8. Ophelia #4
Ophelia’s hair is still pulled up from last night, tied with a leather strap meant for Form necklaces. She noticed supplies for the necklaces all over the room, now that she thinks back.
“Making Form necklaces,” she responds, “and selling them.”
The look on the Mothers’ faces tells her that she hesitated just a moment too long.
“Are these two really worth getting expelled for?” the Mother asks, almost pitying. “Living with that shame branded into you for the rest of your days?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t involved,” the Mother deduces. “Your loyalty is… admirable, Miss Ophelia, but misguided.”
Ophelia blubbers in disagreement, but Aika cuts her off. “See, Mother? She really has nothing to do with it. And I, for one, cannot subject an innocent to branding and exile.”
Aika. Loving Aika.
Why are you saying this? What are you doing?
The Mother sighs. “To your room, Ophelia.”
“What?” Ophelia screeches. “No. I was involved. I was behind it all. I did it, I swear.”
“To your room,” the Mother demands, voice raised over Ophelia’s desperate pleas.
“You can’t do this. You can’t take them from me.” She would fall to her knees, she would beg for eternity. She would do anything to stop the red-hot brand from etching its shame onto the faces of her girls.
“They’re mine,” she yells, pushing to stand between Aika and the Mothers.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” Aika whispers with quiet tears.
Dora, face dry, brows angry, shoves her way over to Ophelia as well, despite the Mothers’ demands for her to stay put. She reaches out and Ophelia falls immediately into her embrace.
“Look under your mattress when you get to your room,” she says. Then, louder, “I love you.”
“Please don’t be mad,” Aika adds.
And, oh, if only she wanted to rage at them, yell that she would have fallen into the flames and laughed as she burned, as long as she wasn’t burning alone.
But she can’t bring herself to be angry. Can’t bring herself to face them with anything but overwhelming fondness. Too much love.
“You know what I heard?” she asks, silly and bright like their usual routine despite her tears.
Dora and Aika giggle, even with everything, as she knew they would. The Mothers pull them back, but they don’t take their eyes off Ophelia.
“I heard that we could die a thousand times and still find each other in every lifetime,” she says.
Aika releases a sob, then gasps at the ‘news.’ She’d never let their tradition go unanswered. “What scandalous news,” she says.
“Most salacious,” Dora responds, with a sad smile.
Then the Mothers herd her friends toward the forsterite bowl, and start up the sun system. They step on a rarely used tile in the ground to trigger a small cabinet opening. What is revealed inside will be seared into Ophelia’s memory forever, just as it will be seared into her friends’ foreheads.
“Off you go, Miss Ophelia,” one of the Mothers scolds.
Ophelia plants her feet.
But then Dora shakes her head in a silent plea for her to leave.
The plea is there in Aika’s doe eyes, too. Filled with tears.
And Ophelia is helpless to do anything but nod. Turn around. Walk away.
She hears her friends sigh in relief behind her.
In a robotic haze, she leaves the Atrium, traverses the bleak halls, enters her room, and, as instructed, she lifts her mattress and finds a bag with a drawstring. When she opens it, she can’t even find it in herself to gasp.
It’s filled with drachmas, shining golden in the low light. Enough to buy a castle. Enough to see the world. Enough to do anything she wants, really.
And there’s a note, she realizes, squished within the coins. She opens that too:
Ophelia-
This is Aika. Glad you stayed the night at the Academy. We probably won’t be here when you get back. Dora and I have been up to no good, as usual, but this time we’ve truly done ourselves in. We took more supplies than we should have and the Mothers noticed, and now they’re looking for us.
Dora and I knew we were being stupid. I don’t know why we were even doing it. Or, that’s not true. I do know why. We wanted more than we have. No one is satisfied, Phelia. No one in the world.
You aren’t either, but not like us. We want more than we have but you just want what you deserve.
Your brilliant mind, your beautiful face, every wonderful thing about you.
We didn’t exclude you because we love you less, is what I’m trying to say.
Just that the stakes are higher for you.
Because it would be a shame to see your genius go to waste.
And when someone has a brand—well, I guess you know the drill—no amount of genius can save them.
I’m sorry, lovely girl. We both are. We miss you already. And we’ve been saving up for you. To help you live the life you were meant to. I suppose we won’t be there to see it, but somewhere, somehow, we’ll know when you do.
And you know what I heard, Phelia? I heard we love you. More than you know. I heard that maybe you’ll find us again. We hope so.
Don’t forget to act surprised.
Only when Ophelia reaches the end of the note, written in a rushed scrawl nowhere near the beauty of Aika’s usual handwriting, does she allow herself to cry.
Her girls. Her lovely girls.