2. The Smile

The Smile

Rose

This isn’t how I imagined my life. My mater would tell me, “You’re the sweetest bloom, Rose.” She’d seal her final words with a kiss. “Stay sweet.” I imagined that I would be pursued, cherished even, by my betrothed.

Instead, I haggle with a man thrice my age, trying to secure his interest before he finds out.

“Gens?” the man in question grunts.

If only I could lie. “Octavius,” I answer, standing with my hands behind my back. Daisy says it makes me look demure and highlights my breasts, but it doesn’t seem like it's helping. Claude shakes his greying head at my familia's name.

“No dowry, then?” He cuts to the matter and heat floods my cheeks.

“No dowry, but I’m an excellent baker, and–” He’s already turning away, and my voice trails off. Venus help me.

From glances and mutterings and unspoken words, I understand that under no circumstances will I be allowed to turn twenty without a husband.

Which means I have only a quad.

Four clipses.

Twenty days to destitution.

“He was hideous,” my sister says, coming up beside me. She wraps her arm around mine. Her touch is gentle, but the pressure still makes me flinch as she guides me to the forum steps. The Senate building shades us in the dual shadows cast by the late afternoon suns, Romulus and Remus. I focus my eyes on the central fountain’s sparkling water instead of Daisy’s knowing look.

“And terribly old,” I admit, forcing a smile.

“Terribly old,” she agrees, leaning her head on my shoulder. “We still have some time.”

I can’t look away from the water, the gentle tinkling a contrast to the roaring in my ears. “If I don’t…” I clear my throat. “You should be trying to match, too.”

“I’m not even seventeen,” she objects.

“It’s better not to be there alone, Daize.”

She doesn’t answer, and I don’t elaborate. We both know. I tilt my head against hers and scan the square. Most of the men here are older, which is fine since they’re the least likely to need a marriage with a dowry. Twenty is old, though, and Octavius is a name that could use more anonymity.

The day is warm for so early in planting season and my cloak mocks me, signaling to anyone with eyes that I have something to hide.

I push the fabric to the side, just to see how noticeable they are in the sunslight. Just to see if I could have a moment of reprieve from the suffocating fabric. No; I’m greeted by the pronounced outlines of hands. The cloak is back up before I let myself feel the cool absence of cloth or whatever emotion accompanies the marks.

I should be used to them by now.

“I’m going to find some water,” I tell Daisy, standing.

“Can I visit Ceres?” Daisy asks, pointing to where her friend is in line for bread across the square.

I nod and watch as Daisy’s golden blonde hair bounces behind her, the sunslight catching on each strand and casting a glowing aura around her head.

My stomach twists. If only I could see her this happy everyday.

Turning towards the fountain, my face meets a solid wall of flesh.

“Pardon,” I say, stepping back. Except my foot finds only air, the angle of my turn putting my back to the lower stairs. My arms flail and I brace myself for the resounding crack my body will make on the stone steps.

Pain does come, but not from the stairs. The wall of flesh reaches out to grab me, hands wrapping around my rings of bruises, and I gasp, part pain and part relief.

The wall is handsome. Red gold hair, bright blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his boyish face. He looks to be around my age, if not a year or two younger.

“You caught me,” I say, shaken, as he steadies me with warm, sure hands before letting go.

“Of course I did.” He smiles. The action lights up his face, and heat stains my cheeks. I should be grateful his hands aren’t pressing on my bruises, but something like disappointment moves through me at the space between us. “Your eyes are striking,” he says.

“Eyes?” My forehead wrinkles. Did he catch me staring at his jawline, or the dimple on his left side? My entire body is impossibly hot, the cloak suffocating me.

“The objects through which you see?” he says, looking around in an exaggerated fashion.

The only person who’s ever spoken to me like this is Daisy. It’s unguarded. Non-transactional. “You jest.” It doesn’t come out as a question, and for that I am grateful.

“I was giving charming a go. No good?”

“I didn’t say that.” I look to the side, wondering if I’ve conjured this man out of thin air. Did Venus send him to me?

“May I sit with you? Or were you leaving?” he asks.

I was leaving, until I saw you. “I could stay.”

“Perfect,” he says. He sits on the step below mine, leaning back on his hands with his legs sprawled in front of him. His dimple flashes when he meets my eyes, and decorum dictates that I have no choice but to sit as well.

“I’m Rose Octavius,” I offer, getting it out of the way, refusing to hope, yet. “What should I call you?”

“Octavius?” He raises an eyebrow, and my chest tightens. “I don’t think I’ve met an Octavius before.

Thank the gods. “And you are?”

“I consider myself rather witty, although my pater says I can be dense at times. Matulo is his favorite term of endearment.”

“Endearment?” I put a hand over my chest. Blockhead is certainly better than the words my pater uses, but that doesn’t make it kind. “I suppose there are worse things, but I hope you don’t expect me to call you that.”

“Perhaps, amor?”

Heat and indignation flare in my chest, but he’s smiling. My eyes narrow. “You jest.” This time it’s not a question at all.

“And it seems once again it’s not to your liking?”

I glare. Handsome or not, perhaps his pater is right. He is a matulo . “I meant your name.”

“Ah, well. If I tell you my name, you might think less of me. And I’m not ready for that.”

“I have to call you something,” I say, perhaps more straightforward than I should be. Does he come from a familia like mine?

“And you refuse matulo or amor?”

I cross my arms, trying not to smile. “I most certainly do.”

“Augustus, then.” The copper of his hair shimmers as he cocks his head at me, the movement simultaneously playful and earnest.

“That’s your name?” My body sways towards him as he speaks, like my namesake towards the suns.

“That’s what you can call me.” He smiles. “Until you get to the others.”

Despite his teasing, Augustus is quite easy to talk to. He has three siblings, and while he wants to be a farmer, he suspects he’ll be joining the legions in the next two years.

“Pater’s orders,” he says. He already looks every ounce a soldier. Broad chest, thick arms. My gaze travels lazily down to his hands, remembering how warm they felt, even through my cloak. I snap my head up. He’s looking at the fountain, thankfully oblivious to my attention.

My throat is tight, so I nod. I understand duty. Loyalty. Obedience.

“Why do you like farming?”

“I like working with my hands. Growing, painting, building. Creating, you know?” He leans in, like he has a secret. “It’s easy to destroy something, to break things. It takes a second.” He snaps his fingers in the air between us. “I like things that take time. Clipses and quads of effort, and in the end you can nourish your familia, or shelter them.”

“Painting doesn’t seem as useful,” I point out, trying to remember the last time I saw something beautiful just for the sake of it.

“Not at first.” He nods. “Yet, we need it just the same.”

I cock my head. “Art?”

His face lights up. “Exactly.”

Smiling, I shake my head. He’s hopeless, but I like it. I like that he says what he wants in a way I’ll never be able to. Passionate about things, even if he can’t pursue them. “I wish you could do it.” When he looks at me, I add, “be a farmer.”

He waves his hand. “It’s okay. The things we do for our familia, I suppose.”

I don’t know why I ask, except I must be desperate and stupid, and I let my mouth be desperate and stupid, too. “Will you marry before you join?” My hand flies to cover my mouth. “That’s none of my business.”

Augustus raises his eyebrows. “Well, it could be your business.” His blue eyes twinkle and I feel myself drawn in. A moth to a delicious flame. This must just be his way, to be vulnerable and blithe and infuriatingly charming, but it doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.

“You—”

“Brother,” a new voice breaks through the noise, cutting me off. A very good thing, since I’m not sure if Augustus is still jesting, and I certainly don’t want to know what foolish thing was about to come out of my mouth.

If Augustus is the red at dawn, this man is the light of noon. Yellow hair, tawny brown eyes, and suns-kissed skin.

"Brother," Augustus groans, as if exasperated by his brother’s presence. We both stand.

“Excuse my brother’s poor manners,” the golden man says. “My name is Tristan.”

“Rose. It’s a pleasure.” I tip my head, shooting a glance at Augustus. He didn’t tell me much about his siblings. One older, two younger. This must be the elder.

He takes my hand and kisses it, murmuring into my skin. “The pleasure is mine.”

Augustus stiffens beside me and I smile politely, withdrawing my hand. Would Augustus have greeted me the same way if we hadn’t collided on the stairs?

“Pater needs us,” Tristan says, looking from me to Augustus.

“I’m sure he does,” Augustus says, voice tight. He turns to me, dropping his voice. “I’d like to see you again.”

His blue eyes meet mine and there’s that spark again, something tightening in my chest. “I’d like that.”

Thank Venus. Finally.

Finally, she’s on my side.

Augustus sends me a smile over his shoulder as he leaves, small and secret, just for me. And I can’t help but picture it, for just a moment. Him giving me that smile again.

And again.

And again.