EIGHT
brYNDIS ASHGLO
During Samhain, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, draw your deceased loved one near by creating an altar of their keepsakes in your home or where they were put to rest.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
The manor is alive with servants dusting and rearranging furniture, filling crystal vases with freshly cut calla lilies and sheep’s bit from the greenhouse, and braiding juniper around the curved handrail of the staircase to our left.
Surfaces are being polished, and windows are being washed.
At the centre of the orchestrated chaos stands my stepmother, Dharlah, with her arms folded across her chest. Her lady’s maid remains faithfully at her side with a silver tray balancing delicately in the palm of her hand.
“Mother? Why is everyone still working so late?” Laoise asks, passing me.
I didn’t notice that my feet stopped moving, my eyes fixed on the painting in front of me.
One depicting my family. So new I can almost smell the paint over the sweet scent of the lilies.
It’s mounted on the wall straight ahead and contains everyone in my immediate family.
My father, his shoulders squared, wearing his favourite olive-green and mustard-yellow coat, his moustache styled in two symmetrical curls at the corners of his mouth.
The frown lines on his brow are done so perfectly that I almost feel the judgement in his harsh brown eyes.
My stepmother with her flawless porcelain skin and strawberry blonde hair, so serene she seems angelic, sits quietly in front of my father while he rests his hands on her shoulders.
Her smile is bright, but it isn’t reflected in her eyes.
Then there are all the children they’ve sired together.
Idoniya, the smallest, her skin is rosier in the portrait than it was when I saw her last. Her eyes are large and as rich as honey as she sits on her mother’s lap.
Laoise wears her favourite white dress and yellow shawl, beaming the same smile her mother does, only hers is reflected in the faint narrowing of her eyes. I… am not included.
A dull ache makes me press my hand to my stomach.
It isn’t a surprise, but it hurts all the same, like a blade hammered through my sternum.
Families celebrate Samhain by honouring their dead, erecting memorials and sharing memories.
It’s a tradition my family doesn’t uphold.
Why would they? They seem delighted by the lack of my mother’s presence.
We don’t have a single portrait to remember her by.
We don’t set an extra plate at the dinner table or ever mention her name.
My mother’s memory has practically been wiped from this world as though she never existed. Will I suffer the same fate when I die?
“You are part of your mother, young one, a reminder of her existence. You only need to ask; is that a good thing or not.”
“Oh, my darling girl!” Dharlah smiles at Laoise, spinning around with remarkable grace.
Her strawberry blonde curls bounce softly from their pinned-up position.
She doesn’t spill a drop of tea from the porcelain cup pinched delicately between her two fingers.
“Your father has announced that we are to host a ball in honour of the two princes paying us a visit.” She sets her cup on the silver tray held at her side before taking Laoise’s hands, gloved and bandaged.
What was I thinking? The gloves don’t hide the bandage at all.
“There’s a rumour that they’re here in search of a bride.
It will strengthen our ties with the royal family and…
” Dharlah looks down at Laoise’s injured hand and the glove stretching to its limits.
“It will take much more than a ceremonious fucking to mend what’s broken,” the creature growls, but I don’t look for its shadows. I look at my stepmother and the way her mouth strains to keep its smile in place the moment her eyes meet mine.
Laoise shrieks in excitement, and I do nothing but watch her jump, clapping. The injury to her hand seems long forgotten.
“I’ll need a new dress!” Laoise’s eyes widen, and all traces of excitement drain from her face, replaced by panic instead. “I have nothing to wear. Nothing suitable for meeting a prince!”
“The seamstress will be here within the hour. I’ve already sent for her.” Her mother touches her cheek, an act I can barely stand to watch. I was a child when Dharlah became the new lady of this house, yet she’s never shown me a single ounce of affection.
“Perhaps she will wear a red ribbon around her neck and be presented like the show pony she is.”
“Stop it!” I hiss, forgetting to keep my response non-verbal. Luckily for me, I’m unnoticed.
“Do you not tire of these meaningless games, young one? Do you not crave purpose beyond being sold for political advantage?”
“What I crave is for my mind to be my own. What I crave is to be normal. What I crave is peace!” I head up the stairs toward my bedroom.
Closing the door behind me, I remove the small glass vial of bitter nightshade from a concealed pocket in my skirt.
My chest constricts, my breathing rushed; I feel no relief.
I’m suffocating, as if grief could strangle me.
“Don’t you dare silence me!”
“Or what?” I challenge.
“You need me as much as I need you,” it growls.
Removing the small cork, I wet the tip of my index finger. The taste is bitter in my mouth, numbing my tongue instantly and tingling down my throat as I swallow. I take another drop to enjoy the numbness of feeling nothing. It’s as close to heaven as I’ll ever be.
“I strongly doubt that,” I say, but there’s no one to answer.
I need to find a new patch of nightshade.
This is my final vial, and it won’t last forever.
If anyone was paying attention downstairs, I would have been seen talking to myself like a lunatic.
I would have given my stepmother something to use against me, a reason to be locked away.
I would have been damned just like they damned my mother.
Crossing my room, I place the small vial in the third drawer, where it should be, only this time I take the precaution of hiding it under my folded garments.
I feel the leather binding of my mother’s old journal hidden at the bottom of the drawer and take it out, holding it against my chest. I wish you never left.
Gliding my index finger over the ink on the page, I trace the slight indents caused by her quill.
Every line, every delicate curl. My mother’s cursive handwriting is so elegant, so feminine, it feels like I’m even further from her than I’ve ever been—as though I’ll never measure up to her.
The lines of her face are fading from my memory.
The colour of her eyes are almost lost. The softness of her long black hair, much like my own, is disappearing.
What I do remember is her frailty. She never spoke an ill word toward my father or anyone else, nothing that could hint at the root of her privately inked feelings, yet she expressed them with black on cream parchment.
My chest aches as I whisper the words she wrote in her journal.
Be careful of smiles and the infection they sow.
Be careful of joy, for it is soon to go.
Smiles, like love, carry deceit,
For cruel intent lie warm at their feet.
My doorknob turns, and I jump. Abruptly closing the journal, I allow it to slide between my bed and the wall. I don’t know what scares me more, being caught with a journal that was meant to be destroyed or the thought that it will surely be destroyed once it’s found.
The second. It’s the second for sure.
The door swings open, almost colliding with the wall.
The stern and unforgiving face of our governess is the first I see, her greying hair tied neatly into a high bun, and her black dress covering almost every inch of her skin.
She fuelled my nightmares as a child. Some days, now that I’m fully grown, she still does.
Governess Mhagdu steps to the side, making way for another. My stepmother enters after her. Sliding from my bed, I stand, bowing my head in acknowledgement as I’m expected.
“Stepmother, Governess,” I say softly, keeping my gaze to the floor.
They don’t greet me in return. Their high-heeled shoes are loud on my wooden floor as they approach.
Nerves cause my hands to tremble, but I hide them in my skirt.
Did they learn about my midnight adventure?
Are they here to punish me for Laoise’s injury?
My thoughts run rampant as I search for the answer.
Perhaps they heard from the prince. My heart plummets.
“You hate me, don’t you?” my stepmother asks. Her voice is as cold as ice. As hard as stone. Her expression is just as unwavering. This isn’t a question, but an accusation.
“No, ma’am,” I lie. One that I force over my lips often, a necessity. I’ve perfected the art of lying, a skill essential for my survival. Swallowing, I stare at the floor beneath her feet while the room spins around me.
“Do you understand how important this week is for your sister? What advantages she can gain? What we can gain from a royal wedding?” Her tone pitches.
“Yes, ma’am.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If there’s anything I could do to make myself invisible, I would.
“You want to see this family fall, don’t you?!” She raises her voice, almost screaming at me.
Mhagdu circles me and stops behind my back.
My muscles tense, and I ball my hands into fists, holding onto the soft fabric of my skirt in an attempt to keep still.
Fight or flight, those are the two most basic responses any human has in a life-threatening situation.
Neither is an option in my case. I have nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide. Despite the satisfaction it would bring to knock both of these women’s teeth in, it would only make matters worse.
My only genuine option is to keep my head down and bear it. The most unnatural thing to do.
“No, Stepmother, I would never.” A half-lie.
I don’t want to see the entire family fall.
That would be wrong. My sisters don’t deserve it.
She, on the other hand, absolutely does.
I look up at her, pleading. She turns her cheek and raises her chin, refusing to look at me as if I’m the villain in her story.
“I don’t believe you,” she whispers. “Do you believe her, Mhagdu?” She looks straight past me to my governess. I’d say the woman has a heart of stone, but that would imply that she actually has one.
“No, my lady. Especially not after nearly maiming poor Laoise. This one is wicked to the bone. Devious. One only has to look at those eyes to confirm its truth.” Her breath is on my neck as she steps closer, my skin crawling in response. “Evil.”
Her fingers tug at the buttons on my dress. They spring free. Small buttons, like black pearls, roll past my feet. Everything inside me quivers with the knowledge of what comes next.
“This is for your own good, child, and for the good of this family.” My stepmother speaks with such conviction it almost sounds like she believes this bullshit. I’m not the one losing my mind. She is!
My dress is yanked down with a force that throws me off balance. I take a step forward to keep from falling, but I draw my shoulders back. They won’t steal my self-worth. The air is chilly on my exposed back, on my naked breasts. I cover my chest with my hands, trembling.
“Down on your knees, girl!” Mhagdu commands, but I don’t move.
“Down. On. Your. Knees! Pray that the goddess Rhiannon forgives you.” I do no such thing.
Instead, I stare at my stepmother, hoping that it will be my face that haunts her dreams tonight.
My face that torments her when she closes her eyes.
Mhagdu grabs my hair at the roots and forces me to the floor, but I don’t look away from my stepmother, not even when my eyes tear up. I won’t break. I won’t beg.
My stepmother leans closer. Her eyes dart from left to right, searching my face for signs of fear. For signs of submission. “Beg for forgiveness, and we’ll be merciful.” But I have nothing to ask forgiveness for, so I say nothing. Biting down on my teeth, I prepare myself for what’s coming.
The buckle of Mhagdu’s belt clinks, and the bloodcurdling sound of it sliding against her dress makes me flinch.
I shut my eyes as firmly as I can, bracing myself as I’m bent over my bed. Finding my strength, I look up at my stepmother, locking eyes with the woman who doesn’t deserve to sleep in my mother’s bed.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
The first lash burns like fire across my back, etched into my flesh.
The second is quick to follow. Then the third…
It takes all of my strength not to tumble to the floor, not to arch away from her punishment, not to scream.
Light flashes in my vision and pounds in my ears, but I keep my face void of emotion as I stare up at my father’s wife.
Four.
Five.
Dharlah swallows, looking away as she rises and walks out of the room. I’ve won.
Six…
I won’t let them break me. I won’t scream.
Losing count of the lashes dealt, I slump to the side as my strength fails me.
“Beg for forgiveness!” my governess commands, but I won’t. I refuse to give her the satisfaction. I won’t be made weak, not by them. I won’t break.
The next round of lashes fades in a blur, and the world around me is drowned in darkness. Everything turns black. Everything is quiet except for the rush of blood behind my ears, pounding in my head. And then it’s all gone.