Octavia
I knock once and push the door open.
Ophelia is in bed, wrapped in soft pyjamas, a film playing on the television.
She’s knitting.
I smile at her. “You’d make a lot of friends in a nursing home, given your hobbies.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes without looking up.
I step inside and close the door behind me, taking in the vases of flowers lining the room.
All white tulips.
Arlo filled her hospital room with them, and now he’s doing the same here, sending fresh ones every few hours.
“How are you feeling?” The smile disappears from my face as I remember how close I came to losing her.
“I’m better,” she says immediately. “You know that.”
I study her anyway, reassured by her colour, her steady hands, and the lack of pain around her eyes.
I nod, relieved.
“Did you take your medication?”
“Yes, mamma,” she deadpans.
Right on cue, mamma appears in the doorway.
“Did someone call me?” she asks lightly.
Lucinda Bellanti looks lighter tonight—beautiful and regal, the tension she’s carried for years finally easing. I hadn’t realised how heavy it was until it was gone.
She is beautiful. Her blonde hair falls to the middle of her back, her eyes the same clear shade as Ophelia’s and mine. Freckles dust her skin. I used to fake them with makeup when I was younger, always complaining that I hadn’t inherited them.
She’s dressed in a fitted burgundy dress that falls just above the knee, four inch heels adding to her height. She is striking.
She looks remarkably young, because she is. She had us early, me at eighteen, my sister a year later.
I sit on the edge of Ophelia’s bed and take her hand.
The ring catches my eye.
It’s impossible to miss.
We’re home for winter break.
It’s Christmas Day. After my conversation with my father in his office this morning, we were meant to have a quiet family dinner.
Then Arlo stepped into the mansion, his father beside him.
Arlo proposed to my sister.
Officially.
“Well,” I say, turning her hand to admire the ring, “that’s obscene.”
She snorts. “I thought you’d say that.”
“It suits you,” I admit. “And it very loudly says taken. Do not approach.”
Mamma smiles, reaching out to brush Ophelia’s hair back gently. “How do you feel about it, sweetheart?”
Ophelia’s expression softens. “Tired. A little overwhelmed.” She gives a small shrug. “But happy.”
“That’s all that matters,” mamma says, her voice thick with emotion.
We sit there for a moment, just the three of us, content simply to be together.
I lean in and kiss Ophelia’s forehead. “Get some rest.”
She squeezes my fingers. “Good night.”
Mamma kisses her temple next, taking a second longer before pulling away.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” she says softly.
We step out together and close the door behind us, leaving Ophelia cocooned in her bed.
I glance at mamma, and she gives me a small, reassuring nod.
“Good night, my love.”
She steps closer and wraps her arms around me. I hug her back and close my eyes for a moment.
It feels good… steadying.
When she pulls away, she looks straight at me, too perceptive for my liking.
“When you’re ready to talk,” she says gently, “I’ll be here. No judgement. Just love and support.”
Emotion churns in my chest, making it hard to swallow. I open my mouth to deflect, but before I can respond, one of the staff appears down the corridor carrying a large bouquet of white tulips. She nods politely in our direction as she passes.
Saved.
I smirk faintly. The man has it bad for my Lia.
Ophelia told mamma and me how she met Arlo over a year ago. Secretly dating, which, frankly, shocked me.
I never pictured Ophelia sneaking around, but I’ll give her credit where it’s due. I even high fived her. I was impressed. She definitely inherited that from me.
But she didn’t tell us everything.
I know that much. Especially with the flowers still arriving, the man is definitely grovelling.
He did something, that’s for sure.
And he’d better hope I never find out what, because I might just make my sister a widow before the wedding.
She keeps parts of it locked away. But I don’t push.
Mamma squeezes my hand.
“Good night, darling. And Merry Christmas,” she says again, before turning toward her wing of the house.
I make my way to my room, slip out of the dress I wore for dinner, and change into my Christmas pyjamas, a pair of loose trousers that sit low on my waist and a cropped long sleeve top covered in Santas, cookies, and tiny trees.
I shove my feet into slippers with Santa’s face stitched on the front and pull my hair into a messy ponytail.
Dinner is over, presents have been opened. An engagement happened.
The house is quiet now, but sleep isn’t going to find me.
So I wander into the kitchen, where the cook is finishing up, wiping down the counters.
“Do you need something?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. You can take the rest of the night off.”
He hesitates, then nods, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
Someone should probably have emergency services on speed dial. Things tend to catch fire when I’m involved.
I like to make fun of Adelaide, but in the kitchen I might be just as bad, if not worse.
But… I’d sooner catch fire than admit that out loud.