Paternal Grip

I cannot help but imagine that there are children with the privilege to attend lessons: those who at least have the honour to see daylight every single day, or do not have to live beneath a servant’s status in their Father’s homes.

Then, there are also those who are treated as I am, but only a few—or none—receive the kind of hate my own Father gives me.

Sometimes, I find myself wishing that I come from a poor home, and perhaps it would have been a sugary kind of story. Other times I wondered if my mother would treat me better if she were alive.

I do not know her personally because she died right on the spot of delivery. All I know about her is her subtle beauty; her mixed silky hair, and her caramel skin that glowed with the gold she was arrayed in a portrait as she smiled happily into the lenses, posing with Lord Owen.

“I do not want to get married,” I murmur as I stride back to the room while Lord Owen glances back at me and says nothing. My tap did not run; I never washed my hands, but I will eat my meal nevertheless. I am dirt after all, so there is no need to disgust dirt itself.

“Who says you are getting married?” I look up at Owen as he eyes me. Did Katelyn not gossip about the demonic Japanese Lord who is intending to marry me?

“Katelyn said you made a deal—” I pause to observe his reaction, but he rather holds a stoic look. Then I breathe out, “…with the demon man.”

Lord Owen chuckles and pushes his plate aside. “I knew the speed of your warden’s tongue, which is why she only heard what she needed to know.” He guzzles down a pint of beer while I watch him.

I presume that today is one of his good days, telling from his calm demeanour and the way he treats my dourness with silence.

On his bad days, his eyes would invite the colour of blood. He would place the portrait of my mother right in front of my face and rant about how I killed my mother and became his greatest grief and nightmare.

Mother conceived me when they never expected, when they were still too young and planning a blissful love life alone. I am a mistake—so he often tells me—not meant to exist.

Yet, here I am.

“The old fellow offered a good amount of coin for you, not like I am interested in his silver. I am just satisfied that I am letting you go in an unsuspicious means.” Lord Owen grins, exposing his heritable, perfect dentition.

My eyes flutter with tears stinging at their corners as I drop my cutleries. “How could you... How can you be okay with this?” I understand that he still loves mother, but somehow, I feel that he is stepping beyond the line.

I watch him push out of his stool. Then he strides to the bathroom and returns with a pair of rusty scissors, which he snaps before my face.

“Since I can no longer yank this hair of yours, it is best that it goes out. Let the old man grow himself a new one.” He seethes as he proceeds to dig the scissors into my hair while I remain unmoving.

I grind my jaws as I feel my hair strands cascade down my shoulders to the floor, fresh air gradually finding its way into my skull.

“You hate me not only because my blood killed my mother, but also because I look like her. I remind you of what you lost…” I gnash, my voice fading just when it began to rise.

A pact I made to myself several years ago is never to show weakness to my tormentor through tears. I know better than to do that. However, my breath hitches when I feel Lord Owen pause, because his fingers clutches around my neck in a swift move.

He tugs me up and pushes me toward the nearby wall, making sure that I could feel the sharp pain when my back landed against it. As I wince, my mouth shivers from the pain coursing through my whole being.

I nearly do not even hear him as he grits out his warning. “Never let your tongue slide out the name ‘Lyn’, or else I will kill you… and torture you even in the underworld.” 

*****

“Smile, Allegra. You should hold a cheerful countenance as a noble’s daughter.”

I glance at Lord Owen to see the rictus that he slips into his expression. He seems proud of his words, looking happy on the outside and carrying the countenance of a proud Father.

As a ‘noble’s daughter’, I am expected to cross my hands in front of my thighs, level my shoulders, and hold my chin up with a bright smile.

Lord Owen and I are standing next to each other in front of the Mansion, while the servants line behind us.

If only our Japanese guest would arrive on time, then I will quite escape the exasperated stares that I am never spared. Who will not seem pissed at my presence anyway? No one wants a caramel-skinned noble with bald hair and, of course, a peculiar curse.

I am aware that Owen just needs to disgrace me for the last time before I leave, and as I look at him now, he quickly replaces a frown with another wide grin, the tip of his pointed nose drooping down.

He looks stylish in a shimmering velvety tailcoat, but I wish he never put the spangles on because they somewhat look like a child’s art on him.

Orange hues had streaked across the sky when a crowd of young men and women in colourful attires flock in through the Iron gates, few of the men carrying a Palanquin on their shoulders.

Their attire may look odd to me, but it definitely seems artistic enough to attract attention. It is an ankle-length, stylish material worn by their left side and wrapped over their right, having distinctively voluminous sleeves and V-curved neck.

The twelve feet belt tied around their waists seem to be an added artistry, yet it could actually also have a value attached to it.

When the Japanese Lord steps out of the Palanquin, my jaw drops even though I did not expect to see a charming prince. I never knew that my groom is actually a white-haired dwarf, clad in a colourful, heavy dress that seems to be twelve times what the other Japanese wear.

“I trust that you have not forgotten your etiquette?” Lord Owen murmurs without looking at me, and I would chuckle if I do not have over sixty eyes on me.

“I lived beneath your Castle,” I whisper instead. It is a better way to say I grew up in the dungeons; without the rambling of etiquette tutors or the stillness of noble classes—I was rather taught to walk on my toes by rats.

                                                                                   

“Yet, you should know a simple salute to a noble. Do not act dumb, Allegra.” I frown slightly, wiggling my shoulders as the Japanese approach us. “How was your journey across the continents, Master Xaulfur?” Lord Owen says, while the other man’s gaze settles on me.

“Splendid! I must tell you though, Chester is a beautiful City.” I would love it if he talked more to lengthen the conversation, but the old man seems to keep his statements short and precise.

I have no idea why he keeps staring at me, or probably my tallness seems eerie to him too; it does to many people who believe that the typical height for a noble’s daughter should not be too tall or too short.

“Ah! Lady Allegra Lyn Owen, it is a pleasure to meet you.” My brows rise when I hear the old man greet me with a pleasant tone. I thought that he would just nod at my salutation and walk past me without a word, but— “You are so gorgeous.” These words throw me off balance, and I find myself slightly staggering backward.

His round, upturned eyes are pure brown, glimmering with a potency that is unlike a man of his age. His gaze on me is soft, his smile tender; something that I never thought I would see in my lifetime.

No one has ever told me words that please the ears, not those that are cynical. The only words I am used to are the sour and dour ones, which is why it now feels as if a pail of chill water has been emptied on me.

Lord Owen nudges my shoulders before I pinch a fold at each side of my voluminous, green dress and go down with a tilted head, yielding a curtsey that the old Japanese commends as elegant. I can only imagine the servants’ faces screwing up with disgust at that.

“This way, Sir,” Lord Owen’s hoarse voice shoves into the moment, gaining the old Japanese’s attention. He leads the way toward the banquet hall, and I follow blindly.

We all had dinner at the dining hall, and I made for my room after I watched Lord Owen walk the old Japanese towards the inner court.

As I clutch my door’s knob, a familiar force suddenly overwhelms me before it slams my chest on the wall, a sharp cry ripping from my lips as I feel strong hands grip my nape, grinding the side of my face against the wall.

“What are you doing, wench?” Lord Owen growls into my ear and I wince, recalling how I had thanked my stars when he walked away with the guest. I thought that I was going to be free of his habitual sneaking around for a moment. “You will sleep in the old man’s chamber tonight.”

“And if I refuse? Do not forget that he has not performed what is right,” I retort with effort as I try to hide the disgust that streaks into my tone while also struggling to keep my eyes open, and my legs steady.

Meanwhile, Lord Owen leans against me, and I feel his breath behind my right ear as he intensifies his hold on my nape. He whispers into my ears, “How many times will I have to tell you, Allegra, that there is truly no marriage? He is just interested in using you for some reason I do not care to know.”

His words do not affect me, yet my lips shiver. My eyeballs roll into my head, my legs vibrating as the pain in my head increases, and I do not know if Lord Owen holds me or lets me fall.