Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity by Carolyn McCray Page A

be wider than any he had known.
    Last evening, Brutus had hoped that this woman to be a temporary enigma—that his hunger at the slave market would be quenched after a good night’s sleep. How many times had he met a lovely woman, someone he had thought would fascinate him, only to have her utter a lone word that squashed any desire? Usually it took only a single course at dinner to make Brutus wish he were somewhere very far away. Yet every second he spent with this Northerner brought dozens of questions and the burning desire to discover the answers.
    Since childhood, Brutus had carefully constructed his life to be plain and simple. Straightforward and predictable. A day ago he would have sworn on all that was holy that love would never affect his life. That physical desire would play no part in his decisions. Yet in the time that it took to inhale once, Minerva’s beloved logic was demolished by Venus’ passion.
     
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Syra tugged even harder at her hair. A sharp pain preceded a large clump of hair coming out in the whale-tooth comb. What had she thought? Telling Brutus she would be only a moment? It would take her half a day to untangle her angry hair. To exasperate her even further, Fiona hurried in.
    “ Child, you must hurry! The markets close at sundown!”
    Syra showed the cook the handful of hair she had pulled out.
    Fiona chided her playfully. “You barbarians! Change into this, then we shall fix your hair.”
    Syra could not believe what the cook offered. It was a gown that only women who were painted onto murals would wear. A garment for another woman, going to a far more prestigious outing than the market. Syra tried to shove the material back at Fiona, but the cook would have none of it.
    “ Dress!”
    “ I am dressed!”
    “ Brutus is a senator, Syra. No matter how you feel, at his rank, appearances must be kept up. It would not do for him to be seen with a…a…”
    “ A?” Syra asked, shame thick in her voice, fearing that the cook would pronounce the dreaded word, slave .
    Fiona exhaled in frustration. “Such a scoundrel. Now put this on.”
    This dress was for a fine lady, not one bound by chains just yesterday. “It is not mine, Fiona.”
    The cook ignored her and tugged at the clasp of Syra’s wrinkled toga.
    Syra’s voice trembled. “Brutus will be angered to see me in—”
    “ Shush, child. Lylith discarded it two winters ago before she even wore it. Brutus will be glad to have someone enjoy the craftsmanship he spent gold coins on.”
    “ This is not right,” Syra lamented.
    Fiona took hold of both her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Listen to me. This household has had little joy since the war. Do not deprive us of this small extravagance.”
    Navia entered, carrying a sash of the most brilliant green. The silk slid through the young girl’s fingers and fluttered to the floor, looking as if a thousand leaves had fallen onto the tile. Not wanting Navia to strain herself, Syra knelt over and picked up the fine material. It was softer than anything she had felt. The sash was cool to the touch, bringing gooseflesh along her arm. How could anyone weave such a fabric? Did the gods themselves sew the garment?
    When Syra looked up, she found Fiona looking quite satisfied with herself. “Now will you get dressed?”
    Still, she was reluctant to don such festive attire. Who was she to wear such clothing? Syra did not think she would know how to walk in such a dress. Syra preferred coarse wool and thick leather.
    Navia touched her arm gently. “Please.”
    “ But—”
    “ Syra, you have done so much. Let me do this for you.”
    She could not deny the younger girl’s request, and submitted to their ministrations—only giving a yip when Fiona took a tuck a bit too tight.
    “ I told Brutus I would only be a moment.”
    Fiona waved off Syra’s concerns. “He is a man. He is used to waiting for women.”
    Despite the cook’s reassurance, Syra felt