And you’ll spend your life, after my death, in a boarding school, depending on the handouts of relatives who see you as a burden. He was right. I hated that he was right. “Can I see him?” Really talk to him before making this decision on our behalf? “Of course.” Tomorrow.
They brought Josiah home the next morning. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and my father came in, then Josiah had to duck—literally—to get under the door frame.
My God, how enormous he was! Six feet of muscle and sinew, he barely touched the door frame with his shoulders, and his hands bore burn marks from a forge that looked capable of breaking stone.
His face was wrinkled, his beard was thick, and his eyes scanned the room without noticing me.
He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in a slave’s posture in a white man’s house. The nickname “beast” was well-deserved; he looked capable of tearing the house down with his bare hands.
Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilanar.” She looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground. “Yes, sir.” Her voice was surprisingly soft, deep but calm, almost delicate. “Elilanar, I have explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.
“He will be responsible for your care.” My voice returned, though trembling.
“Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?” He glanced at me quickly again. “Yes, miss.” I will be your husband. I will protect you, I will help you. “And you agreed to this?” He seemed confused, as if the concept of consent was foreign to him. The colonel added, “I had to, miss.” “But do you really want this?” The question made him shudder.
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