Chapter 6: VOWS
17 Years Ago…
Genesis
I sat behind a dainty table. My lavender gown, a masterpiece of silk and dainty sewing, spilled out around me. It was lovely, to be sure, but to me, it was suffocating. The lace border chafed my skin, the corseted top made it hard for me to take deep breaths, and the dainty golden bangle on my wrist pressed into my skin with a burden many times too great.
I had my hands clenched in my lap. I started to look around the hall and felt alienated, for everything began to resemble everything else and I felt lost. Faceless faces whose faces were blurring as if an enormous ocean had poured into the room. I looked upon men in suits whose laughter didn't twinkle in their eyes and made their smiles empty. Women in silk blouses and diamond earrings whispered things behind gloved hands. I didn't realize at the time that these were in fact a constant thread of low-grade threat and haggling, all snugly tied up in small talk.
Across from me sat a boy named Caspian Graves, eight years old I think; three years older than me. He sat there all proper and serious, like he was attempting to be a grown-up or something. And guess what, he was dressed in this fancy suit that made him look like some sort of tiny businessman or whatever. He was taller than me, too, and possessed child-sized versions of the muscles that adorned my dad's body. His eyes were a very pale blue, and he was staring very intently at his dad, Holland Graves, who was silently standing there, but you could be darn sure he was in charge.
Mr. Graves wore that look on his face that would make you come to a standstill. He was a statue with an icy stare that made the whole room take you seriously as though you did not want to mess with him. And his stance? As stiff as possible, he had a stick stuck in his back. You could sense he was the kind of father who would not accept rubbish.
Caspian had this tiny nervous tic thing happening where he drummed his fingers on the chair like he was taking an invisible drum set apart. Then he caught himself and clammed up like he'd just remembered that he wasn't allowed to be nervous or whatever. He folded his hands in his lap pretty soon, like he'd been told to, because his dad wouldn't be too pleased with any display of fear.
The entire affair looked like a business transaction. All silk and gold, all dressed up as if it were trying a party but something did not fit. The clinking of the expensive glasses, candles throwing warm shadows, and everyone laughing all so restrained.
My mother, she bent down and kissed me gently on the forehead. She was as if attempting to melt with a dash of her love. She had the sweet jasmine fragrance around her, pleasant, but there was something odd about her voice. Not normal. "It's just something we had to do, sweetie," she whispered, "Don't be afraid."
But the thing is, I wasn't scared. I mean, of course, it was odd, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was so wrong with it. Maybe because she was holding my hand in a vice. And my dad; not even a look my way. His eyes were dark in the dimness. The whole thing was wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why.
So I inquired, "Mama, what's happening?"
My mom hesitated momentarily as if considering whether to tell me or not. Then, rather than spilling the beans, she simply replied, "You won't have to worry about it for long sweetheart."
What was that supposed to be? It only made me more angry. If anything, it confused me even more. And for a split second, I could've sworn I saw something in her eyes—guilt or sadness, maybe—something that didn't ring quite true. Her words only made my tummies turn over with anxiety. It was like she knew something awful was going on and couldn't tell me, or didn't want to.
.…
Caspian
A couple of feet away from where Genesis sat, my mother knelt beside me, wrinkles of her midnight-blue dress radiating outward from her as she leaned toward me, fingers lightly enchanted against my cheek. She pulled a strand of hair back from my forehead with fingers brushing against mine like a feather, her face gentle but unreadable.
"Stay close to Genesis, Cas," she spoke softly, her voice hardly more than the ringing of glasses and the murmuring of voices. "Protect her. She's yours now."
I raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, a flash of confusion crossing my face. I'd heard those words before—possession, ownership, the sense of taking something and making it mine. But never of a person. Of a girl. Of Genesis Moretti.
I moved my gaze, my stunning blue eyes settled on the tiny seated form in front of me. Genesis, dressed in dark purple silk, her long nervous fidgeting hands clasping and unclasping over her knees. Her wide, curious green eyes darted around the room, drinking it all in and understanding nothing of it. Her wrist cuff flashed with golden candlelight reflection, coldly cruel against her expression of shock.
She was to be mine now? I had no idea what that meant. I enjoyed the sound of it, though. My fingers curled inward, aching to push out, to seize something, someone; into possession in a manner that I did not yet understand.
The ceremony went on about us, a staged charade in which neither of us had a line. Champagne poured, the golden wine bubbling in tall crystal glasses, catching and shining the light as fingers curled into silent toasts. Bargains were struck in quiet voices, murmured agreement given not in want, but politics. The air was thick with the scents of expensive perfume and distant spices, vibrating with a muffled undertone of something dark, something evil than the honeyed words which passed between men who never did trust one another.
Genesis and I were guided ahead, our little hands guided by unseen hands, our fingers fumbling as we received rings placed on us, little, little circles shining on our palms, too beautiful for such tiny hands, too important for something which we did not know yet.
There was applause. Quiet at first, then growing, a tide of approval that hid the unwritten truths beneath it. To the tourists who had gathered there, it was not just a simple tradition. It was a deal made, a destiny purchased. A guarantee of power, all wrapped up in silk and gold, signed in blind ignorance for us.
I glanced away from my father, powerless, and hoped for something—anything—to hold on to. But Holland Graves did not stir, a pillar of ice, glacial in his strength, an impassive, unbroken face, silent, speechless. He did not applaud. He did not smile. He nodded curtly, as coins were accepted as payment—a dumb acknowledgement that understanding was given, the destiny of our kingdom decided by something greater than words. Even at the age of eight, I felt something. My father's approval was never bought. After the affair had ended, we were herded out into the large gardens, beyond the reach of the suffocating grownups and the stifling weight of expectation that appeared to dominate the evening. The fresh air was scented with the light perfume of just-cut grass and roses, a dramatic change from the thick smell of cigars and liquor that clung indoors in the large house. The tall hedges cast long, whispery shadows beneath the moon, the leaves rustling commingled with the muted thrum of sound from the ballroom. The loose white rose petals, cast loose by the night wind, settled to the ground in subdued obedience.
Genesis dawdled when we stepped out into the grass, the cold of the ground seeping through the thin soles of her shoes. Her silk gown the color of a rich plum undulated as she moved in small, hesitant steps, unaccustomed to being on her own outside where there was no adult to watch over her. Her fists, now crammed into her lap, tugged on the edges of the dainty flowers as she looked at me. I, rigid still in my suit, glared while tugging at the stiffened collar, feeling out of place in the immaculate fabric.
With a weary breath, I collapsed onto the grass, stretching my legs out in a careless sprawl, my bright blue eyes searching the sky as if for answers among the stars. Genesis hesitated uncertainly, not knowing what to do, but then sat down slowly beside me, folding her legs under her uncertainly, observing the way the silk spilled up over her in waves.
There was a quiet between us, not one tense but thick with the suggestion that each of us was expecting the other to explain what had just transpired to the other. But nothing was uttered, at least nothing that could explain it. I eventually broke the silence.
"Your name is Genesis?" I arched my eyebrow, my voice thick with curiosity. "That's odd."
Genesis's green eyes furrowed with anger as she glared at me, folding her arms across her chest. "Says the boy named Caspian!" What's that 'supposed to mean?'"
I smiled back at her reaction, taking up a blade of grass and twirling it around my fingers. "It's from a book," I told her as if everybody knew the answer. "A sea, I think."
Genesis tilted her head back a little, considering. "Well, we each have ours from a book," she said, rising up with pride. "It means 'beginning'." I hummed a sound as if that sufficed, then flipped the blade of grass out into the air and observed it fall out into the darkness. I looked over at her again. "Do you know what 'betrothal' is?"
Genesis frowned and nodded her head. "Not really. I think it's because we have to be friends forever."
I leaned my head to the side there, pondering. Friendships were a quantity unknown to me. My father had always taught that there was no place for those in our world, that loyalty was bought and sold, never freely given. I had always known that people came and went, moving like pieces on a board, never remaining long enough to ever be anything greater than a raw fact. But the idea of something, someone; being mine, mine I should say, without qualifier or agenda. I rather liked it.
I glanced across at the house, at the golden, warm light spilling from the ballroom, where our fathers still sat, speaking in low tones, making promises with palms clasps and pen and ink. I was eight and I knew whatever it was, whatever had occurred, it wasn't for us.
"It means we belong to each other," I said finally, my voice gentle but firm.
Genesis raised an eyebrow at that, her fingers weaving patterns on the lawn. "Belong? Ridiculous."
"Aha, yes, maybe," I shrugged, my silence releasing me from further comment. I sat there quietly for a moment, then thrust my hand into my pocket and produced my good luck charm. It was a white rose, small, inside some kind of wax and attached to a silver chain. I held it out to her, my face un-readable.
"But here. If we belong to each other, you should have something."
Genesis hesitated, glancing back and forth between me and the icy bloom. Then, inch by torturous inch, she took it at the cost of a small piece of my heart. She threaded it around her neck before turning back toward me with fresh resolve.
"Then you should have something too."
She reached for the delicate silver chain around her neck, fingers fumbling with the clasp. After a moment of struggling, she finally slid it off, the metal cool against her skin as she looped it around my wrist.
"Now we're even," she declared with a satisfied nod.
I had laughed once that evening. A true laugh, not my funny-sounding but mocking one in the presence of adults, not my plastered smile when my dad was present. It was soft, innocent, and mine.
And in that moment, in the quiet of the garden sheltered by the moon, everything was right.