III. – Lavender Soap
Oh, how she had tried desperately to wash those caresses away.
But he had promised that she would never be able to, and he had been right about that, too. How she loathed him, hated him with every fiber of her being. She wouldn't mind the hate so much, if she could just move beyond the fear. But the two went hand in hand, blackening her heart until she locked herself in her room at nights and cried violently with the sheer pain of the knowledge that something important had been stripped away from her, by someone so hideous and awful.
She would scrub her delicate, pale skin until it was pink and raw, and yet still have the dismal nightmares of Adet leering at her, doing more than just kissing her pretty skin. As she grew older, she dreamed of him ripping her fine, satin gowns from her body, forcing himself upon her. She would wake, arching against the dampness of her nightdress, horrified at how frightening her dreams were, and how she was reacting to them.
How could she give herself to any man, if physical affection was so disheartening and terrifying? Or did she want it to be brutal?
No. She couldn't possibly want that. But she couldn't possibly see herself marrying, and even if she did, she would always have this fear. How did one move beyond such an overpowering emotion? How could she give herself freely to her husband without always hating the physical actions?
The haunted look remained her in her eyes, and as the months passed, her father came to accept it as merely her aristocratic upbringing – a regal aloofness that defined so many women of their caste – instead of fear.