Chapter 2: Who will it be?

Rosalind was making her case without ceasing, naming all the young gentlemen who had shown interest in Portia after she came out last season. Lucy believed she made up at least half of them, if not more, but did not say it.

Her father waved her off. “I will choose which girl to send.”

Lucy’s heart beat faster. He could send her. She hardly recognized the man whom she used to know as her father. Since he remarried, the jolly man who doted on her seemed to be worn away piece by piece.

“But Portia’s future!” She demanded, uncharacteristically raising her voice. Seeming to remember herself, she straightened. “Very well, we will discuss the matter later.” She said before flittering out of the room.

“Father,” Lucy’s voice came out sadder than she expected. Pathetic. She was at his mercy.

“The king has made an order in service to peace in the realm. We must obey.” He said his back was facing her as he held the piece of paper.

“Will it be me then?” She whispered, fearing she already knew the answer.

He did not answer immediately; he said, “I do not know.”

She nodded as she made her way to the door. No one in the house gathered for dinner. It was quiet as the halls remained bare.

The servants seemed to sense the turmoil that had befell the Lord and the ladies of the house. They all stayed tucked away out of sight.

The night arrived, bringing rain, and Lucy was unable to sleep. She tossed in her bed as the rain pelted against the glass of the windows in her chambers.

Restless, she rose from the bed. Her bare feet touched the rug as she walked across the room in her floor-length nightgown. Her hair was down as she nervously braided pieces of it together.

Looking out the window, she pretended she could see beyond the few feet of visibility she had. Maybe she wouldn’t have been sent away to a horrible, unforgiving place. Maybe her father would stand up for her.

On a shelf across the room sat a little doll her mother had made for her as a child. It was worn and tattered, but it meant the world to her.

She walked to retrieve her. Mable. She had named her. Carefully, she stroked her hair, remembering her happy thoughts.

Her Mother, Lividia, was a humble woman who never flaunted jewels or status. Rosalind was the opposite.

She quickly set to work, spending her father's money and redecorating the manor to her own standards.

Lucy missed the wildflowers that once adorned the gardens and the ducks that roamed them. Rosalind replaced them with perfectly aligned hedges and manicured lawns.

Lightning cracked, causing her to jump as the outside was lit up as if it were daytime. A chill ran down her spine as the room seemed to grow cold.

She ran to her bed, diving beneath the safety of her blanket, and shut her eyes. The morning would come soon, and so would her fate.

Her eyes shut, but she never felt truly asleep. The anxiety left her body tense.

Dawn rose over the horizon as the rooster crowed in the distance. Standing, she crossed the room to where a rope stood by the door. She pulled it to summon the maidservants for her morning bath.

As she waited, she sat at her vanity looking at herself in the mirror. She looked atrocious with bags under her eyes. At least she did not look like a blissful bride, she thought with a sigh.

Carrying pitchers of water, the servants filled the small tub in her room. She dismissed them so that she could be alone with her thoughts. She lay her head back, closing her eyes, allowing the hot water to relax her aching muscles.

The tepid water told her it was time to get out of the tub. She rose, allowing the water to drip from her body, reaching for the towels the maids had left for her. She wrapped herself before pulling the rope once again for assistance getting dressed.

She sat in front of the vanity as the door opened. “Good morning, my lady,” a familiar voice called.

Meghan, her maid, walked in carrying lotions and perfumes. She sat next to her lady in the vanity before picking up a comb and untangling the mess of Lucy’s hair that fell to her waist.

“Good morning, Meghan,” Lucy said, her voice cracking as she spoke. Meghan began to ramble through the news of the manor. A cow out, a missing shirt button, and other insignificant details that Lucy did not hear as she sat there.

The words that left Meghan’s mouth did not register in Lucy’s brain as she spiraled into her self-pity. She could see that she was speaking as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair was perfectly pinned back away from her face as she wore her simple frock and apron without a blemish on the fabric.

When asked about her preference for a dress that day, Lucy just shrugged off the lack of sleep weighing down her spirit.

Making quick work of it, Meghan dressed her in a pale blue dress with white embroidery. Looking at herself, the dress reminded her of the sky. Free and never ceasing to wonder.

The family would soon gather for breakfast, as they all waited to hear the verdict. Lucy’s feet were heavy as she traversed the halls, passing portraits of her ancestors. It was not as if she could ask them for help. She was on her own.

Her stepmother was already seated at the table. She looked as if she slept as well as Lucy did, as she threw looks her way as she sat down. Rosalind furiously buttered her toast but did not eat.

Lucy sat down across from her without making eye contact. She was accustomed to her stepmother’s foul moods, as they seemed to fall on her more often.

Portia made her way in not too long after, not bothering to spare Lucy a glance while giving her mother worried looks. When Cedric entered the room, the women immediately turned to look at him.

Clearing his throat in an unmannered way that would usually cause the baroness to utter words of rebuke, but this morning she held her tongue. He sat down in his chair like the overweight, aging man he was.

The sound of his fork was the only noise that could be heard as they waited. The footman and servants were not visible. They had delivered the food to be laid out on the table so that the family could help themselves before quickly scurrying out of sight.

“Dearest,” Rosalind bit the word out. “Have you had a chance to think over the king’s message?”

Cedric continued eating as if he hadn't heard her. Setting the fork to the side, he leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands together to rest on his stomach.

He pursed his lips. “The one who will marry the vampire king is Lucy.”