the art of loving ; lord tewksbury

two

"Well, if you don't have anything else you can talk about, I suggest we don't have a conversation at all."

Chapter Two

Anger.

  It was the only feeling Daisy knew of as she slammed her bedroom door behind her. She felt the rage in the pit of her stomach, bubbling up into her chest like hot soup boiling in a metal pot, ready to spill over at any second. Felt it coursing through her veins, enveloping her entire body in the negative feeling. Daisy shut her eyes tight, trying to calm herself down. She balled her hands into fists, feeling her fingernails dig into her palm knowing that little crescent moons would form on the tender skin, yet she didn't release her grip.

Breathe, Daisy told herself. Breathe, and everything will be alright.

Three knocks sounded from the door. Daisy huffed in annoyance and her eyes snapped open. She turned her head sideways so she had a view of it, but she kept her feet planted on the ground, refusing to move.

A few seconds later, another set of knocks came in. This time, it was followed by a voice.

"Daisy," she heard her brother call. "Daisy, let me in. We need to talk."

Although he couldn't see her, Daisy rolled her eyes. "There's nothing to talk about!"

"Daisy, please," Grant pleaded. "Let me in. We'll figure this out together."

Figure this out together? As far as she was concerned, Grant wasn't the one signed up to be married off to some rich young brat he barely knew. No, that was all on her, and it was done without her consent. No discussion, no opinions, nothing.

  When Daisy still didn't budge from her spot, Grant pushed the door opened and hesitantly walked to where his fuming sister was. For a while, he sat on her bed and stared at the dusty floor.

  "I know it's sudden," he spoke softly. "You have every right to be mad. I want to help you, Daisy."

  Daisy scoffed. "Help me? By doing what? You may be the golden child of this family, but whatever you say to him won't matter."

  Grant flinched at her words. He always hated when his sister brought up the fact that he was the family favourite. Daisy knew it too, but at that moment, she was too infuriated to care.

  "I can try," Grant said. "I can—"

  "You can nothing!" the girl interrupted, her voice rising. "He basically sold me off to some family like I'm some object being bargained off at an auction. I know I mean nothing to him, but my life still matters to me."

  Suddenly, it was as if the anger was sucked out of her and was replaced by an overwhelming sense of sadness. Her eyes wandered to the tiny, wooden desk by the window. Under the morning light, she could see dust particles floating above the old book at the centre of the table, settling onto the opened page. Her heart began to feel extremely heavy with melancholy, like something was weighing it down as she scanned the rows of black ink on parchment.

If anyone were to ask Daisy what her most prized possession was, the answer was simple. It took the form of a journal—well, a makeshift journal. It consisted of stacks of parchment paper held together by string, but a journal nonetheless.