Nila #3
What had Kes done apart from taking me into his quarters? He’d given me sketching paper. Become my friend. Laughed with me. Entertained me and granted normalcy while I swam in bewilderment.
“He was to become my friend.”
Jethro nodded. “Your mother knew no one could replace Vaughn. You’d grown up together. You loved each other so much. But she also knew not having that connection would be one of the hardest things you’d have to face. So she asked Kes to be your brother while your true one couldn’t be there.”
My stomach knotted as I wrapped arms around myself. Kes’s friendship had been invaluable, but now, it’d become priceless knowing every touch and joke had come out of respect for my mother.
In a way, it could’ve cheapened Kes’s kindness to me—knowing he’d been asked to do so—but I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a selfless deed, and I was confident enough in our mutual affection that he hadn’t just done it for Emma. He’d done it for himself, for whatever bond blossomed between us.
Jethro came closer, moving behind me to envelop me in a hug.
My back fell into his chest, my head tilting to the side for his kisses to land on my neck.
“She also asked him to give you the Weaver Journal. I knew you thought that was a tool for my family to spy on your thoughts. That we were the ones to create such a tradition. But we didn’t. ”
His lips trailed lovingly over my collar to my ear.
“That was a Weaver secret and at least one Hawk in every generation kept it hidden. Kes was tasked to give it to you. But he wasn’t asked to tell you why he’d given it.
It was yours to do what you wanted—write in it or not.
Read it or ignore it. The choice was yours. ”
How could I learn so much in such a few short sentences? How could I fall in love with the dead even more than when they were alive?
Spinning in Jethro’s hold, I pressed my face against his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.”
His embrace tightened. “Thank you for making your mother’s premonitions come true.”
We stood still for so many heartbeats, thanking the dead, reliving the secrets, rejoicing in the rightful end.
Finally, Jethro let me go. “Open it. And then we’ll join the others.”
I looked at the box. The air around it seemed to throb with welcome, begging me to look inside.
Jethro shuffled, moving toward the door.
I held out my hand. “Wait. Don’t go.”
He halted. “You don’t want to be on your own?”
“No.” Shaking my head, I smiled. “I want you beside me. She would want you to be here.”
Biting his lip, he returned to my side.
Wordlessly, I pulled the box closer and slid off the lid.
A puff of lint flurried with the opening pressure, scattering onto the table-top. My heart stopped beating as I reached into the tiny coffin of memories and pulled out the letter sitting on top.
“It’s addressed to me.”
Jethro looped an arm around my waist, trembling with everything I felt.
The confusion.
The hope.
The sadness.
The happiness at hearing from her one last time.
“Open it.”
The glue on the envelope had weathered and unstuck, gaping open as I turned it over and fumbled with my sling to pull forth the note.
Dear my sweetest daughter,
I’ve promised myself I would write this letter so many times, and every time I begin, I stop.
There is so much to say. My mind runs wild with guidelines and tips for all things you are yet to enjoy. First love, first heartbreak, first baby. I’ll never get to see those things. Never see you grow into a woman or enjoy motherhood.
And that upsets me, but I know I’ll be proud of the woman you became because you’re part of me, and through you, I shall remain alive, no matter what happens to my mortal body.
There might also be a chance you won’t achieve what I hope you will. That you’ll fall to the guillotine like me. That we’ll meet far too young in heaven.
But I’m not thinking those thoughts.
If you live at Hawksridge while Cut is still in power, remember two things.
That man is violent, unpredictable, and cruel.
But beneath it, he can be manipulated. A man who has everything has nothing if he doesn’t have love.
And he’s never had love. I pretended to give him that.
I hoped my false affection could prevent my end, but I didn’t have it in me to love him true.
I love your father. I can never love Cut while I have Arch in my heart.
And that was my downfall.
Anyway...
Before I prattle on about nothing, I have to tell you two things. I’ve hoarded these confessions for far too long.
First, I need to tell you about your grandmother.
I know by now you will have seen the graves on the Hawk’s moor. You’ll have seen her name on a tombstone. But what you won’t know is...that grave is empty.
Like you, I believed she died at the hand of Bonnie’s husband.
But that was before Cut told me the truth.
He viewed his father as weak because that was what Bonnie fed him.
However, I see Alfred Hawk as one of the bravest men.
He succumbed to tradition and claimed my mother.
He completed the first two debts, but his affection for her—the love he could never give Bonnie—meant he couldn’t attach the collar or kill her.
So he did the only thing he could.
He pretended to end the Debt Inheritance. He buried a fake corpse and set her free. He gave her a second chance but with the strictest of conditions: never contact her Weaver family again—for her sake and his.
She kept that promise for many years. I grew up believing she’d died.
However, one night, I received a phone call from Italy.
She was alive, Nila. She’d watched me from afar, celebrated when I had my children, and lamented when I was claimed.
She would’ve fought for me—I know that. But she died before she could.
Now...Nila...this is the hardest part to write. The second secret I’ve kept my entire life, and I honestly don’t know how to tell you. There are no easy words, so I’ll just have to swallow my tears, beg you to understand, and hope you can forgive me.
My children.
I loved you. All of you. So, so much.
I let my fear get the better of me just before they took me.
I begged your father to hide you. But we both knew this was our only chance.
Arch didn’t want to go ahead with my plan.
Don’t hate him, Nila. It was me. All me.
I take full blame, and even though I’m dead and you can’t berate me, know I died with regret and hope.
I regret you living in my path, but I’m full of hope you’ll achieve what I couldn’t.
I always thought a letter like this would be long and full of tears, but I know now (after so many failed attempts) that I can’t over think this. I can’t write everything I want to say because everything important you already know.
You know I love you.
You know I’ll always watch over you.
And I know when Jet comes to collect you, you’ll win. You’ll win, darling daughter, because you’re so much more than I ever was. You’re the strongest, bravest, most brilliant daughter I could ever ask for, and that’s why I sacrificed you.
Does that confuse you?
Does that make you hate me?
If it does, then I won’t ask for your forgiveness. But know I believed with all my heart you had the potential to do what I couldn’t. I chose you over her—over Jacqueline.
I made that decision. Right or wrong. I’ll never know.
After watching you grow up, I just know you have the power to end this. And it was a risk I was willing to pay. You were the one I pinned all my hopes on. You were the one to save us all.
I love you, Nila, Threads, my precious, precious daughter.
Forgive me or not, I’ll never stop caring for you, never stop watching.
Please, try to understand.
I gambled both our lives to save so many more.
Thank you for being so brave.
Love,
Your mother.