Page 17 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Searching the concealed pocket in my skirt, I find a small vial of poppy extract, the one I used on Laoise. White like milk, the liquid beads at the top before I empty it onto my tongue. Sobs wrack my body as I allow myself to cry. For the first time since my mother’s death, I truly allow myself to be torn apart by my grief, alone and on the floor, while the opium in my concoction burns my tongue.

When I open my swollen eyes, I see ravens everywhere. From my windowsill to my dresser, my desk to my chair in the far corner, every inch of my room is filled with ravens as dark as coal. And they’re all staring directly at me. Their joint rattle is almost musical, low and deep, sending goosebumps across my skin. Their feathers shine like a dark rainbow in the moonlight.

One hops onto my knee, turning its head sideways to inspect me. For the longest moment, it stares at me, and I stare back at it. As it blinks up at me, I’m relieved not to be all on my own the way I usually am. I frown, looking deeply into its eye. Its iris is as grey as the clouds before a storm, held captive by a dark-rimmed pupil. The desire to touch its feathers tingles my fingertips, but I’m too tired to reach for them.

Without warning, they all take flight, swarming out of my window in a gush of whistling wind. Not so much as a feather is left behind when I push to my knees, bracing a hand against the side of my bed to help me stand. I continue toward my window, covering my nakedness with one arm. They left as quickly as they came, no trace of them in sight.

My doorknob twists, and its dreadful creak renews the knot in my stomach. I don’t turn, nor do I try to hide the damage done to my back and shoulders. I reach forward and shut the window, sealing myself into my room before I close my heavy curtains, leaving me in a darkness that matches my mood.

“Oh, Brynney.” A small voice gasps behind me. A warm glow fills the darkness around me as she allows the wick of her lantern to lengthen, causing the flame to grow.

“I’ve brought you some stew,” she says sweetly. “It’s what was left over from supper.” They had all sat down around the table to break bread while I lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor above them.

“I’m not hungry.” My words are cold and harsh, but I don’t care about her reaction.

There’s a long pause. “I also brought you fresh bandages and warm water to clean yourself with.” The silence is deafening between us. “And nettle tea with one generous helping of honey, just the way you like it.” With a heavy sigh, I turn to face her. She didn’t do this to me, but the thought of her knowing and eating before coming turns sideways in my throat.

Sitting on my bed, I inhale the sweet scent of the herbal tea. Then I take a sip, allowing the liquid to pool on my tongue. The warmed honey soothes me to my core. I love the way it tingles down my throat.

“I honestly don’t know how you drink such vile concoctions.” She scrunches her freckled nose.

“The ignorance of those not in touch with their roots,” a voice hums from inside while the shadows grow in the corner of the room, consuming a portion of the lantern’s glow. This time, I don’t shun it. I need the anger it brings, like I need the air I breathe.

“That’s just who she is. Sometimes I wish…”

“Don’t!” it growls so loud the sound reverberates down to my bones.

“Why not? It would’ve been so much easier.” A heaviness settles in my chest once more.

“She’s weak.”

“She’s young,” I counter, suddenly growing tired of the smooth, menacing voice.

“Stop defending her. She isn’t a child anymore,” it snaps at me. “She knew and did nothing. The girl doesn’t deserve defending.” The shadows in the room seem to pulse with every word.

I don’t answer because it isn’t entirely wrong.

Laoise rolls up her sleeves before picking up a water-drenched cloth from the bowl. Lavender and thyme fill the air around us. The sound of water dripping into the bowl is deafening, the only sound echoing through my room, amplifying the silence between Laoise and I.

“You should know better than to anger Mother this way.” Laoise presses the cloth to my back using her unbandaged hand. I bite down against the pain.

“She isn’t my mother,” I grit out.

Her intake of breath is sharp before she answers, “You don’t mean that. You know how much she loves this family. How hard she works to give us the best chance at a glorious life beyond these walls. It’s difficult running a home like this.”

“To give you the best chance, you mean?” There it is, out in the open, a truth I’ve never confessed.

She pauses for a moment. The continued sound of water dripping back into the bowl breaks the silence between us. I stare into the darkness until she continues cleaning my wounds. “She cares for you too,” she says softly. The voice inside my head laughs cruelly, as though delighting in someone stubbing their toe.

“You think this is caring?” I say between clenched teeth. She pauses between dabs.

“Try, Brynney, just try to see her side in this. This is probably the most important week of our lives. She cares so much…”

I snort a sarcastic response to keep from gagging. I can’t sit here and listen to her spew lies and accept it with an agreeing smile. Turning to face her, I take the stained pale-red cloth from her hand.

“I’ll clean myself.”

“You know how she is and the home she was raised in. She doesn’t know how to be tender. Her heart is good; it’s just her execution…”