34. The Crown
The Crown
Rose
“Ouch!” Daisy yanks her head forward, her silken strands slipping free from my hands like spun gold.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I was distracted.” We sit in our shared room for what feels like the last time, the small space taken up by the sleeping pallet we’ve always known. Daisy had hung her drawings on the wall since she only reached my knees. There are wax rubbed renditions of roses and daisies and violets. Sunflowers and fields of green. As she grew, she used ink, shrouding the beautiful flowers in grays and blacks, same as us.
“Why? What could possibly be on your mind?” Daisy teases, an easy smile on her full lips.
I smile back, not wanting her to see my hesitation, my shame. “I’m going to get you out, too.”
Daisy’s smile drops, just a little. “I don’t want to be a burden, Rose. Don’t push too hard. I’ll be okay.”
I nod in agreement. Of course she’ll be okay; she’ll survive as we always have. But she shouldn’t merely survive.
She should bloom.
I gently coax Daisy’s tresses into a crown, the braid wrapping across her brow. If anyone deserves to wear one, it’s Daisy. She’s not common like me.
I look down at my outstretched arms. Fresh bruises in the shape of Tristan’s hands add a purple hue atop Pater’s yellowing ones. I’ll get better at reading him, at knowing him, at navigating his mater.
No one said it would be easy to wed, to break cycles. To change.
“What will you wear?” she asks.
“For the wedding?” When Daisy nods, I continue, “You’ll help me choose, of course. I think that’s part of why Tristan wants me in the domus by the end of this clipse. So, we can start planning the wedding.”
My heart flutters. The wedding. My wedding.
My freedom .
“I think you look best in statement pieces.” She nods, agreeing with her own assessment.
“Statement pieces?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes! Think sharp lines, unconventional colors. Like a rose colored gown!”
“Rose for Rose? Doesn’t that seem a little on the nose?” I laugh. “Besides, I doubt a pink gown would compliment the wedding veil.” It would be red for luck, of course.
“Oh! Red. Everything red. It’s cheeky, like you.” Daisy winks and I roll my eyes. I secure the braid with a pin and admire her perfectly polished hair. She is the cheekier of the two of us.
A door slams at the front of the small domus and I feel my smile drop. Daisy’s shoulders tense and we both fall silent. I don’t stop though, strategically pulling just a few golden strands loose at her temples and around her jawline. It frames her rounded cheeks. She’s a vision.
“Get out here,” Pater shouts from the kitchen. Venus. I’d hoped he’d fall into sleep, that he’d be in his cups for days with that coemptio gold lining his pockets.
Daisy worries at her lip as we hurry into the front room. It’s spotless, as usual. The pillows on the worn green couch are perfect, the scratched wooden floor shines with its most recent coat of diluted orange oil.
Dropping our heads, we say in unison, “Yes, Pater?”
I know it’s coming–it’s why I always stand on his left side–but the backhand still makes me whimper. My shoulder knocks into Daisy, but we immediately right ourselves. His boots will find us if we fall.
“They’re talking about you in the forum, girl.” I can hear the expression on his face, the twisted sneer. “You’re embarrassing this familia with that boy.”
Of all the things he could have said, this was one I wasn’t expecting. Tristan, embarrassing to them? He should be ashamed of us. Pater is a woodworker, when he can stay sober enough to keep his jobs. He has one right now, but it likely won’t last any longer than the others.
Before I can determine whether a response or silence is safer, Pater shoves me. This time I do fall, but he doesn’t kick me. Instead, a sharp slap reverberates through my bones, despite the fact it never lands on me. Daisy flinches, but keeps silent. Obedient.
“You’re whoring around now that your sister is getting married?” he whispers, the volume so dangerous that the hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. No. Not her. He can’t do this to Daisy.
“No, Pater, I would never,” she pleads. I know her fear must be choking her, the constant tightness we live with squeezing her chest intolerably.
“Someone saw you,” he screams. He goes to hit her again, but I can’t stand it. I’m the one who can handle this, not Daisy. Not her.
“No, Pater” I cry. “I bet it was me and Tristan. People can’t always tell us apart.” That isn’t completely true. We’re both blonde, but my hair is a touch more dishwater than Daisy’s sunshine. We both inherited Mater’s curves, but my figure is more pear than Daisy’s hourglass. Nevertheless, perhaps it will be enough to cast doubt. If nothing else, perhaps he’ll be so upset at me talking back that he will spare Daisy.
He looks down at me as I dare a glance up. Please , I want to say. Please, hurt me instead . His dark eyes focus on me, his intoxication and rage evident in his flushed cheeks and ruddy neck. His calloused hand reaches down and grips my chin, rough. Always so rough.
“You’re both whores. Just like her.” He shoves my face away, the anger leaving him at his own mention of our mater. He pushes Daisy to the ground as he walks by and she makes a pained sound as she falls, but for once Pater doesn’t revel in it. He keeps walking towards the back of the domus, enters his room, and slams the door.
I look to Daisy, my sister’s braided crown half out from the force with which he struck her, her cheek red, her eyes watery.
I have to get her out. I have to make sure Pater can’t keep ruining her crown.