Rosamund Hodge: Gilded Ashes

When I wake up, he’s playing a different song—slower, more intricate, with a multitude of trills. He stumbles over every one, and though he manages to keep his playing gentle enough to suit the piece, the whole thing feels shapeless.

He hits the final chord a little too fast and loud. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. “Should I be flattered or insulted that I sent you straight into the arms of Morpheus?”

I stand and walk to his side, digging into my pocket. “I have a letter for you.”

“Of course. Did you think it was any good?”

“What?”

“My playing.” He’s staring at the piano keys, and his voice is light, but I can hear the tension underneath. “Did you think it was any good?”

I consider the question. He’s never punished me for telling the truth yet.

“It wasn’t terrible,” I say. “But it wasn’t good. It wasn’t anything, really.”

He laughs softly. “Did you like it?”

I shrug.

“Don’t be tactful now. You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking,” I say, “what does it matter if I liked it or not? You won’t stop or start playing for love of me. You don’t care what I think, and I don’t care what you play.”

“I would have been a piano player,” he says abruptly. “If I weren’t the duke’s son. I know it’s not genteel, but if I weren’t my father’s son, I wouldn’t be a gentleman.”

“You’d get tired of it,” I say.

“No.” He stares at the keys. “I’d never get tired of music. But I’d never be much good at it either.” Gently, as if he’s closing the doors of a shrine, he lowers the lid back over the keys. “Just as well I’m the duke’s son and everyone has to flatter me.”

I remember this morning, how I yawned and immediately whispered, I’m so happy to be awake, Mother, as I stirred the porridge. I remember Koré looking at the dress I sewed for Thea and saying, I’m glad you’ve found something that stupid girl is good for, Mother.

“You’re not alone,” I say. “Everyone has to flatter somebody to survive. Besides, I didn’t mean you’d get tired of music. Being a commoner isn’t easy, you know. You’d get tired of the work.”

“Do you?”

“Every day. But unlike you, I don’t have a choice. Here’s your letter. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He catches my wrist. “Maia,” he says, “thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth about my music.”

“Just for that?” I ask.

“You’re the first one, can you believe it?”

I feel the opulent room weighing down on me, as heavy as the smiles I craft for Mother.

“Yes,” I say. “I can believe it.”

His music really is terrible.

But it echoes in my head, all the rest of the day.

I f you weren’t a servant,” asks Lord Anax, “what would you do?”

It’s the sixth day of my strange mission; Lord Anax is wrinkling today’s letter between his hands.

“My lady wrote that,” I say wearily.

“I know,” he says. “I asked you a question.”

“Oh.” I pause and think it over. “What does it matter?”

“Well, I told you what I’d do, if I weren’t my father’s son. What would you do, if you weren’t a servant?”

He should ask: if I weren’t my mother’s daughter, or if my mother had not loved me quite so much. But no matter how I enjoy telling him the truth, that is not something I dare say to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It will never happen.”

Ghosts are laid to rest when injustices are righted, when their duties are fulfilled. But my mother’s duty is to make me happy as long as I live. So there is no rest for her, and no escape for me. I will be happy and happy until it kills me.

“Pretend it does matter,” says Lord Anax. “Pretend that tomorrow you were set free and could do anything you liked. What would it be?”

I open my mouth to tell him he’s a fool, but then I remember he does not know I am a slave to my mother’s love. He imagines I have only living masters to fear. And it’s true, if I succeed in getting him to marry Koré, if all my stepfamily leaves the house, there will be nobody alive to rule me. I realize that while I have dared to dream of such freedom, I have not yet dared to imagine what could come after.

“I think,” I say slowly, “I would like a kitchen where I was mistress and I could decide what I cooked. And I would like . . .” As I speak the words, the desire unfurls like a crocus blossom. “I would like to have a great fluffy orange cat that would sit by the fireplace and purr.”

I’ve surprised him; I can see that in the tilt of his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

“It’s more than I have.”

“You’re not a timid girl,” he says. “You don’t lack imagination either. You walked into this palace and commanded me to marry your mistress. Why do you dare to dream so little for yourself?”

“Do you imagine everyone is so fortunate as you are?” I demand. “I’m already dreaming more than I ought, and far more than I’ll likely ever have a chance to get. And you, in what way are you better?”

I see his face stiffen; then he swallows and looks at his desk, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets, a careless posture that I know is a lie.

“You are heir to the Duke of Sardis—in ten or twenty years, you’ll be the most powerful man in Arcadia—but you can’t imagine anything better for yourself than choosing at random a wife you despise and pitying yourself to the end of your days because you broke your own heart.”

He lets out a breath, nostrils flaring. I should stop. But I’m drunk on truth, and though my body is shaking in anticipation of his anger, my mouth won’t stop.

“Why don’t you tell your father that you don’t want to marry?” I say. “He may want you to secure an heir, but he can’t force you—a firstborn son has rights—and if he does find a way to disown you, you’re not helpless. You’re a man, you’re wellborn, you’ve been to the university, and you have contacts in the Resurgandi; you can find a way to support yourself.” I think of the way Thea goes over the accounting books, late at night when Stepmother isn’t there to tell her it isn’t ladylike. “Why are you carrying on with this madcap plan? Why are you trying to marry anyone?”

He turns on me, and all pretense of lordly boredom is shattered by the raw, helpless fury in his face. “Because she asked me to. ”

Even though I’d been expecting it, his anger rocks me back a step. “Who?”

“Lydia wrote me. Said she knew I despised her, but if I had any pity, I’d bestow my name on someone else so that her father would let her accept suitors and not doom her to spinsterhood.” His voice drops as he looks away, running a hand through his hair. “I’d taken everything else away from her. What else could I do?”

I stare at him. “But you said—that first day, you said you didn’t care—”

“Yes, yes, I said! I am the duke’s son and I often lie, my lady. Despite my exalted position, there are freedoms you have and I do not, and the truth, I regret to inform you, is one of them.”

My body stiffens, a thousand memories icing over my skin: smiling when Stepmother tells me I’m a stupid little girl, and afterward whispering, Mother, it’s so funny how she pretends not to love me. Koré saying I’m useless and slow and she can’t imagine why they feed me. Mother, I feel so sorry for Koré when she’s cross. Thea trying to make peace and only bringing down more punishment on my head because she’s too stupid and spoiled to think through the consequences of her words. Mother, Thea is so good to me.