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It wasn’t until I revisited those storybooks years after her death that I realized she hadn’t been reading them to me at all. She had been making up her own stories.
“The princess had unimaginable power, locked deep in her soul. She could feel its warmth, like a flickering ember,” she’d whisper. “All she had to do to make it burn was fan the flames.”
She’d take my little hands and cup them between hers, guiding our heads to hover over our imaginary fire.
“Like this, see?” She’d blow softly into my palms. I’d giggle and follow her lead, our breath swirling together in the space between us. Then she’d pull me close and press a kiss to my hair, still holding my child’s hands in her more elegant ones.
“Very good, my sweet girl,” she’d whisper. “Just like that. Let it burn.”
Saturday morning, for the first time, I thought I felt a flicker of that flame.
I was wrong, and now I’m paying for it.
That morning, I woke to pale sunlight streaming in through my windows. My body still ached, and my ribs especially screamed every time I moved, but after listening to my father’s conversation with Alexander the night before, my first thoughts weren’t of my pain.
They were thoughts full of anger and indignation, instead.
I’d been lying there, staring at the ceiling and trying to come up with ways to avoid whatever plans my father had in store for me, when our housekeeper knocked on my door.
I couldn’t open it from my side. The lock on the outside was another part of my punishment for trying to run away. Mara must have realized the same thing because a few moments later, I heard the sound of the lock clicking open.
“Miss Idril,” she peeked around the edge of the door and gave me a soft smile, but I could tell something was wrong when it didn’t meet her eyes.
“Your father wants you to meet him in the foyer in fifteen minutes. You have a doctor’s appointment.”
Something inside of me recoiled instinctively.
We had just visited his office two weeks ago. He’d drawn so much blood I could barely stand afterward.
Why would we be going back? Had he been running tests?
A terrible thought started to work its way into my mind, taking root and making me nauseous with the possibility.
Was I sick?
Mara couldn’t give me any answers. Her only direction was to tell me to wait in the foyer for my father after I was ready.
I stood there for far too long after she left, staring at the door. Possibilities circled like poison until the anxiety was a living, breathing thing. If my father wanted me to go back to the Doctor so soon, then there must be something wrong. Seriously wrong.
Why would he keep me in the dark? If something was wrong with me, didn’t I deserve to know?
That broke me out of my spiral, and indignation flared, snaking through my fear and forcing my body to move.
Wrapping my courage around myself like a cloak, I’d flung open my bedroom doors and made my way downstairs. I was headed to the west wing, where my father’s offices were located, and I was, for the first time in living memory, angry enough to confront him.
Making my way from my wing to his reminded me just how much I hate this house. It’s gaudy and sterile and nothing like how Mother decorated it when she was alive.
The estate has been in my father’s family for generations. They all died years ago, but our home reflects their legacy. It’s huge. Ostentatious. Full of velvet drapes and patterned furniture no one actually sits on. It feels like living in a curated museum, and I’m always nervous I’ll get yelled at if I touch anything.
The closer I got to Father’s study, the darker and more suffocating the house became.
Old oil paintings lined the walls, sconces flickered dimly, and created oddly shaped shadows across the floors. Closed doors pressed in like silent sentries on each side of me.
By the time I reached the correct door, my hands were sweating, my heart was racing, and my breaths were coming in jagged pants.
I was terrified, but I’d come this far. I wasn’t about to walk away. If there was something wrong with my health, then I should be allowed to make my own decisions about my body. My fear had morphed to anger by the time I raised my hand to knock on the door.
“Enter.” My father’s command was almost a bark, and I cringed. He was already mad.
