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It brought a smirk.
“After all,” Jaronas continued. “Balance is what really matters. In all things. Don’t you find?”
The consul grew a dark, self-satisfied look. “Wise words, young mercator. It is pleasing to know that even on a day such as this, House Cosmin remembers where its true loyalties lie.”
Wise words?
True loyalties?
Teigra didn’t need to see Mother’s face to know it would be beaming. And as the woman placed a loving hand on Jaronas’s shoulder, the smirks and snorts continuing, another piece of her heart shattered across the marble.
Time was that her younger brother would laugh at Mother’s obsession with status and social climbing. Time was they would roll their eyes together as she’d insinuate their family on events above their station, flirting desperately and making outlandish claims about their steeds.
But now? Now he was standing beside her. Rabbiting her statements. Speaking in that ridiculous, overenthusiastic tone that she’d taught him.
“And this must be your son, Domenin?” said Mother to the boy at Viturin’s side.
Teigra knew it was. The young senator was eighteen, but still possessed a toddler’s entitlement. His two-striped toga hung heavily on his scrawny frame, like laundry draped across a leafless sapling.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Teigra?” Mother continued.
And just like that, Teigra was shoved forward, barely able to suppress her rising shame.
She had no desire to join this awful display. She’d rather have pushed through the crowds and kneeled beside the archon. To take the wise hands of Granny Varena. To show deserved respect to Aunty Ura!
But her personal wishes meant nothing. Teigra knew what her duty was.
She gulped, and a hidden pendant around her neck felt even heavier than its usual choking weight.
Mother had once told her that a noble house was like a fine cloth—it only took one loose thread to weaken the whole twill.
And she wouldn’t be that loose thread upon House Cosmin.
Not again.
Never, ever again.
“Rejoice, Patrician,” she said, making her voice as high and light as she could.
“Mmm,” Domenin grunted, without looking at her. She followed his gaze to a beautiful young woman across the temple. Her own face flushed red, and she made no effort to regain his attention.
He was right to pay her no mind. Not in the presence of that maiden.
Where the maiden’s hair was short and styled, glowing like sun-soaked saffron, her own hair was long and curly, like the mane of a Caravagi stallion. Where the maiden’s skin was soft and light as goat’s milk, hers was sun-browned, her hands betraying roughness from years of predawn starts in the stables. Where the maiden’s body traced the soft curves of ideal womanhood, her own flesh bulged in all the wrong places—slender around the hips and breasts, with shoulders made strong from years of carrying feed, and legs taught from a childhood of unwomanly activities.
She almost jumped when Mother’s nail pressed into her back. It served two purposes. First, to encourage her to keep going with this pathetic flirtation. And second, to push her meager assets forward, placing her body in a more pleasing posture.
“So,” said Teigra, not letting the waxen smile drip from her face, “is it true your family prepared all of the marble in the Pentheon?”
The boy scoffed. “Of course, I thought everyone knew tha—”
For the first time, Domenin met her eyes. And his look made Teigra yearn once again for his disinterest.
You... It screamed, heavy with the weight of all she was unable to forget. You’re Teigra Cosmin! You’re the freak who—
“Domenin...” warned the elder Viturin.
“Ah, to be young again,” said Mother. “Why don’t you take Teigra on a tour while your father and I talk?”
