FOUR #2
“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?
“Don’t get your hopes up,” the creature drawls, casting a lingering shadow in the corner of the room.
“You’re wrong about her!”
“Ask and find out,” it challenges. Its shadow disappears, followed by a rush of wind in my ears, but the curtains don’t stir. It’s all in my head.
“Didn’t anyone come to help you?” I ask, carefully placing her tea on her daffodil yellow dresser. I hate the fact that I obeyed the voice’s command, but a part of me needs to know if it’s right.
“Everyone is busy. Idoniya has another fever,” she tells me, looking down at her bed. “Everyone is with her, trying to help. They say she might not make it this time.”
“See,” it whispers, “selfish.” I despise it even more.
I nod slowly, not sure what to say. There’s no appropriate response besides, “I hope she recovers quickly.”
“I hope she dies,” Laoise says with a sniff, making me almost choke on my own spit. She looks up at me with swollen red eyes, but there’s no sign of regret in her expression.
“What? Why?” Those two single words catch in my throat.
“Because nature calls for balance,” the creature answers, its shadow creeping across the ceiling like fingers reaching for me.
“I’m not talking to you!”
“It’s not…” she says, pausing to clear her throat. Her eyes glisten up at me, searching for something I can’t place. “It’s less cruel than living a life like hers. She can’t go outside. She doesn’t have friends…”
“Still!” My eyes widen.
“Still?” She frowns back at me. “Do you want her to suffer?”
“I want her to live.” I want to know her.
I stare at her for a long while, waiting for her to continue because I sure as hell am not. There are some things we can think but should never say aloud, this being one.
“I just think…”
I take her hand and unwrap the bandage, cutting her sentence short.
She winces with a pained hiss and closes her eyes.
Her hand looks terrible, but not broken.
I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in supernatural and divine beings, but if I did, perhaps there is a god smiling down on me.
Perhaps Airmed, goddess of healing, favors me after all.
“I’m sorry, you know. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have.”
For a moment, she stops reacting to the pain and looks up at me. Her expression, though fleeting, is one of accusation. “Why? What are you hiding from me?” Her eyes dart from left to right, waiting for my answer. Waiting for the right answer.
“Nothing but my undergarments and my journal,” I lie, forcing a laugh. Something that is fast becoming a regular activity. I regret it immediately.
“I don’t like it.” Her chin falls to her chest, shaking her head gently, her curls barely swaying. “I don’t like the feeling that you don’t trust me.” She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.
“I do!”
“Liar,” the creature mocks.
“I really hope so. You’re the only sister I can actually talk to.
I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Guilt renews itself, begging for me to tell her the truth, but the creature is right.
I don’t trust her, not completely, and I can’t risk it.
Not when I’ll be risking more than only myself; it’s Declan’s life, too.
Tucking the end of the bandage in at her wrist, I give her a smile. “I brought you some tea.” Her expression brightens.
“Thank you.” She climbs onto her bed and takes a seat next to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I love you, Brynney.”
“Best keep that in mind when you taste what I brought you,” I whisper, tightening my arms around her.
She pulls back with a frown, then looks at the cup on her dresser, her nose crinkling ever so slightly.
“I’m afraid all the milk in the kitchen has spoiled, so you’ll have to take it black,” I tell her, restraining my amusement when her nostrils flare in disgust. Every canister of milk.
All curdled at the same time. We’ve never run out of milk and always have more than we need, but to have them all go bad at once is odd.
A sign of ill favor. “ I added a few herbs to help you with the pain.”
“I may love you, but you clearly don’t love me.” Her lip curls as she looks at the cup now in her grasp, all excitement and enthusiasm gone.
“I gave you an extra helping of honey, though,” I say with a wink.
She’s been cutting down on sweet things in preparation for the coming ball, set on looking her best, and I’ve ruined it for her.
Even though we’re going through the motions, imitating the way we usually are together, it feels strained and heavy.
Neither of us address the awkwardness between us.
Instead, we pretend nothing ever happened.
“You can’t pretend forever.”