Chapter 3
Snowflakes sting my cheeks as I breathe them in.
In and out.
In and out.
The fear of crying looms over me. I ignore it by taking in the Red Oaks crystalized with snow and ice.
The chimney of my house expels clouds of smoke, carrying the fragrance of burning wood, pine, and cloves.
The stars glimmer so brightly, their white light pings off the frozen body of water by the dry waterfall.
My feet dangle over the cliff of the lagoon. And I wonder how badly it would hurt to jump in winter water and crash through that plate of ice protecting its current.
In and out.
Once I gather the courage and learn more about the outside countries, I’m getting the hell out of here.
I’m buying passage on a boat and venturing far away for a new life.
I’m changing my name. I’m going somewhere where no one knows my family.
Where no one has ever heard of Valdawell.
Of Patient Thirteen. I’ll be a nameless stranger who gets to live out my life in peace and solitude. Demechnef will not mean anything to me.
“You always know how to make these dinners entertaining, don’t you? Just like your father.” Uncle Warrose wraps a heavy fur blanket around me before taking a seat.
I fidget with a crispy red leaf between my fingers.
“I could have killed Niklaus as a grand finale. That also sounds like something my dad would have done.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I’m not going to disagree with you on that.”
“You know I don’t like talking about him,” I say quietly.
“Which him are we referring to?”
“My father.”
“I know.”
For some strange reason, my eyes start to water.
“But sometimes when I’m going head-to-head with Niklaus…I wish my dad was standing next to me. Standing up for me.” I bow my head at the unwanted confession.
Why am I getting choked up?
“I hear you,” Uncle Warrose rasps. “But here’s how I see it.
Your father was a great man. When he walked into a room, it was as if a king was returning to his throne.
He demanded fear and respect and admiration from anyone who set foot in his presence.
And the beauty is…you are his daughter. Just like him, you don’t need anyone to stand up for you. In fact, he preferred it that way.”
My eyes well with more tears. Hot and thick against the winter chill.
“But I’m not like him at all! I’m not special. I’m ordinary with a bad temper. That’s it!”
A large hand rubs circles over my back. And there’s that pang in my stomach again, that zing up my spine, that for a split-second, I wish the hand was my father’s.
“Where do you think you get your temper from?”
“Certainly not my mom.”
He sighs. “I think you might be mistaking patience and kindness for weakness when it comes to her.”
“Am I though? Look at her! She’s na?ve and clueless. That woman spends so much time in that sad, dreary room holding my father’s hand. What part of that screams power and warrior to you like everything I’ve been taught in school? There’s no way history reported any of what she did accurately.”
I glance over at my uncle’s face as he smirks to himself, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a shame you’ll never see what I’ve seen.
” His glittering hazel eyes trace over the icy lagoon in thought.
“Your father was a force, yes. But your mother is the one who led armies to save us. She’s the one who played the enemy like a puppet.
Who dragged their subconsciouses to hell and back. She’s the one who won the war.”
I try to picture that beautiful blonde woman hurting anyone. Saving anyone. I mean, sure, I’ve seen the illustrations. I’ve read the descriptions of the part she’s played. But I can never see it in my head. She’s always just that sad woman sitting at his bedside.
“And if you think your father was the only one with a bad temper, you’re wrong. The day she destroyed that asylum was more pain and fury than you might ever see in your lifetime.”
Not a lot of detail for that story. They said it was a slaughter from the Fallen Saint. They said it was exacted revenge, and she gave each member what they deserved.
“I plan on doing something similar to Niklaus,” I grumble.
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “I know he seems like the enemy now. But there are far worse people in this world, Sapphire. And you two will have to be on the same team to defeat them.”
Over my dead body.
Niklaus and the traitor have left.
But everyone else stays to say goodbye to my dad. Even though it makes me deeply uncomfortable and angry for some reason, Krimson and I always stand in the doorway to watch the interaction.
They sit around his bed, talking, sharing updates on their lives, and reminiscing.
Why? I have no idea. He’s brain-dead. He cannot hear them. He cannot feel them hold his hand. He can’t interact. But I suppose this little ritual of theirs is more to make them feel better than anything else.
“That’s how my week went, Dess.” Uncle Niles pats the top of Dad’s hand, then snickers. “I love that I can call you by that nickname now without getting the death glare.”
Though his smile fades. And he’s left with a vacant look that tells me he doesn’t love it at all. He misses that glare from my father.
However, this starts a new conversation about how mad my father was when Uncle Warrose brought up the nicknames he used to give himself as a child. Dess-aster. Dess-truction.
The room trembles with laughter.
“I hope we have a group of friends like this one day,” Krimson whispers.
I shrug. I’ll be long gone by then.
“I wonder what he was like with all of them. I mean, I know how Kane was. He liked them. Was nice. Patient,” he goes on, watching their banter with thoughtful eyes.
“And now brain-dead,” I add.
It’s disturbing how they all sit around his lifeless body like this. It’s not right. Just let him go. Let him be.
“Bite your tongue. Jesus. Sometimes I wonder if we were raised by the same woman.” Krimson furrows his brow, crosses his arms, and broods to himself. It’s the same expression Mom always says makes him look just like our father.
I turn away. Every time he’s upset with me, a knot forms in my gut. Tight and unwanted.
“I don’t know why I’m like this,” I murmur.
His arms slacken an inch.
I wish I was more like you.
“It’s okay.”
The room begins clearing, but Uncle Warrose stays to talk to my dad. Shoulders slumped, husky, quivering voice. And Aunt Ruth gives us a quick pat to give him some privacy.
“Why does he always want to talk to him alone after?” I ask.
“To catch him up on everything that’s going on in Vexamen.” Aunt Ruth shrugs a petite, pointed shoulder, ruffling her curly brown hair.
“Why?” I push again.
Krimson gives me a shoulder bump.
Aunt Ruth studies my face for a moment too long, making me feel small and arrogant in her line of sight.
She’s always had this elven-like beauty.
I used to tell Mom that I wanted to look just like her.
I wanted curly brunette hair, rich brown eyes, freckles, and to be a queen too.
I even had Krimson push me around in a dining table chair to pretend it was her beautifully carved moving chair.
If Aunt Ruth had to use one, it must be something to strive for. A tool for queens.
When Mom told Aunt Ruth about it, she laughed, hugged me, and said “that’s a beautiful compliment to give, little Sapphire.”
“Are you asking that question to make another insensitive dig at your father’s condition, or do you genuinely want to know why he would want to share that information?”
I shrink a little.
She nods like that small movement answered her question.
“Just because your father is in a coma, is unresponsive, and your mother can’t find him or any of his alters in the void…
That doesn’t mean a damn thing.” She runs her thin hands over the wrinkles in her blood red winter dress.
“Why? Because his heart is still beating. His lungs are still filling with air. He’s still alive.
I’ve seen that man rise from the fucking grave.
I’ve seen him take on leagues of men and win.
I’ve seen him save the woman he loves with impossible odds.
And in all that time, I’ve learned one lesson that remains the same. ”
Her round, beautiful eyes bounce back and forth between me and my twin.
“To never underestimate the lengths Dessin will go to be with the woman he loves. Nothing is impossible for him. And after all he’s done for us, holding out hope until my dying breath is the least I can do.”
They speak of him like he is a god. I’ll never understand it.
“I’ve read about his adventures. All the myths and legends that are attached to his name,” I say coldly. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just respect their opinions and move on? Why must I always have this undying urge to prove that he isn’t as impressive as they all claim?
Aunt Ruth laughs, but there isn’t any humor in her eyes.
“Read? Your eyes trailed over words on paper, and you think that does him justice? It’s one thing to hear about Patient Thirteen in a lecture at school.
It’s another to witness it when death is biting at your heels.
” She looks down at her lap, thinking quietly to herself.
“I wish you could have been there, little Sapphire. Maybe then you’d understand the gravity of love and respect we all have for him. ”
I continue to shrink.
“I understand, Aunt Ruth. I’ve always known my father was a great man,” Krimson says with both sadness and impenetrable pride.
“The greatest.” She nods in agreement.
After everyone leaves, and I say good night to Mom, Krimson, and Grandpa, I walk through the dark house and stand in the doorway of my father’s room. It still carries that haunting scent of old books, sandalwood, and fresh linen blankets.
I watch his chest rising and falling for what feels like several minutes.
“You have them all fooled,” I say in a low, hushed voice.
He continues to breathe. To sleep. To take up space.
“They all think you’re this great hero.”
I do not often address him directly. In fact, I try to avoid this area as much as I can. But tonight was too much to handle alone. I only talk to him when I’ve had enough. When I want someone to blame. When I need to lash out without judgment.
“But where were you when Niklaus Demechnef pushed me over the Chandelier Bridge, and I had to fight the current to make it out without drowning when I was ten? Where were you when I fell out of the treehouse and broke my ankle? What about last year when Niklaus soaked my dress in ink at the ball and I left in tears?”
My blood rushes to my face in mortification and hatred. Hot, angry fireworks go off in my arteries. And I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to throw things. I want him to feel how much this hurts.
“Where were you then? If my father is supposedly the most powerful man our country has ever known, then where was he when his only daughter needed him?” Tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away furiously. “Where were you, Dad?”
As the hiccuping sobs barrel through my throat, a pair of hands turn me around by my shoulders and pull me into a wide, hard chest.
“I’ve got you,” Krimson breathes, strained and labored.
“I hate him,” I cry.
“I know.”
“He’s saved everyone. He’s been there for everyone. Why not me?”
“I know,” he says again.
“It’s not fair.”
Krimson holds me while my tears soak his gray nightshirt. He holds me because he’s the only one who knows where my fury comes from. Where my insensitive comments originate. Right here. In the doorway of a great man who no longer can do great things.
Not even for his children.