The Ranger of Marzanna (The Goddess War #1) - Jon Skovron Page 0,74

her throat. Our Sebastian again? The man was truly insufferable.

He gazed out over the square, looking quite pleased with himself. “I would hardly call it generous, my lady, since his happiness benefits both me personally, as well as the entire empire.”

“Truly said, Commander.”

“So it’s settled, then? Wonderful. I will of course consult with you on all pertinent matters.” He bowed to her. “Now, I’m afraid I must be getting back to the garrison, so I’ll take my leave.”

“Good day to you, Commander. And thank you for coming.”

“It was my pleasure, Lady Portinari. I look forward to working with you even more closely on this, the newest chapter of Sebastian’s life.” He bowed again and left.

Irina waited until she heard the door close. She turned and watched the streets below until Vittorio’s carriage pulled away. Only then did she let out a harsh sigh. She could not have credibly refused Vittorio’s offer, but with him footing the bill, he would also likely intrude on the negotiations with Sergey, and temper any efforts she made that might guarantee their independence from him.

“Shit,” she muttered aloud.

“My lady?” Dmitry, ever attentive, stood in the doorway looking concerned.

“Get word to General Zaniolo through the usual channels. Tell him the plan has changed and I need to speak with him at his earliest convenience.”

“Right away, my lady.”

29

At Commander Vittorio’s suggestion, Sebastian refrained from calling on Galina in the weeks leading up to the engagement ball. During that time, he suffered from frequent stomachaches and headaches, and each morning he woke up with his jaw unpleasantly sore. Perhaps the cause was being suddenly cut off from the most soothing presence he had ever known. Or perhaps he felt the subtle but inescapable expectations from everyone around him more keenly than he realized. In every conversation he had, no matter how short or who it was with, the other party felt it necessary to mention his impending engagement. Officers he barely knew stopped him in the hall to offer a hearty congratulations and a knowing wink that he only vaguely guessed the meaning behind.

“You worried about the engagement ball?” Rykov asked as he carefully trimmed the back of Sebastian’s hair, which Commander Vittorio pointed out had grown too long.

“Wh-why do you ask?” Sebastian sat in the chair, shirtless, his bare shoulders slumped forward as he listened to the slow snip of Rykov’s shears and felt the locks of hair tumble down his back.

“Gray hair.” Rykov held it out for him to see.

“On me?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t think people really go gray from worry,” said Sebastian. “Is there some evidence for it?”

“It’s just what I was told.” Rykov didn’t sound like he cared much if it could be proved.

They were quiet for a moment, with only the quiet rasp of the shears. Then Sebastian said, “I suppose I am a little nervous. Do you know what happens at these balls?”

“I don’t know how you nobles do it,” said Rykov.

“I wasn’t raised as a noble, Rykov. I don’t feel like one of them, you know? Tell me what happens during the engagement balls you’ve been to. I’m sure things can’t be that different.”

“Well, it’s not too complicated.” Rykov continued to trim Sebastian’s hair as he spoke. “The groom’s family throws a big party. Everybody eats and drinks a lot. The bride and groom dance in front of everyone to show how great they look together. Then everyone else joins in the dance while the parents go off somewhere private and work out the deal.”

“The deal?”

“Usually the bride’s parents give the groom’s parents a dowry of some kind. Most engagements I’ve been to, it was pigs or sheep or something like that. Probably for nobles it’ll be something fancier.”

“I’m not sure Galina’s family has any pigs or sheep,” agreed Sebastian.

“Well no, but the farms they own probably do.” Rykov brushed the loose hair from Sebastian’s neck and back, then handed him a clean undershirt.

“The Prozorovas have farms?” Sebastian pulled the shirt over his head.

“I’ll bet the Portinaris do, too,” said Rykov. “Or the Turgenevs at least. How else do you think your mother pays for her food and that pretty-boy valet of hers?”

“Well, we have our farm… I mean the one we lived on when I was a child. But you think there are others?”

“Probably.” Rykov handed Sebastian’s jacket to him.

“Huh.” Sebastian considered that possibility as he buttoned up his jacket. His mother had never mentioned it, but then again, she’d never said anything to the contrary, either. Increasingly, he had begun to