Alizavetta
I was being strangled. Gloves. Corset. My Grandmother's sapphire choker, doing as it intended, choking. I tried and failed to take a full breath. Is this how every sacrificial lamb feels before slaughter? No, the lambs are blissfully ignorant of their impending demise. I envy the lambs.
My hands were shaking like a child left out in the cold. And isn't that what I am? A child being sent away, abandoned to the frigid halls of Banmoore Abbey. Did mother just ask me a question? I snapped to attention.
"Aliza, stop fidgeting. You are a representation of this family. Anxiousness is weakness. The Alexandrov's are not weak."
But that wasn't really true was it? I knew the Alexandrov blood ran thick through my veins, but I was proving weak as a kitten. Is that why I'm the one being put on the chopping block instead of my sister? Sacrifice the weak lamb and keep the strong.
I jealously eyed my sister, Irena, across the carriage. A picture of composure and strength. Would Irena's hands shake if she was the one being bartered away?
The carriage jolted to a stop. We were here, Banmoore Abbey. My doomed future stretched before me in ornate gothic aches and rows of imported stone steps. It's beauty a recessed fog masked by the harsh and intimidating exterior. This would be my home. This was purgatory. Reparations for sins others committed.
When crossing the front threshold a resolute nod passed between the rival patriarchs. An unwelcome welcome of two powerful fathers protecting their legacy under the falsehood of familial loyalty. Peace was a dandelion in the wind but tonight was their brief ceasefire. A standoff between the Alexandrovs and Solveigs.
I focused my eyes at the bustling ballroom ahead, fighting my need to gaze at the floor. Strong people held their heads high, even when half the eyes were mocking them.
I could sense my captor in the shifting chemistry of my skin, like a foreboding monster lurking in the alcoves of these grand echoing halls. The alluring sound of deception dripped from his gruffly melodic tones. "A pleasure to have you here Miss Alizavetta." Count Hagan Solveig greeted, an aura of dark hostility painted over with blonde hair and ice blue eyes. "May I take you for a walk?"
I instinctively looked to father who nodded his approval. Were this a month ago, father would have roared at the eldest son's mere gaze in my direction. Now I was permitted to wander off with this viperous man? A lamb left to roam with a wolf. Doesn't father know how that story ends?
I wordlessly placed my hand atop his proffered arm. Hagan was arrayed in the finest military garb, more honors than fabric decorating his gilded white coat. A murderer isn't a murderer as long as you receive a medal for it. I've heard the sort of man Hagan Solveig was, the shiny apple with a worm rotted core, fooling even the most discerning of eyes. And this would be my husband.
We walked in forced silence. I focused on the swishing sounds of my dress rather than the warmth emanating from his formal hold. Hagan stopped and dropped my arm as we stood in front of a long portrait gallery. Frames of various sizes and subjects obstructed the pale green wallpaper spattered with delicate filigree. I wondered how many galleries Banmoore Abbey possessed and whether my portrait would ever stain these walls.
"Do you think I look like him?" Hagan asked, staring up at the portrait of a similarly decorated soldier. When I didn't answer he turned to look at me, assessing, "You look like your mother."
I held tight to a smirk that threatened escaping. My mother was considered beautiful by most standards. Thick brown waves and dark blue eyes were just two of our many physical similarities. Hagan's observation, however, quickly took a turn, adding, "I hope that's where the similarities end."
