Chapter 9 Under the Maddening Moon
The sun was setting and the sky filled with orange light as the maid escorted Celise back to the Moongazer Tower.
She saw the checkered pavilion in the distance, empty, and the tournament ended.
Fencing was a fast sport; matches didn’t last longer than ten minutes, and it was growing close to the dinner hour.
It seemed Estoria Blackwood and the other ladies had all dispersed.
It filled her with a sense of dread.
By now, she was most certainly missed.
Celise followed the maid back to the southeast tower across the Gravenmere grounds.
Her calico skirts, damp at the hem from the dew-laced grass, whispered as she walked.
The sun was low in the sky, minutes before sunset, when they reached the walkway that led to the door of the Moongazer Tower.
Dusky shadows cast the garden in a purple shroud.
Long stalks of foxglove and hollyhock wavered in the breeze.
Celise felt a bit fragile herself. As she followed the maid silently, a cold knot tightened in her stomach.
They reached the porch. Before the maid could lift the knocker, the knob turned and the green door opened. Lady Marcella's puffed sleeves filled the doorway, a frigid smile plastered on her pale features.
“Celise,” she said, looking past the maid, “I am so relieved to see you’ve safely returned. Please, come in.”
Celise shared a glance with the maid, who looked startled by Marcella’s appearance.
The maid bowed swiftly and retreated without a word.
Celise watched her swift departure with slight yearning, wishing she could run away from the tower as well.
But it was time to accept her fate. She turned back to the tower door and quietly passed over the threshold, a little chill running down her arms as she stepped past Marcella.
The door snapped shut behind her.
Celise entered the dark, shadowy foyer just inside the tower’s door.
Through a second archway, she glimpsed Heather, Katrina and Lord Dhastel all supping at a long oak table.
Warm lamps illuminated the room. The smell of meat pies, roasted onions, and creamy sauces tempted Celise’s nose.
A shined golden teacup, very fine and delicate, was placed at the center of the table on a little wooden stand.
It looked like Katrina had won the match against Ambrosia Verabon.
Still, her little sister didn’t seem pleased.
She couldn’t hide the scowl from her face as she picked at her plate.
Lord Elias didn’t come to watch the match, Celise realized. It seemed like Katrina's bid to catch the duke’s attention had failed.
Then Katrina called across the tower, “Is she back, Mother? I told you they mistook her for the staff!”
“I took a walk,” Celise murmured, her voice so soft she could barely hear herself. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day—she was very hungry. But first, she needed to explain herself.
She turned to face her stepmother—crack!
The blow blindsided her.
Marcella’s open palm struck the side of Celise’s face, a bit of raw mana charging the blow. Celise stumbled and fell to the ground as her vision flashed to white. Her head spun. She bit her lip, her ears ringing. Lying on the cold floor, she refused to make a sound.
Lady Marcella towered over her, her hands clenched tight with restrained fury.
“How dare you!” Marcella’s voice was icy sharp. “Wandering off like a wayward dog! The young ladies were all worried about you. They notified the staff. Your sister was beside herself with embarrassment. You are here to support Katrina and Heather, not cause a scandal!”
Celise remained on the ground, her eyes lowered.
“Don’t look so pathetic; I barely tapped you,” Marcella snarled.
Then she reached down and grabbed Celise’s hair with a cruel hand.
Her long nails digging into her scalp, she dragged her up to her feet.
A shriek escaped Celise’s throat. She clutched her stepmother’s wrist, fearful that Marcella would rip out her hair.
With mana-infused strength, Marcella dragged Celise across the cold floor and proceeded up the tower's flagstone steps, her fist tight on Celise’s scalp.
The roughhewn stone scraped against Celise's arms as she tried to keep Marcella from yanking out her hair.
When they reached the top floor of the tower, Marcella threw Celise inside the small attic room.
Strands of raspberry-colored hair fell to the ground, pulled out by the woman's fierce grip.
“I’m locking the door!” Marcella snapped, withdrawing a ring of iron keys from her skirts.
“This proves I can’t trust you to obey my rules!
I have tried with you, Celise. I have tried and tried!
But you insist on defying me at every turn!
You are a parasite clinging on to this family.
I will not allow you to sully our reputation in front of the Blackwoods! ”
Celise stared at her stepmother. A hollow, gaping hole stretched inside of her, swallowing her feelings.
Marcella looked even more furious at Celise’s vacant expression. The barrage of insults continued: “Useless chit . . . like a needle under my fingernail . . . should have sent you to an orphanage . . . meek, pathetic . . . illiterate . . . .”
Her tirade went on and on until Marcella finally paused to catch her breath. She brushed a lock of dark hair from her brow. She looked winded. She placed a hand over her torso as though to steady herself. Then she sneered, “Your days at the Dhastel house are numbered.”
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind Celise, and the iron bolt slid into place. She listened to the jingle of keys as her stepmother secured the lock. The sharp tap of heeled slippers on flagstone faded down the hallway as she marched away.
A wave of ice washed over Celise.
“Your days at the Dhastel house are numbered.”
She sat down on the edge of her soft bed, shaking, her cheek throbbing from her stepmother’s brutal hand.
Marcella’s mana made her blow twice as strong, and Celise was helpless to defend herself.
The mirror across the room showed her a bee-stung, swollen cheek.
A dark bruise was quickly forming along the side of her jaw.
“I have tried with you, Celise. I have tried and tried!”
Since when had Marcella ever tried to be a mother to her?
Unless by "mother," she meant "master."
Celise’s hands remained firmly clenched in her lap.
Her shoulders shook. Her scalp ached. A cold tear slid down her cheek.
She didn’t know her own emotions. Was she angry?
Was she hurt? She couldn’t name the silent ocean that surged within her.
She didn’t understand her fate in life, why she was born into a family where she was treated with such contempt, and whether or not she had been cursed at birth. It was beyond her understanding.
Marcella hated her. Katrina tortured her. Her own father pretended to turn a blind eye, too busy to notice.
She was invisible.
If not for the servants, she would be truly lost.
If not for Mordwen, Talisworth, Lilibeth, Dasha and the rest, she might have given up by now. Either Marcella’s hatred would have killed her, or perhaps she would have done the unthinkable and ended her poor existence by her own hand.
She rebuked that dark thought with a firm shake of her head.
Celise found herself rising to her feet.
She kicked off her ill-fitting shoes. Then she began undoing the ties of her dress.
She pulled the stiff material up over her head.
Then she unlaced her corset. The heavy cloth was suffocating.
She felt a sudden need to free herself. A need to breathe.
She missed her usual overalls and her tweed cap.
She felt safer as a boy. But her usual clothing was neatly folded and put away in a room above the stables.
All she had brought with her to wear at the castle was a shift or another stifling gown.
I don’t belong in this dress, she thought, flinging the material down on the floor.
She was not a warrior. She wasn’t born with indomitable charisma like her half-sister, Katrina.
Girls like her didn’t have special destinies.
Even her birthflower was elusive—it only bloomed under starlight.
She had no great ambitions, no notable powers.
No way of defending herself against her Luminous family.
She could only endure. She had learned to live in silence, making herself as small and unobtrusive as possible to avoid her family’s wrath, but even that wasn’t good enough.
Marcella wouldn’t be pleased until she stamped out every last trace of Celise from the Dhastel family. Her stepmother had already tried to end her life as a child. If she meant to cast her out or sell her off, it would likely happen soon.
By coming to Gravenmere, she had hoped to become someone new, at least for a few days. Yet her hope was misplaced. She would never fit in among the highborn ladies. She would never be accepted as a Dhastel daughter.
She would never become a duchess.
She was not the Abyssal Rose of Mordwen’s fortune.
Celise’s eyes turned to the window, where the constellation of Valestra, the Lady of Dust and Moon, hovered in the indigo-dark sky.
A rim of purple light crowned the horizon—the residue of skydust that still lingered in Nilos’s atmosphere.
The Maddening Moon of Hallowsin was rising, casting an ominous orange glow across the sky, while the silver Kinder Moon hung low above the mountains. The twin moons seemed to echo her mood.
She finally took a breath.
No, she was not the Abyssal Rose. She didn’t grow like a tenacious weed along the cliffs of the Abyss. She wasn’t stubborn, bold, or meant to stand out from her peers.
She was the Starlight Dahlia. A symbol of fate and fortune.
She only bloomed beneath the stars.