowl of fruit. As I walk in, he offers me a strawberry, but I wave it away, grabbing an apple instead. He shrugs and pops it in his mouth.
"More for me then," he grins.
Thankfully we are alone in the kitchen. I can see the other soldiers through the window, joking and roughhousing in the yard. If possible, they seem even rowdier than usual.
"They are in a particularly good mood today," Grayson says.
"Hopefully not still at my expense."
"No," he laughs. "They are slated to get wives soon. This was their last assignment before getting some time off to relocate from the barracks to bigger apartments. They get a couple of weeks off before their wives arrive and then a couple weeks after."
"I thought everyone was paired off when they graduated," I say confused.
"Not soldiers. Soldiers get wives from different cities, and the process takes longer." he says. "It builds relationships with the other cities and also introduces new blood into our population. Plus it's a good incentive for recruiting soldiers."
"It all sounds so political and scientific. It's sad that no one marries for love."
"A few do." he says. "Most don't, but a few lucky ones get the chance. Either way, people know their place, and are happy to live the life they are given."
"How do you know they're happy?"
"Because no one says they're not," he shrugs, popping another strawberry in his mouth.
Grayson leaves to join his men as they pack up their gear and load the horses. We will make it to Veracity today, but we still have hours of riding ahead of us. My sore thighs protest, but my heart does a healthy little thump when Grayson pulls himself back on the horse behind me. I am pleasantly surprised when he wraps one strong arm around my waist, pulling me close to him. His sleeve rides up on his arm, revealing the black numbers peeking out from underneath.
"So this is your mark?" I ask, pulling back his sleeve to better expose the tattoo.
"Yes." he says simply.
"You don't have a marriage number."
"Men don't." he says. "But I am not married, if that is what you are asking."
"That's strange don't you think?" I ask. "That a women wears her husband's mark but not the other way around?"
"Not so strange." he replies. "A woman is only married once. If a man's wife passes, he must marry again. Some men marry several times. There isn't any reason for a man to get a marriage mark."
"So women remain alone?"
"She can choose to move into a service profession like a maid, teacher, or nanny." he says. "Or she can move to the elder camp if she is old enough. Either way, she will have plenty to keep her busy."
"She has to leave her home?"
"None of our homes are really our homes. The General assigns us living spaces. When a woman loses her husband, her children are moved to the nursery or school depending on their age, and she moves to another location where she can be useful. It gives her a purpose and makes room for another family to be started."
"I can't believe a woman would just give up her children."
"The ways of the city have been the same for as long as anyone remembers. We don't question what works."
"I just did."
"You are . . . unusual," he laughs. "You can't be expected to think the way the rest of us do, at least not at first. It will take some time to reacquaint you with the ways of our world."
8 – Veracity
The horse's movements are hypnotic, and I find myself lulled to sleep by its rhythmic gait. Feeling myself slipp
ing, I awake with a start, realizing I have slumped against Grayson's chest. Mortified, I shoot him a shy smile, which he returns, his features striking in the warm glow of the setting sun. Romantic is not a word I was expecting to use on my journey, but this moment, nestled in his arms with the daylight fading around us, is exactly that.
After a full day of riding, the men are tired and eager to get home. I can feel the tension between them as they urge the horses on, leaning forward in their saddles, the reigns tight in their fists. As an enormous, white wall begins to rise in the distance, the men release a collective sigh. The sunset's glare against the bleached stone is blinding, forcing me to shade my eyes against its brilliance. Grayson laughs softly behind me.
"It can be a little intense this time of day."
"It's beautiful."
"It's Veracity," he says with pride.
We approach a set of massive, wooden doors. Simple and unadorned, their impressiveness comes solely from their size, towering over even the tallest of carriages. Grayson calls out, and the doors swing inward, allowing our group to ride on. Passing through I feel small, insignificant, and awed all at the same time. The doors are so heavy, it takes a team of four men to move each side, and the loud creaking echoes throughout the city. After we ride through, the men swing the doors closed behind us, securing them with a strong wooden beam.
We ride up a short, steep hill and Veracity is spread out before us. The city is a marvel in design with its grid-like layout and perfect precision, down to the smallest detail. Four-story brick buildings line the main road, which is wide enough for two carriages to ride side by side. Made of the same white brick as the wall and buildings, the main road cuts a straight line from the gate to what Grayson calls the "Big House". Paved footpaths run between each building and connect to the main road, and although the main road is mostly empty, the footpaths are filled with people.
Veracity's buildings are simple but beautiful, each lavishly decorated in their own specific color. One building boasts purple awnings, curtains, and even purple flowers in the flower boxes. The next building is decorated yellow, and then next blue, and so on. The white bricks are a perfect background for the bright hues, making the path to the Big House a rainbow of color.
Riding along the main road, I notice that it is not just the buildings that are color-coded. Crowds of people pop in and out of the building's ground floor shops in dresses and shirts of every color. The colors never mix; blue walks with blue, brown with brown, yellow with yellow. What first appeared as just a brightly colored city reveals itself as a strictly segregated community.
I also notice that although anyone can enter the shops, only those dressed in the same color as the building use the flight of stairs leading to the upper levels. When I ask, Grayson tells me that the upper three floors are all apartments, meaning the citizens of Veracity live and socialize with only certain people. Looking down at the white dress I am wearing, I wonder exactly what it signifies.
Curious looks and open stares accompany us down the main road. Grayson ignores all the attention, but I stare back, eager to learn what I can. Although color-coded, they are all dressed very similar. The men are wearing colored dress shirts with black vests. Most are wearing dark jeans and boots, but a few are wearing black dress pants, ties, and shiny black shoes. Every single one of the men have their long sleeves rolled up, displaying their mark.
The women's gowns vary in cut and style, but all have asymmetrical necklines, leaving their left shoulder bare. The gowns range from simple linen to soft flowing silk, and all of them are long past the knees. They accent their gowns with belts, jewelry, and clasps of every kind, and most of the women have elaborately braided or pinned hair piled high on their heads. Like the white brick walls, their similar dresses are the perfect contrast to their individual styles, making their differences even more noticeable.
Something feels very off with the city and it takes most of the ride to the Big House to figure out what is. Looking at all the faces I notice that the vast majority of the people are young adults or early middle aged. Very few children or teens are moving about, and I see not one elderly person. Everyone looks young and vigorous as they walk, without a gray hair among them. It gives the city a strange air of mature youth, which is unsettling at best.
As we ride, I crane my neck to see where the foot paths lead, and find a second row of buildings are tucked behind the first, complete with their own pretty lawns and sidewalks. Unlike the front row, these buildings lack the ground floor shops, so I assume they are purely residential. Behind this second row of buildings are fields of crops, and even further beyond are unadorned, rambling log cabins.
The main road ends in a beautiful courtyard with flowering trees, exotic looking plants, and a giant fountain raining crystal water into a clear pool beneath. Benches and elegant chairs are scattered throughout the courtyard, and a handful of people dressed in green mill about the garden.
'It's gorgeous," I sigh. "I have never seen anything so . . . alive."
"It is a favorite recreation area for many of the citizens," he says. "My father did the landscaping himself. When my Grandfather was the General it was just a few apple trees and some grass."
"The General is your father?"
"Oh, um, yes."
"That must be exciting."
"Not as much as you would think."
On the other side of the courtyard, the Big House looms in front of us. Stark white, like all the others, the massive building is draped in the color green. Green curtains show through open windows, gorgeous leafy plants fill window boxes, and delicate green vines crawl up the outside walls. A "u" shape, the Big House is made up of a large rectangle with two smaller rectangular wings coming off the front, enclosing the courtyard on three sides. Candle light glows out of the many windows, making the vast building look welcoming.
Instead of riding up the garden path as I would have liked, we turn and follow a paved road leading around the right side of the building to the stables. Inside, the horses are neighing and bickering at each other, and the one we are riding prances a little, excited to join the others. I grab its mane in fear and it eyes me annoyed. The two of us are more than ready to part ways.
After stabling the horse, Grayson takes me by the hand, leading me to the back entrance of the Big House. He drags me through a maze of long hallways, and I quickly lose count of how many doors we pass. The sheer size of the Big House is shocking and makes me feel very small and very lost.
We make a final right turn, and the hallway empties into a large sitting room decorated in a severely masculine style, all dark wood and leather. Thick tapestries line the walls, and several animal heads stare down at me from above.
"Wait here. I am going to speak to my father a moment, then he will want to speak with you."
Giving a quick nod, I sit down in a high backed chair, so nervous I have to fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. Grayson walks across the room and knocks on the door directly in front of me. He pauses for a moment, listening, and then disappears inside.
9 – Authority
GRAYSON
"We found her."
"I'm relieved to hear that son," my father says, looking up from his pile of papers. He stares at me with a sour face, his eyes squinting and his mouth drawn taught. I can see his jaw working, chewing on bitter words he would rather not say.
"What's wrong?" I ask him, unnerved by his dour expression.
"What do you mean," he asks, stalling.
"You have that face," I say annoyed. "The one you get when you have bad news. What's going on?"
"I've heard back from Lucas," he says, clearly uncomfortable. "The boy had firm instructions for his sister once we found her."
"Instructions?"
"Yes . . . well, the good news is that he still wants her to live here. I was afraid that he would want her back home after all the unpleasantness, but he seems resolved in having her married into our family."
"That
's great," I say relieved. "I know she needs some time, but I don't think it will take long to get back to how we were. Obviously we would have to move back the wedding, but that closeness between us is still there. She has changed some, but I know I can make her love me again."
"That's the thing son," his says, his eyes struggling to meet mine. "Lucas sees Katherine's memory loss as a sort of new beginning. He feels that since her feelings for you are no longer a concern, a more advantageous alliance could be formed between our families."
"I don't understand," I say, my stomach turning into lead.
"He is a proud boy, son. We've always know that, and to be frank with you, he doesn't feel that a second son is worthy of his sister."
"Father, what are you saying?"
"Grayson, you understand that Lucas is the General of Axiom now right?" my father says softly.
"Of course," I say, irritated at the delay.
"Then you must realize that his word is final on who his sister marries. I fought this, Grayson, I promise you, but the boy's mind is made up. My only option was to refuse the girl all together and lose the alliance, which as you know isn't an option at all."
"Please don't say what I think you are about to say," I beg, the rage already rising in my chest.
"Katherine will marry Travis."
I see red.
All I can do is grip the arms of the chair as the Earth rolls beneath me. The anger has shut off my brain and I can't form the words to refute this monstrous suggestion. Leaning forward, I put my forehead against the desk as I try to draw air into my body. It hurts to breath. The oxygen is sharp as it scrapes against my lungs.
Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) Page 7