Page 6 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“Gods!” Open the drawer. Open the bloody fucking drawer. I pull on the brass handles, but it doesn’t budge. The whole armoire moves, rocking back and forth as I yank desperately. The drawer has skewed and is stuck. My limbs tremble as I curse my clumsy hands. Dammit!

“Open it!” she screams. Her plea cuts deep. Please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken. I inhale a steadying breath and pull hard, applying more force to the right while digging my knee into the frame. If I can straighten the drawer, then it’ll be free to slide open.

She pulls back once, twice, and falls onto the thick woven carpet in the middle of the room. Tears stream down her face as she holds her hand to her chest. I remain frozen, as if turned into a pillar of stone.

“Why would you do that?” she bawls. “I was trying to help you.” Her bright eyes glisten up at me, her chin quivering. Laoise’s rosy cheeks are now blotched with red patches and covered in tears. She carefully moves her hand to inspect it, and I cringe inwardly. Red. So much red. Her pretty yellow dress is now dotted with crimson.

“Let me see?” I ask, reaching for her.

“Don’t touch me! You’ve done enough!” A scowl as deadly as any I’ve ever seen on my stepmother’s face contorts hers. My mind stutters. I did this.

“I am so sorry…” I reach for her again, slowly, but she recoils, turning away from me. She’s still sitting helplessly in the centre of my carpet.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she cries, tears thick in her voice. Her chin quivers as she cradles her injured hand to her chest, spreading crimson on yellow. “Why can’t you just be normal?” Her words hit hard. Never has she insinuated that I’m anything less than worthy of the Ashglo name, until today. Not until I practically maim her in the week leading up to the festival she’s been looking forward to for months.

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, Lee. Please forgive me.” She stares at me with glistening hazel eyes, darkened by an emotion I’ve never seen on her.

Nightshade is perfect for numbing illnesses of the mind, but the poppies found in the meadows beyond these walls, the ones with petals as dark as a day-old bruise, those are ideal for numbing whatever pain afflicts the body. I happen to possess both, the latter carefully dried and wrapped in a cloth atop my dresses in the third drawer. I can ease her pain in moments, but in doing so, I’ll expose a transgression that not only implicates me but also Declan and his family. They’re in charge of security and maintenance. If they were doing their job correctly, I wouldn’t have a drawer filled with forbidden herbs alongside an illegal guide for their use.

“You can’t show her. She will tell everyone,” the voice purrs in my mind, causing my breath to catch in my chest.

“No, she won’t. Not if I can explain…” I shuffle on my feet, unable to stand still. The expression on her face looks so much like her mother’s.

“It only takes one fight—one fall out—and nothing will be the same ever again. You know this.” Sharp nails slowly drag along the inside of my skull, and a shiver chases across my skin. The creature isn’t wrong. Not completely. “Are you willing to risk it? To make the same mistake your mother made?”

“What do you know of my mother?” Air refuses to fill my lungs. I’m frozen, expressionless, staring at Laoise. A frown furrows her brows, and her sobbing quiets, but I can’t so much as blink.

“Clever girl.” Whether it’s amusement or satisfaction curving its words, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s nothing but a cruel game.

I watch silently as Laoise pushes to her feet and scurries to the door, sniffing back tears with every movement. The dress she’d ordered especially for the celebration is completely ruined. Red blotches her fair skin as she reaches for the doorknob with her uninjured hand, and it trembles faintly. Guilt threatens to eat me alive.

“Laoise…” I croak, finally able to move.

She turns slightly, enough to give me a sideways glance, waiting.

I overreacted. I need to show you what I’m hiding. I hope you understand. I’m sorry. That’s what I want to say, but instead, I remain silent.

A tear spills over her lashes before she turns her gaze from mine, opens the door, and leaves without saying a single word.

Movement draws my attention to my window. There on the windowsill, staring at me with a sideways glance, is a raven, the biggest I’ve ever seen. Its eye shines brightly with judgement. My pulse quickens, and my blood boils as frustration builds inside of me. I grab a piece of paper from my small desk and scrunch it into a ball. Before I can throw it at the raven, it flies over to perch on my half-open drawer.

“Oh, you think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” I hiss before throwing the paper ball directly at its head. The raven takes off with a loud gurgling croak before my makeshift weapon touches him. “Stupid bird.” I sigh, running my hand down my face. Turning to my armoire, I remove a small glass vial. Nightshade. My sanity in a bottle. I remove the cork, letting a single drop touch my tongue. Today is going to be great… just fucking great.

With my hair brushed and braided, I find my way through the kitchen to the back of the last creaking blackwood cupboard in the far end of the pantry, starved of light. Wrapped in cloth behind the bags of grain is the stash of herbs my stepmother forbade me to harvest. Mint, nettle, chamomile, ginger, rooibos, lavender, fennel, and hibiscus. If the leaves aren’t from a Camellia Sinensis plant, it’s a peasant’s tea, as far as my stepmother is concerned—a variety suited to those with their fingers digging in the dirt.

I look over my shoulder before I carefully unwrap the white linen cloth to remove my chosen ingredients and quickly hide the rest before someone finds me. It isn’t a sin to brew my own tea, but I’m not in the mood for trouble, and even less in the mood to face my miserable stepmother. It takes a while to boil the water on the small woodfire stove in the servants’ kitchen, but I don’t need much for a single cup of tea. I wipe my hands on my skirts before picking up the metal tea strainer I’d bought from the market two years ago. It resembles two perforated and rounded spoons pressed together as if holding hands. Staring down at the steaming cup and the green and yellow streaks of color leaching from the silver strainer, I realize it’s almost as soothing to watch it brew as it is to drink. The air smells of peppermint as I squeeze a slice of lemon into the mix, only a few drops needed to compliment the nettle and peppermint. After two servings of honey from the dripper and a few drops of poppy extract, Laoise’s tea is ready. Brewing tea is one of my greatest pleasures. The combinations are endless, each ingredient serving their own purpose. Today, the only purpose they need to serve is to make my sister feel better.

The dainty cup rattles slightly on its saucer as I come to stand in front of Laoise’s bedroom door. Her crying is clear, even through its thick wooden structure. I draw in a deep breath, then raise my hand to knock

“Can I come in?” I plead, softening my voice.

Her snivelling ceases, but there’s no response. Laoise is either hiding from me or ignoring me. I can’t decide which is worse. My sweet, cheerful, and innocent little sister never withdraws from company. A long minute passes as I stare into the cup of herbal tea, balancing on its fine porcelain saucer. It’s decorated in a slight floral print and lined with a delicate golden rim. Perfect for its recipient.

I press my forehead to the door. “I know you’re there, Lee. May I please come in?”

“Fine.” Her voice trembles, chasing a crack down the centre of my heart.

I open the door to find her on her knees in front of her bed, wearing nothing but her undergarments. My stomach turns at the sight of her partially—and poorly—wrapped hand. Did she try to conceal what happened?