by Lilia Ford
Genevieve couldn’t disagree. She looked at Sally more carefully. She’d forgotten how bright her old friend was. As a child she’d been a tiny spitfire of a girl who didn’t take nonsense from anyone. She had grown to be a very pretty woman, with pale blond hair and sharp hazel eyes, and so confident it was easy to forget she was barely over five feet tall.
But unlike her friend, Genevieve felt a certain kinship with Damian Black and his brothers. They knew what it was like to be part of the town and yet feel themselves outsiders. The very thing she had feared so much had really happened to them, and yet everyone seemed to agree that they were ever among the most devoted to Titania and made great sacrifices defending the demon gate. She couldn’t blame them for remembering their illustrious heritage. Declan was a great hero, and they seemed to be living up to his legacy. She resolved that she would not be one of the girls who avoided Damian Black.
The topic soon changed, and Genevieve was able to sneak a better look at the mysterious son of the Black family. There was no difficulty picking him out. He was taller and more powerfully built than the others and appeared older—she guessed he was at least twenty-five. He stood off to the side, away from the central group of boys who were joking and play fighting each other. Genevieve agreed with Sally that he was handsome—very handsome. His inky black hair and almost black eyes made him seem fierce, but Genevieve saw plenty of good humor in his expression. There was no missing the confident way he held himself, but he wore an ordinary brown suit and showed his color with a plain black scarf, hardly the dress of a man trying to make everyone aware of his superiority.
Another boy approached him and asked after Damian’s family. Genevieve felt a moment of trepidation at the boy’s boldness but relaxed when she saw Damian smile and answer easily. She saw no contempt or impatience in his expression—nothing like cruelty in his face. But she didn’t deceive herself: he was nothing like the boys she’d grown up with. He looked like what he was, a fighter trained from his youth for war, the descendant of Declan. She must have looked too long because she realized with a start that he was looking back at her. He made a shallow bow, which made her face flame up.
Genevieve bit her lip uneasily, wondering if she could look a greater fool. Fortunately, the awkward moment was interrupted by the approach of the elderly priestess and her votary, along with various neighbors bringing picnic baskets.
Sally was beaming, having exchanged a glance with Peter Crane. Genevieve couldn’t help laughing. She remembered Peter well: he had mercilessly tormented them when they were nine, loving nothing more than to pull a girl’s hair or put a spider down her back when the teacher wasn’t looking. The obnoxious skinny boy had grown into a very handsome man, with blond curly hair and dreamy blue eyes. He was an artist, a painter, and displayed his color with an outlandish blue satin scarf. He still had an infectious smile that even Genevieve couldn’t resist.
Genevieve winked at Sally, who clapped her hands joyfully. Both of Sally’s parents were healers, their color green. Sally had trained as a midwife, and her shawl was pale green with a vine pattern in darker green twining through it. Green and blue were harmonious shades, and she knew it would be considered a good pairing.
Something in Genevieve relaxed, and all of a sudden the Bridal Week didn’t seem so terrifying. These were her people, her traditions. For the first time since her music changed, she could almost believe that she was one of Titania’s beloved children just like all the others.
The priestess called to the boys to each pick up a basket and attach it with their color. They all started together towards Titania’s Altar, which was in a grove of rowan trees about a half-mile from town. Away from the village green, the two groups dispersed, and boys and girls gradually fell to walking together. Sally grabbed Genevieve’s arm and pulled her along to speak to one boy after another—except for Peter Crane. To Genevieve’s surprise, she found it easy to make small talk and ask about their crafts and families. No one raised the kind of excitement that Sally seemed to feel for Peter, but the walk passed pleasantly. She couldn’t help but notice that though the boys began to warm up to Damian Black, the girls all kept their distance.
At the grove, the girls and boys separated again until the priestess called them all to order. “Welcome all of you to the Bridal Week. As you know, our events are designed to give the girls the chance to spend time with the boys in our group. Today is simple: each girl will choose a color from my bag to know whom she will share lunch with. After lunch, you can mingle again and if you choose walk in the forest. Enjoy this time together. Do not forget that we serve Titania in all that we do here. Be true to yourselves and respectful of each other, and Titania will smile on you and bless the unions you form this week.”
There was a moment of pious silence at her words, and then the girls approached to choose their ribbon from her bag. Soon they were laughing and squealing, but Genevieve had lost the easiness she’d felt just a few minutes before. Everyone had been warm and friendly so far, which pleased her—it had felt like a gathering from her school days before all her troubles. But this wasn’t school—it was the Bridal Week—and by the end of it, these laughing girls and boys would be married couples.
She held back as long as she could, but finally she could delay no longer. To her surprise, before she could reach into the bag, the priestess took her face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “Titania bless you, Genevieve,” she said. She placed something in her hand and whispered, “Don’t look until you’ve sat down.”
Chapter Three
Genevieve was too preoccupied with trying to get away from the others and their oppressive gaiety to notice the ribbon in her hand. She threw her shawl down beneath a tree at the far end of the meadow and plopped down, fighting to get her temper back in order before she shocked the poor boy cursed to share lunch with her.
Unfortunately her valiant efforts were all for naught. She noticed Damian Black approaching her spot and quickly opened her hand: in it was a black ribbon. She now cursed the nerves that made her choose a spot so far from the others. She wasn’t afraid of Damian Black precisely, but she would have preferred if they’d at least been within earshot of the other couples.
Damian came to the edge of her shawl and just stood there. Genevieve stared up at him, blushing like a schoolgirl, with no idea why he was standing there. Finally he said, “May I join you?”
“Of course!” she burst out, appalled that she would forget her manners. As he placed the basket and took a seat, she fumbled for something to say and then remembered that they’d never been formally introduced.
“I actually know your name,” she stammered. “Damian of the house of Black. People call me Jenny.”
She groaned inwardly—her parents and school friends called her Jenny, but she hated that nickname. Jenny was the girl who’d existed before her music changed. “Don’t call me that,” she added hastily. “Genevieve, I’m Genevieve Miran.”
“Genevieve,” he said as if testing it out. “Much better. I am indeed Damian Black, and I am delighted to meet you, Genevieve.”
She looked at him sharply—something in the way he spoke made the words sound like more than just an empty civility. He met her eye almost like he was challenging her, which made her flush violently and look away. She hated how easily discomposed she was and was suddenly terrified she might burst into tears—how foolish!
To her surprise, she felt his fingers gently grip her chin, pulling her face up to meet his gaze.
“Genevieve, darling, what’s wrong?” He watched her face carefully.
“I’m sorry, please, I didn’t…” she fumbled. “I don’t mix much with strangers—I’m sorry. I get nervous—it’s so foolish. Please don’t be offended.” It all just sounded worse and worse.
“Never, Genevieve. Don’t apologize again. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Again, the words sounded like they meant something more—like he felt deeply, which only alarmed her more. She realized he wa
s still holding her face. She instinctively tried to turn her head, but he held her face more firmly.
“Don’t look away from me, Genevieve.” He was watching her, studying her face, as if looking for something. She tried to pull away again, but his grip tightened. “What did just I say?” His tone was laced with iron, and she suddenly swayed dizzily.
“What is happening?” she gasped.
“Get up and walk into the trees,” he ordered.
“But the lunch… the Bridal…” Nothing made sense.
“They don’t matter. Listen to my voice. Walk into the trees. Do it now, Genevieve.”
She stumbled to her feet and did her best to walk purposefully, as if she had a perfectly good reason to leave the picnic. As soon as she was out of sight of the rest, she wondered why on earth she’d done this, just like that, because he’d told her to? Would he follow her?
Suddenly it was all too much. She hiked up her skirts and started running blindly. She hadn’t gone far before she slammed into something, which some part of her knew was Damian, but her mind wasn’t working properly. She struggled and flailed, tears running down her face.
“Stop struggling, Genevieve.”
“What’s happening?” she cried again.
Damian pulled her into his arms and clasped her tightly. She struggled for a moment before realizing her arms were pinned. She started to come out of her panic and allowed herself to relax, somehow trusting that he wasn’t disgusted by her lunatic behavior. He was even taller than she’d realized—almost a foot taller than she was, not that she could call herself tall. She was exactly her mother’s height of five foot three.
He loosened his hold slightly and gripped her chin to make her raise her eyes to his. She was surprised at how warm his gaze was, which calmed her further.
“Are you better?” he asked gently.
“Yes, thank you. You must think me a lunatic. I’m so sorry,” she said lamely.
He tapped her cheek firmly. “Kneel down, Genevieve, and don’t apologize again.”
His words brought on the dizziness again. She slipped down to her knees, not even trying to understand what was happening. After her panic, it was soothing to just be off her feet, out of the sun, away from all the others. So for a long time, she just stayed there, enjoying the cool grass under the trees and the quiet forest sounds.
Finally she became curious about Damian and why he’d insisted on coming out here, so she looked up. He was standing against a tree, watching her. He’d said nothing for all those minutes—attempted no apology or explanation for the oddness of his demand that they leave the picnic.
There was something intimate about that—that way of ignoring the usual rules of interaction, the expected topics of polite conversation between two people who’d never met before. Those rules were a boundary between people, and somehow it had just been shunted aside. It was freeing: she felt no more pressure to pretend she could chat about tea parties and sewing.
She suddenly wanted him to understand. “I’m not like them—the other girls.”
“I know.”
“I have moods. My thoughts aren’t… right—they’re not nice… Something’s wrong with me. I used to think it was a demon. The priestess said no, that Titania gives her children many different gifts, and mine was harder to bear. I don’t know what to think. I’m babbling.” She cut herself off before she apologized again. “I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea?”
“You asked me to come out here with you….” She paused to see if he would help, but he remained silent. Suddenly she felt annoyed. “You obviously have your reasons, Damian Black, whether you say them or not. I’m telling you now, I’m not totally right, so don’t ever say I didn’t tell you.”
“I never would, Genevieve. Are you trying to warn me off?”
“The other girls are afraid of you.”
“Answer my question, Genevieve.”
“I don’t know…. No. I just wanted you to know, in case….”
“In case of what?”
“In case there was some reason you asked me out here. Don’t treat me like a fool.” Her voice was rising again.
“Hush, Genevieve, you know I’m not. Perhaps I just wanted to watch you kneeling.”
“I don’t understand you—can I get up now?”
“No. I’ll tell you when you can get up. Be silent now, Genevieve.” She slumped down, tired from dealing with such a confusing male. “Close your eyes, darling.”
“Damian…” she protested, her anxiety rising again.
“Do as I ask,” he responded in a soothing voice.
“This doesn’t make sense!” she cried, letting her eyes fall shut. But it was too difficult to hold them closed knowing he was there, wondering what he was doing. She blinked and then realized he was no longer in front of her. Suddenly a soft cloth covered her eyes and then was tightened. She stiffened in panic and reached to pull it down, but he gripped her wrists and pulled her firmly against him.
“Easy, darling. You’re safe. Stop struggling.” He rested his cheek against hers—it scratched—and then she felt his soft lips touching her face. “Are you calm?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, though her voice was shrill.
“Keep your hands here,” he said, placing them on her thighs. When she started to protest, he covered her mouth and said, “Hush, Genevieve, you mustn’t speak.” He gave her a little kiss on top of her head, and then he moved away.
So she knelt there, like he said, blindfolded. She was beyond fear, beyond misery: her emotions were in chaos. Her body began shaking, so she fisted her hands, gritted her teeth, and held herself rigid, as if she might suddenly shatter into pieces. She could feel the tears dampening the blindfold, and finally she let out a sob, which turned into a scream.
A second later he was in front of her, pulling off the blindfold. He kissed her on the lips and sat back against a tree, pulling her into his arms.
Genevieve huddled there, sobbing, feeling like she’d turned into a small child. “What is happening? What do you want?”
“Shhh, love,” Damian soothed. “Easy now, it’s over.”
“Who are you?”
“You need to trust me—I would die before I let you come to harm; quiet now.”
So she lay there enclosed in his arms. She just caught a trace of his scent, oakmoss she thought sleepily, and leather. It was extraordinarily pleasant. And so masculine.
The tension drained out of her, leaving her utterly exhausted.
She was startled when Damian nuzzled her face. He looked elated. “You fell asleep, love, but we should return now.”
Genevieve moved to get to her feet, but Damian suddenly stood while holding her, which she vaguely recognized must be very strenuous.
“Can you walk, darling?”
She nodded, and he gently put her on her feet. She was dizzy and clutched at his arm. He shook his head and swung her up again, kissing her forehead. Genevieve didn’t argue but lay there passively, resting her head on his shoulder as he moved swiftly back to the picnic area.
The other couples had finished their lunch, and some part of Genevieve realized that every person there was staring dumfounded at the two of them. Her hair had come out of its combs, and her beautiful dress was stained with grass and twigs.
So apparently this was to be the start and finish of her Bridal Week—creating a scandal with Damian Black. She had no idea why it had happened or what she might have done differently, and finally she just closed her eyes.
“Damian, what have you done?” the priestess demanded.
“Do you impeach my honor?”
“Have care, Damian!”
“She is unharmed, I swear it, but I am taking her home. I must send for the rest of my family.”
“I gave her your ribbon and this is the return you make me! You could not wait?” the priestess said angrily.
“No I couldn’t! This is everything to my family, Holy On
e.”
“Your family! What are they to her? This is her Bridal Week—a week of pleasures she has waited for her whole life. She deserves to be courted and feted. Are her feelings so little to you? I will have words with Declan over this—he has allowed his zeal for you to blind him.”
Damian dropped to his knees, gently placing Genevieve on the ground next to him. “Forgive me, Holy One,” he said, bowing his head. “Do not blame Declan. I let my fears rule me. Her well-being is my first priority at all times, on my honor I swear it. Declan would repudiate me if he thought it otherwise.”
Genevieve felt herself swaying dizzily—nothing made sense. Declan? Titania’s champion? “Damian?” she squeaked out. “What is happening?”
“Silence, Genevieve.” He looked carefully at her, tapping her lips, and then turned back to the priestess. “Please, Holy One, I need your help. It will be many hours before Declan can get here. I need you to ease matters with her family. She is mine now, and I will allow no interference, even from her parents, but I have no wish to trample their feelings.”
The priestess gave him an annoyed rap with her staff. “Get up, Damian, enough of this.”
Genevieve felt herself flying up as Damian got to his feet in a smooth motion, hoisting her up at the same time.
“I see you’ve arranged matters so that I have little choice. I will speak to them, but you will not forget what is given to you, nor treat lightly the challenges she faces becoming your bride. She must have a proper wedding, surrounded by her friends and family, before you sweep her off to that castle of yours.”
“I know,” he said, sounding deeply moved. “You cannot guess…. Just trust that every member of my family knows what we are being given, but please, come as soon as you can.”
Chapter Four
Damian had no intention of putting Genevieve down as he made his way back to the town and her parents’ home. She was so slender, she weighed practically nothing and while she was in his arms, he felt there was no chance of her escaping.