I hug my book tighter and parrot what I’ve always been told. “It will be good for our countries—to share blood ties as well as a border.”
Jeffrey’s forehead furrows. “It’s not like we’re at war. Or ever have been. We’ve always been good neighbors. I know your grandfather saved my grandfather’s life, and he feels he owes a debt to your family for that, but that’s no reason to sell you and Andrew both into marital slavery. It isn’t right. Especially for you.”
“Why especially for me?” I ask, mesmerized by the compassion in his dragon-scale-green eyes.
He’s so good. So kind. So lovely, inside and out, that for a second, I wish he’d been born first, but I just as quickly put the thought out of my mind.
I’m not going to live to make any kind, lovely boy happy.
The best thing I can do for anyone who might want to be my boyfriend is to stay far, far away from them. And, of course, Jeffrey doesn’t want to be my boyfriend. He said it himself—he sees me as a little girl who should be off playing with dolls.
But it turns out that’s not why he pities me so much more than his brother. “Because Andrew isn’t letting it change him,” he says softly. “He’s dating and…doing more than dating. He’s living his life the way he would if there weren’t an arranged marriage in his future, and no one is even trying to stop him. But with your parents…” He trails off, studying my face as if he’s afraid to offend me.
But of course, he won’t. I love my parents, and I know they love me, but I’m not stupid. “My parents are going to make sure I don’t do anything to mess this up,” I say with a smile. “But that’s okay. I don’t want to date.”
Jeffrey’s gaze flicks to the book held against my chest, and my cheeks catch fire. “You might want to, though,” he says, “Someday. It’s not fair for you to be held captive like some medieval princess in a tower, forced to put your entire life on hold for Andrew when he isn’t doing the same for you. It makes me sick every time I think about it. It’s so unfair and not something I want my country to be a part of.”
He’s truly upset, so upset unwise words come spilling out of my mouth. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. We’re not going to get married.”
His features soften with relief. “You’re going to call it off, then?”
“Not…exactly.” I don’t want to lie to him, but he’ll never believe the truth. I tried to tell my sister, Alexandra, about the curse once when we were little, and she laughed me out of the wading pool. Normal, logical people like Zan and Jeffrey don’t believe in curses or spells or Romani women who can see into the future.
I mean, they believe in Romani women—gypsies they’re still called by people who either don’t know or don’t care that they don’t like to be called that—because you can see a woman. But they don’t believe that they have special powers.
But I know the woman who took me from the village playground when I was seven was magical. I know because on the day I vanished—stolen away to a shed somewhere in the forest to learn the dark, hidden history of my family—I was gone for at least two hours. But when I ran back to the playground, breathless and weeping and desperate for a hug from my nanny and the safety of my sisters, they acted as if I’d only been gone for a few minutes.
I believe in magic because I’ve lived through an undeniably magical event.
It’s not Zan or Jeffrey or anyone else’s fault that they haven’t, but it does create communication problems. And it makes me lonely. I have two sisters who are as close to me as my own heart, but there are times when I still feel so alone.
“Then what, exactly?” Jeffrey presses when I’ve been silent and strange for too long.
I feel that way a lot—silent and strange.
Or stuttering and strange.
But I haven’t been stuttering with Jeffrey. It’s a minor miracle and enough to convince me to trust him with a nugget of the truth. “It’s not going to work out between Andrew and me. But he’ll end up with someone wonderful. Don’t ask me how I know. I just…know things sometimes.”
He arches a skeptical brow.
“I do,” I insist.
“Like…you see the future?”
“Sort of,” I say, “but not in a crazy person way. In a real way.”
Jeffrey’s eyebrows contort, putting on such a show I can’t help but laugh.
“What?” he asks.
I point at his forehead. “Your eyebrows. They did a dance. A ‘This Girl is Crazy’ dance.”
His lips curve up on one side. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”