Isabela's stomach dropped to her boots, her palms began to sweat, her heart picked up speed.Â
"No," she said, face screwed up like a sulking girl's , and she was surprised by the steady steel in her voice. "I am not marrying anyone, least of all- I'm not."Â
Her parents stood before her. Isabela's mother was a woman of fourty-something summers with an elegant and graceful demeanour. She was dressed impeccably as always - black heeled shoes and a crimson dress that flowed just below the knees, adorned with beautiful gems which glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the window. Â
Her father, on the other hand, was a man a decade older, with a harsh face and a large gut. His hands, which were stuffed in the pockets of his doublet, came to his sides in tight fists. One hand lifted to jab a stubby forefinger at Isabela's chest.
"You'll do as we say, girl. We raised you, paid for you tutors, your clothes, your food. I'll not tolerate your ungratefulness."Â
Isabela narrowed her eyes at her father. "Oh, stop pretending you've given me everything. You've spoiled Arthur rotten since he was born, and he only wastes the coin on gambling and whoring."Â
Isabela's mother gasped, covering her mouth with a dainty, jewelled hand. "Isabela Rutherford, don't you dare talk about your brother like that! Arthur is responsible with his coin and time. Indeed, you could learn from his example. We no longer give you money because you waste it all on your foolish endeavours. Dusty relics and musty books? Pah!"
Isabela scowled fiercely at her mother, tersely stating, "You weren't so dismissive when my findings paid off your dressmaker's debts, were you, mother dear?" Before another comment could be made, however, Isabela's father cut in.
"Enough. You will be getting married, wether you like it or not. His family is extremely wealthy, and that's to say nothing of their ties to the Syndicate. Do you know what this will mean for us?"
"Yes. It means you'll be able to prance around and pretend you're more important than you are while kissing the arses of your betters."Â
Her father's face contorted in anger and he raised his hand. Isabela flinched, waiting for the blow, but her mother's voice rang out.
"Alexander! Don't hit her," she shrilled at her husband, placing her hand over his. The man relented, glaring daggers at his daughter.Â
"No less than the ungrateful brat deserves, Sarah," he spits.Â
She ignored the comment, instead turning to face Isabela with a wet sheen to her eyes. "Please, darling, won't you do this for us? He is very handsome, you know, and he's interested in you. Won't you at least meet him at dinner tonight?"
Isabela opened her mouth to reply, to tell them both she'd rather dive from a canyon than marry someone for their gain, but, as always, the fake tears welling in her mother's eyes filled her with guilt. "You know I can't. I told you both - I'm already court-"
"You're young and foolish, girl. You're a Rutherford; I'll not have you sully our name with your... dalliance with that 'adventurer,'" her father spat the last word as though it were a rotten fruit, his ugly face twisting in disgust; at her, she knew, as much as Aldric.Â
Isabela knew arguing with her parents was futile at best, and she could see her father's hair-thin restraint already fraying. She sighed tiredly. "Fine," she said in a small voice, "I'll meet him."Â
Her mother embraced her, spouting things like 'thank you,' and 'I'm so proud of you, darling,' while she stood stiffly, feeling as though she were a doll suspended by strings; absolutely powerless to control her own life.
"No," she said, face screwed up like a sulking girl's , and she was surprised by the steady steel in her voice. "I am not marrying anyone, least of all- I'm not."Â
Her parents stood before her. Isabela's mother was a woman of fourty-something summers with an elegant and graceful demeanour. She was dressed impeccably as always - black heeled shoes and a crimson dress that flowed just below the knees, adorned with beautiful gems which glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the window. Â
Her father, on the other hand, was a man a decade older, with a harsh face and a large gut. His hands, which were stuffed in the pockets of his doublet, came to his sides in tight fists. One hand lifted to jab a stubby forefinger at Isabela's chest.
"You'll do as we say, girl. We raised you, paid for you tutors, your clothes, your food. I'll not tolerate your ungratefulness."Â
Isabela narrowed her eyes at her father. "Oh, stop pretending you've given me everything. You've spoiled Arthur rotten since he was born, and he only wastes the coin on gambling and whoring."Â
Isabela's mother gasped, covering her mouth with a dainty, jewelled hand. "Isabela Rutherford, don't you dare talk about your brother like that! Arthur is responsible with his coin and time. Indeed, you could learn from his example. We no longer give you money because you waste it all on your foolish endeavours. Dusty relics and musty books? Pah!"
Isabela scowled fiercely at her mother, tersely stating, "You weren't so dismissive when my findings paid off your dressmaker's debts, were you, mother dear?" Before another comment could be made, however, Isabela's father cut in.
"Enough. You will be getting married, wether you like it or not. His family is extremely wealthy, and that's to say nothing of their ties to the Syndicate. Do you know what this will mean for us?"
"Yes. It means you'll be able to prance around and pretend you're more important than you are while kissing the arses of your betters."Â
Her father's face contorted in anger and he raised his hand. Isabela flinched, waiting for the blow, but her mother's voice rang out.
"Alexander! Don't hit her," she shrilled at her husband, placing her hand over his. The man relented, glaring daggers at his daughter.Â
"No less than the ungrateful brat deserves, Sarah," he spits.Â
She ignored the comment, instead turning to face Isabela with a wet sheen to her eyes. "Please, darling, won't you do this for us? He is very handsome, you know, and he's interested in you. Won't you at least meet him at dinner tonight?"
Isabela opened her mouth to reply, to tell them both she'd rather dive from a canyon than marry someone for their gain, but, as always, the fake tears welling in her mother's eyes filled her with guilt. "You know I can't. I told you both - I'm already court-"
"You're young and foolish, girl. You're a Rutherford; I'll not have you sully our name with your... dalliance with that 'adventurer,'" her father spat the last word as though it were a rotten fruit, his ugly face twisting in disgust; at her, she knew, as much as Aldric.Â
Isabela knew arguing with her parents was futile at best, and she could see her father's hair-thin restraint already fraying. She sighed tiredly. "Fine," she said in a small voice, "I'll meet him."Â
Her mother embraced her, spouting things like 'thank you,' and 'I'm so proud of you, darling,' while she stood stiffly, feeling as though she were a doll suspended by strings; absolutely powerless to control her own life.
