Chapter 6
Chapter Six
V anilla hit me like a punch to the face.
Passing the bathroom, I tried to ignore the bathtub—tried and failed miserably.
It was almost impossible not to notice the long, dark-brown pods of vanilla floating in the otherwise clear water, their tiny seeds already coating the bottom of the tub like black dust.
Instinctively, my fingers found the cool metal of my bracelet—the one my parents had given me when I was born. I traced it absently, the feel of the bright red ruby grounding me just enough to endure.
I crossed the large living room, forcing each step, ignoring the way the cracks in my chest threatened to split wider with every breath.
Only when I reached the roaring fire in the hearth did I stop, immersing myselfin its wild, weaving flames.
"I’ve heated some water so you can get ready," my mother prompted from across the room.
I watched the fire without speaking, without blinking. Flames licked the stone, twisting through each other in an intricate, violent dance—more alive than I felt.
If I could have answered her, I would have. But my fragmented heart kept my tongue locked behind my teeth, imprisoning the words.
"Your dress is on your bed." Her voice faded.
Smothered by the roar of everything breaking inside me.
Swallowed by the noise of my grief.
There were a thousand things I didn’t understand about this world, but one truth screamed louder than the rest: If we went to the Festival of the Goddess Elessandria without my father, it would make his death real.
Absolute.
It had only been three weeks, and already his absence was a gaping, open wound.
I didn’t have the stomach to answer my mother, or even acknowledge her words. I couldn’t trust my voice not to betray me. Instead, I closed my eyes and continued tracing tiny circles on the ruby embedded in my bracelet, grounding myself against the storm inside my chest.
It was the last true link I had to my father—something tangible, something unbroken. Something that made me feel, if only for a heartbeat, that he was still with me.
Footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. I ignored every single one of them, even when they stopped in front of me.
Without a word, my mother wrapped her arms around me, cradling me against her chest. For a moment—a rare, stolen moment—the pain eased.
Her fingers combed through my hair, just as she had when I was a child, when scraped knees and bad dreams were the worst things in the world.
"No matter what we do, he isn’t coming back." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the words still struck like a final blow. "We have to learn how to live without him, no matter how impossible it feels."
I had no words.
Not a single one.
I knew she was right, but Gods, I didn’t want her to be.
I wanted him back.
"There is still beauty in this world," she said, her voice gentling, a fragile smile softening her face. "Don’t shut your eyes before you’ve had a chance to see it."
A beat of silence passed between us, heavier than anything spoken.
"He would want you to be happy."
Happiness.
The word barely registered.
It felt like something belonging to another lifetime, another world. Right now, even surviving his death felt like too much to ask.
My mother pulled me closer, her warmth easing the sharpest edges of the trepidation that shadowed my soul.
"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s get ready before we miss the entire festival."
I didn’t fight her.
Didn’t argue.
I let her guide me toward the bathroom—toward the vanilla. Then, without another word, she slipped into her room, leaving me alone with a grief so loud, it had gone quiet. The kind of pain that stops screaming… and just sits with you.
Heart lined with lead, I stood motionless. The taste of bile clawed up my throat. Blinking hard, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and leaned over the tub, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.
Warm, salty tears spilled down my cheeks, dripping from my chin into the water below. Each drop made a tiny, almost soundless splash in the clear, steaming bath.
It had been an eternity since I last allowed myself to cry. Normally, I held myself together. Not because it was easy, but because I had to.
Gods, my father had raised me stronger than this.
Better than this.
I needed to pull myself together.
I refused to be this weak.
I refused to be this broken.
Anger—my near-constant companion—tightened around my throat. Ignoring it, I splashed my face with the warm water, washing away any evidence of my momentary weakness.
Without wasting another second, I stripped off until I stood naked, skin prickling from the cold air.
Warmth tingled against my toes as I lowered myself into the tub. The water lapped around me, heavy with the thick, cloying scent of vanilla.
Droplets slipped silently from my skin to the floor as I scrubbed myself raw, dragging the coarse cloth across every inch of my body. I made sure to clean beneath my nails—every last skerrick of dirt gone.
I wanted no trace left.
No reminder of what I'd done.
Who I had just buried.
Large puddles began to form around the tub, the smell of vanilla thickening until it was almost suffocating.
Vanilla.
His favorite.
Without warning, hysteria slammed into me. Tears blurred my vision as I clawed at my skin, desperate to scrub the scent away.
It clung to me, taunting, sweet and merciless. Irrational paranoia gripped me in its iron fist. No matter how hard I tried, the scent wouldn't leave me. It tainted me in the sweetest, cruelest form of torture.
Gulping down shallow, broken breaths, I staggered to my feet and grabbed a cloth, wrapping it around myself with shaking hands. I stumbled backward, putting as much distance as possible between me and the bathtub of vanilla death.
The anxiety had come like a lightning strike—fast, brutal—but like lightning, it was fleeting, leaving only the scorched wreckage behind.
Only the foul taste of bile and the jagged remnants of heartache remained.
Pulling a ragged breath through gritted teeth, I forced myself to move. One numb step after another, I climbed the spiraling staircase that led to my room.
Each step heavier than the last.