Page 26 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Young Bryndis was no longer a little girl. She was old enough to be introduced to society. Old enough to be courted and perhaps even wed. Everyone knew that the moment a young lady reached the age of sixteen she was ready to start a whole new chapter in her life. Bryndis was no different. There was nothing she longed for more than to end the chapter she found herself in and start a new one. She desired a life beyond the walls of the manor. A life that was finally hers and hers alone. Reaching her sixteenth year, she knew it was finally within her reach.

Since her mother’s passing at the age of ten, her father had married again. He’d even started a new family, raising new children. It was a life she wasn’t a part of, and even though she tried to ignore the void it caused within her chest, there was no hiding from her sorrow.

There was no room within her stepmother’s heart for the daughter of her new husband’s first love. Bryndis became a topic of scorn. An embellishment of her jealousy. She was not to succeed above her new sister. It was a mercy that there was room enough for young Bryndis within the walls of the manor itself, even though she didn’t see it as a gift at all.

“I heard Father talk of a ball,” Bryndis said excitedly while weeding the herb garden outside the kitchen. She may not have inherited her mother’s exceptional talent for playing the pianoforte, but she was better at brewing remedies than her mother ever could. She frequently wondered if she could have saved her mother if she only started learning sooner. If she’d only tried harder.

“Don’t set your heart on it, Bryn,” an older woman, once her mother’s lady’s maid, cautioned her. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” A lump grew in the pit of the woman’s stomach. Pressing her lips together, she concentrated on the task at hand, determined not to allow her emotions to show. Roisin’s sepia toned skin was wrinkle free, her black hair having more than a single fleck of silver, but she was twenty years the girl’s senior. The woman had become a motherly figure to young Bryndis ever since Lady Glynis breathed her last breath. “You know how your f—”

“If a lord wishes to marry me and take me away from here, I’ll take you with me,” Bryn said adamantly, touching her gloved fingers to Roisin’s. “I’ll name you my lady’s maid, and no one can stop me. It’ll be hard to explain otherwise.” A crease formed between her brows as she studied the woman, believing her concern to be about their possible separation. She never considered there to be another reason. She was almost free, and that was all that filled her mind and fuelled the beating of her heart.

“Careful—” The woman’s eyes squeezed shut when Bryndis interrupted her for the second time.

“Declan will come too. If he says no, I’ll force him to comply. He has no other choice.” She laughed softly, almost a whisper. Over the years, Bryndis had laughed less and less. She’d learned to keep her head down and to stay out of sight. To speak only when spoken to, and even then, to speak softly. Attention gained was seldom favourable within the walls of the manor.

“I’m just saying, your father won’t want you to—” The woman stopped weeding the garden, concern deepening the furrows of her brow. She’d seen Bryndis hurt and disappointed by her father and stepmother more times than she could count. If she could, she would have welcomed the girl into her small home like a daughter. Roisin and her husband had tried to fall pregnant for years, and at the age of thirty-six, she feared her dream of having a daughter of her own would never come true. She also knew, even if her dream did come true, Bryndis would always have a special place in her heart. She’d always be the daughter she wished was hers.

“Father will be happy for me.” Bryndis smiled at Roisin, even though concern kept her eyes from smiling too.

“I hope you’re right.” It wasn’t a lie. Even if they were separated, she’d find peace in her heartache as long as she knew Bryndis was happy, knowing she’d found her dream. The woman placed her other hand on top of the girl’s, enveloping her.

“I’ve never danced before. You’ll have to teach me!” Sixteen-year-old Bryndis slid her hand from Roisin’s and stood abruptly. Pulling her gloves off, she set them down, holding out a hand for Roisin to take. The woman shook her head, a soft smile spreading across her full lips.

“Child, you are impossible,” Roisin teased, dusting her hands on her stained gardening apron. Just as Roisin viewed Bryndis as family, Bryndis welcomed her into her heart, too.

Roisin proceeded to show Bryndis the correct placement of her hands. One in your partner’s hand and the other on his arm below the shoulder. She also made a point in telling Bryndis that a man who places his hand on the small of her back or lower wasn’t a man she should be dancing with. The girl laughed as a sixteen-year-old would, and the woman shot her a pointed look as a mother should.

They didn’t dance together for more than a brief moment before the sound of marching footsteps interrupted them. For fear of being caught together, they separated. It was forbidden for servants to become too familiar with those who employed them. Such familiarity only bred rebellious behaviour, and rebellion was a punishable crime.

Pulling on their gloves, they tried to hide the racing of their hearts.

“Roisin Sullivan, step away from Miss Ashglo immediately.” The deep bark of the soldier’s command rang through the small courtyard.

Roisin’s mouth twitched into a smile, which she struggled to keep in place. “We’re only gardening. I mean no harm to the girl.” She raised a gloved hand in a sign of submission.

The soldier’s eyes were void of emotion as were the expressions of those accompanying him. They weren’t in her father’s employ. They came from the palace at King Darragh’s command. It was the last day of autumn. The last day of the annual festivities. The day of the reaping.

“You’ve been identified as a danger to those in your company. I repeat, step away from Miss Ashglo this very instant.” His hand went to the hilt of his blade, sheathed at his hip.

When the woman looked at the girl, the look in her eyes wasn’t hers. She wasn’t the loving and reassuring guardian Bryndis had come to know and love. She was terrified. “This is a mistake! I’m ordinary. I’m perfectly well. Not a witch! See!” She raises her arms, turning in a small circle. She didn’t know the outward signs of a witch, but she was confident that she didn’t carry any.

“You can come willingly or by force. I suggest the first.”

The look of regret, grief, and fear marred every line on her face. “Don’t let anyone rob you of your dreams, dear child.” Roisin’s chin quivered, and tears ran down her face when they grabbed her by her shoulders, dragging her towards the gate, the movement harsh and cruel.

For Bryndis, time stood still and rushed by all at the same time. One moment, Roisin was there, and the next, she was gone. She sat unblinking. Wordless. She didn’t react. How could she if she failed to process what was unfolding before her eyes.

When she finally regained her senses, Bryndis pushed to her feet and ran. She ran so fast she feared she may fall. She ran so fast every muscle and bone in her body barked with pain, but she didn’t see Roisin. She never got a second chance to try to stop the soldiers or even say goodbye.

On the last day of the festival, sixteen-year-old Bryndis lost a second mother. On that day, she learned what it was to hate. She hated King Darragh. Hated his stupid celebrations. Hated the soldiers. But above all else, she hated herself for not being able to do anything to save Roisin.

She didn’t go to the ball her father hosted, having been forbidden from attending. Instead, she spent the night curled under her covers. Unlike before, she didn’t wish to freeze time; she wished she could turn it back. A few hours was all she needed. A few hours back and she could at least tell Roisin how much she loved her.

FOURTEEN

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Bonfires on hilltops serve to purify and protect while spirits roam. Women dance and sing around them, often passing between to cleanse themselves.