Page 4

Barbara

T he outing went well, the only pictures of me taken from a distance. But even if someone managed a better shot, I was positive they wouldn’t have seen any vulnerability. Riding soothed me, and having a packed day helped me stay focused.

I was almost calm, the video reduced to a dull tightness in the pit of my stomach. I still couldn’t eat anything, but I forced myself to drink a protein shake after I got back home.

After my riding lesson, I had a four-hour session with Madame Morozova at my home ballet studio.

“So you still insist on riding,” she said with disapproval, hitting the back of my thigh with a flexible switch she wielded at our every session. “It destroys your muscle lines, romashka. You should stop. Take it up again in a few years when you’re too old to dance.”

She spoke with a harsh Russian accent and moved with the grace of a dancer despite being over sixty—definitely too old to dance, in her words. She wore a tight dress and high heels, her body lean, posture rigid.

She’d called me romashka , meaning “daisy”, ever since I started training with her.

“But I don’t dance professionally,” I said, rehashing the argument I used every time she brought this up. “And I really like what riding does for my thighs.”

“Do you?” she asked, her thin lips shaping a moue of distaste. “And yet, you have no man to appreciate those thighs, yes? Tell me: when will you be allowed to have one? Because time is ticking. Stretch.”

I started my stretching routine at the barre, pushing away the anger her words brought up.

I used to pretend it wasn’t like this. I thought I was free, and I even had a crush here and there, going out with a few boys in ballet school. Then one time, I asked my mother if I could bring my boyfriend home.

She said nothing, her eyes growing cold, her only response a sigh of utter disappointment that made me squirm instantly. I knew I did something wrong, even though I had no idea what.

The next day, he broke up with me, and my mother sat me down for The Talk.

She spoke at length about destiny, genetics, and duty. She explained some people belonged to a better stock, while others were more common, and stressed those two kinds shouldn’t mix. You don’t throw pearls before swine. You don’t marry royalty and peasants.

“Think about horses,” she said when I stared at her, struck dumb by her speech, yet not really shocked.

Those ideas floated around me all my life, coming through in whispered gossip and jokes. Only, I’d never heard them expressed so clearly and with such direct relevance to myself.

“You don’t breed Arabians and Shires, do you? The mix would be unbecoming and useless. They would be neither beautiful nor strong enough to pull a plow.”

I was silent for a while, and she waited patiently, giving me the time to put it all together in my head. When I felt like screaming or maybe cackling, I swallowed and pushed it all down.

“And in this analogy, am I the Arabian or the Shire?” I asked, forcing a playful smile on my face.

“Neither,” she replied with a scowl. “You are an Ashford and a Kingsley, a culmination of two powerful dynasties that can trace their roots back to the Renaissance. You are one of a kind, Barbara. There is no one good enough for you, but one day, we’ll find someone who’s almost your equal. And then, my dear, you will be allowed to fall in love and bring him home.”

Allowed to fall in love. Those words echoed in my head as I looked up, bent over my leg stretched taut in front of me. I met my eyes in the mirror, flinching when I saw how dark and furious they looked.

I was so used to pushing the anger down and ignoring it, I didn’t even notice as it burst into flame inside me, but my eyes revealed all.

Knowing I was reduced to my breed , just like a horse, made me look more closely at my life, and especially, my parents’ relationship. I did some research after The Talk and found out what eugenics was. Both my grandfathers were huge proponents of it.

Their beliefs resulted in my parents’ cold, unhappy marriage. I refused to face the same fate, only—I didn’t know how to escape it.

“Good,” Madame Morozova said, tapping my thigh again. “We’ll practice some battements first. Maybe if you stretch those horse legs enough, they will look like ballet legs again.”

I had to give it to her—she drove me hard until the very last minute of our practice. I didn’t know if she had seen the video or not, because she didn’t mention it and I didn’t ask, but I suspected she had.

My teacher was simply too classy to speak of something so vulgar, yet she helped immensely by taking my mind off things. I was so focused on perfecting my posture and movements to the rhythm of her sharp corrections, the video didn’t even feature in my thoughts until I crawled into the shower to wash off the sweat.

It went downhill from there. With nothing else on the agenda and no one I could talk to, I had no way to fend off my thoughts.

When I finally broke down and cried, it was after six. I locked myself in my bathroom, turning off all lights save for one small amber lamp, and sobbed in the bathtub. I didn’t even touch my phone, terrified to see what everyone said about me.

It shouldn’t matter what others thought, but the problem was, I thought it, too. I was weak. That video wasn’t just a wild terrorist act. It was a symbol of my life.

That was what I cried for. That was what I loathed. What that manipulator did was simply give me a different part to play from the one I always did. Instead of being demure, he made me brash. Instead of being silent, he made me talk. Instead of eating with reserve, he made me devour food on screen, but really, that was all it was. The rest was just as my life always was.

Utter obedience. Playing a part someone else wrote for me.

I sobbed, pressing my fists into my eyes, the tears hot with anger. Really, how easy it must have been for them to take over control. They probably waltzed right in and realized I had the mind of a puppet. Everything was perfectly organized, perfectly leashed.

Barbara Ashford-Kingsley was hollow. She was a vehicle for other people’s plans.

I howled, choking on my tears. The truth was so clear now, and it devastated me. I was never my own person. Everything I did was because I’d been taught to do it. Even horseriding, which I used to think was my own choice, was an option I was allowed from a list of sports I once showed my mother, asking which I could play. I was ten and longed to be around other kids more, which was why I wanted to play a sport in the first place.

She instantly said no to the top five positions on my list, which were all team sports. Finally, she gave me a nod at riding. It was my ninth choice, but I meekly took her permission, and I was grateful.

And ballet? I wanted to go to college, but apparently, a unique, beautiful creature like me wasn’t made for learning.

“You’ll destroy your eyesight and develop a stoop poring over books,” my mother told me when I said I was interested in studying Environmental Science. “You’re such an excellent dancer. You should hone your talent without distractions, Barbara. Focus on your training in the Washington School of Ballet. It will look excellent on your resume.”

And so I did. And with every nod of my head, with every meek acquiescence and a quiet, smiling “yes, Mother”, I became more of a husk.

“What resume?” I asked through tears, my voice wet yet bitter, dark with anger. “I will never have a fucking job, Mother! All I’ll have is a husband once you pick him out for me! The resume is for him, isn’t it? He’ll want a ballet dancer without a degree. What a prick!”

I already hated him, I realized. Maybe a younger me would have fallen for it if a man was brought in and introduced as my Prince Charming, but I was an adult now and disillusioned enough to smell bullshit.

I had eyes, too. I knew my father came home very late and left early each morning to avoid my mother and me. My parents had separate bedrooms, separate friends, separate everything. The only time they stood together and showed any affection was when cameras pointed at them.

“Perfectly engineered bullshit,” I muttered, wiping my tears roughly. “So perfect on paper, weren’t you? Dynasties! Well, Mother. Should I breed with a Shire just to give you a heart attack?”

I got up and started pacing, my face wet and burning, my body itching with the need to act. I had to do something. I had to somehow reclaim myself before it was too late.

It wasn’t only that I felt so violated after the attack. My need to do something brutal, something mine, stemmed from other places, too. Years of being denied the things I wanted, of being forced to obey without question.

Obedience was supposed to protect me. It was supposed to make me happy. And yet, even though I always did my best to be the perfect daughter, I ended up here.

The light pink nightshirt I’d put on for bed swished around my thighs as I paced, the silk soft and thin, the feel of it soothing and invigorating at the same time. I remembered my moans from the video, grimacing at the memory.

I remembered how unfair it felt. How cruel. To be denied that sensuality in private even as it went public.

“Or maybe I should just fuck one,” I murmured, throwing open the white French doors leading onto my balcony.

There. It felt like a brutal enough rebellion. I was always presented as innocent and pure, so what better way to smash that image than fucking some commoner, to use my mother’s word?

My body thrummed, my chest burning with anger… and yet. I stopped, gripping the cold marble balustrade, and thought about what I’d even do. There was no one I could call and invite over, and besides, the guards wouldn’t let them in. We were on high alert since the video.

What then? Should I sneak out? Go to some club and… and what? Dance? Buy someone a drink? What was the protocol?

The itching under my skin grew stronger, anxiety churning in my belly. My lifetime of conditioning took over, which it always did whenever I had a thought out of line.

Think about your father’s career, Barbara. He’s working so hard to make the world a better place. You don’t want to destroy that, do you?

It was like the buzzing of a mosquito, so insistent, it felt like it was drilling a hole right through my brain. Only, unlike a real mosquito, I couldn’t slap it away. It was inside me.

That’s right, the voice continued smugly. It’s just a tantrum. You’re leading such a privileged life, you don’t know what true hardship is, so you make up problems for yourself. It will pass. Look at everything you have. Be grateful.

I snorted, looking out at the perfectly coiffed garden with unseeing eyes. Grateful. Maybe I should be.

When one of my ballet school friends my mother had approved to visit came over, she gushed about the garden, telling me that if she had one like this, she’d stroll in it every morning and be perfectly happy for the rest of her life.

Yet I loathed this garden. It was so symmetrical, so perfectly trimmed, every tree, bush, and flower fitting the design. Just like my genetic makeup had been preplanned and preapproved, even before my parents got to the business of making me, this garden was allowed to be one thing only—just like me.

Only, just like in the garden, nature found a way to scorn human plans. We had squirrels now, and no matter how often my mother scolded the gardeners for not chasing them out, they stayed, bringing in an element of chaos into the perfect space.

As for me, nature found a way to mess up human plans by giving me the undesirable pair of chromosomes. Instead of being born a boy, the perfect heir to inherit the cumulative wealth and power of the two families, I was a girl. What a tragedy.

“It’s like they are still stuck in the Renaissance they are so proud of,” I muttered, glaring at a rhomb-shaped patch of flowers silvered by the moonlight. “And women are worthless.”

A cool wind slid over my naked arms, making me shiver. The flowers grew dark, clouds obscuring the moon, and the banister was cold and wet with evening dew. I felt exhausted in a way that was bone-deep, my weariness settling deep in my soul.

The fire inside my chest burned away, and now, I had nothing, only resignation.

Who was I kidding? I wouldn’t do anything. I was terrified of the real world, because I was never allowed to participate in it. I didn’t even know how to get to a club without my driver, and I’d have to plan and research to find out, but… The fire was gone.

What was the point? It wasn’t like I wanted to pick up some sweaty stranger just to stick it to my mother. I’d hurt myself more than I did her.

Besides, the mind controller was still at large. He could attack me any time.

Movement by a tall oak caught my eye, and I squinted, trying to make out what it was. Definitely too big to be a squirrel. I leaned forward, my heart beating faster. That shape was large and proportional, hiding in the dark, yet revealing hints of what it was.

Not an animal.

Cool wind whispered in the trees, and the shadows moved again, oozing pure blackness into the shady space under the tree. I had half a mind to call for someone, but it would be pointless. The staff were far away, retired to their wing, and I was alone in this part of the house.

It was just me on the balcony, the windy night, and the black shadow hiding in the garden.

There was something terrifying and yet infinitely romantic about it. I wanted the moment to last, so I kept my mouth shut and watched, trying to make out what it was. I thought I saw a head and an arm, a hint of a leg…

The moon came out again, and the shadow stepped out from under the tree, standing in the moonlight. It was a human silhouette, tall and burly. I watched, mesmerized, my mouth growing dry. There was something about it… Something…

The figure raised their head, and I met a pair of burning amber eyes that snared me with a look. I gasped. I knew those eyes. I saw them before… before… in the gallery…

My mind slipped away from me, something else slithering in, like water pouring through cracks. It was a warm yet slimy presence, something oily and ubiquitous. It flooded my mind, pouring deep, deep into my soul, until all I could do was watch, buried at the bottom of the well of me while he—he, it was a he—had ultimate control.

My vision grew fuzzy and unfocused, but I still saw myself climb on top of the slippery banister on the third floor and balance with my arms out.

I heard my free, joyous laugh when I started walking.

It didn’t stop even after I slipped and fell.