“Perhaps,” said Demelza, though she wasn’t sure if there was any point.
With a brood of seven daughters, Araminta’s focus had always been a wavering thing. Someone’s wing was always acting funny or Eustacia was sleep-flying again or Dulcinea’s throat was scratchy and she couldn’t sing. Demelza used to love catching a cold, for it meant that her mother would insist on letting her rest in her lap. But then her sisters began to molt… and everything changed.
When her sisters took lessons on courtly etiquette, Araminta insisted that Demelza study the butchering of beasts. When her sisters learned to dance, Demelza was taught to run without tiring. When her sisters practiced cosmetics and beauty, Demelza found that all of the mirrors had been enchanted to blur her reflection.
“But why can’t I learn those things too, mother?” Demelza had asked.
She was tired of wearing the rough homespun of the kitchen staff. She wished to wear brocade like Eulalia. Or brush her hair with an ice comb like Eustacia. Her voice was not beautiful like her sisters’, but did that mean the rest of her had to match?
“You must trust me, my daughter,” Araminta said. “I did not listen to my own mother and I will not have you suffer the same mistakes. Know that I am always doing what is best for you. Always.”
Demelza trusted her mother. At least, she wanted to. But lately it seemed that her mother was more on edge than ever. Every time Demelza tried to share her progress about the spell for immortality, Araminta got angry. As if she knew Demelza could never solve it and didn’t see the point of listening further.
At that moment, a slight chiming sound echoed through the library. A few feet away from Demelza, a bright light appeared on the rugs, slowly expanding into a hollow through which the familiar glass staircase appeared. It was a summoning from Araminta to join her for breakfast.
“At least this time she didn’t send me clothes to wear,” said Demelza.
A little parcel soared out of the hole, plopping at Demelza’s feet. The wyvern hopped down, scrabbling at the ties with its paws. Inside was a tunic made of dried reeds. A few sugar beetles crawled across it. If Araminta thought a few juicy bugs would tempt her into wearing that, she was wrong.
Even before all her sisters had flown the nest, the clothes Araminta left out for Demelza could hardly be called clothes. Oftentimes they were sooty rags or cloth held together by bramble. And that was only the clothes. Last month Araminta had thrown away Demelza’s hairbrush, and now her red hair hung in lumpy knots down her back. For the past year, every time Demelza wished to take her evening bath, her mother insisted she powder herself afterward with the ashes of the fireplace. When Demelza asked for a coat, she was given stinking pelts. And now… this.
“I shall leave you to change,” said the wyvern, but Demelza raised her hand.
“No. I shall go down in this.”
Demelza was wearing one of Evadne’s old dressing gowns. Truthfully she could not remember the last time she had felt something so luxurious against her skin. The robe was the color of dusk, embroidered with silver thread to form wispy clouds along the sleeves and embellished with seed pearls at the cuffs.
“Really?” asked the wyvern. The creature laid its ears along its back. “You do realize this might lead to a confrontation…”
“But it shouldn’t and that is the point,” said Demelza, resolute. “At least this way, she’ll be forced to address me directly instead of making some excuse to discuss anything else.”
“Hmph,” said the wyvern.
Demelza raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have any other suggestions on how to settle conflict?”
“I typically settled conflict by incinerating the individual that offended me, but I suspect this is not welcome in family settings.”
“No,” said Demelza. “That would not be welcome.”
The breakfast room was the least ornate chamber in Hush Manor, but to Demelza it was the most beautiful. A scarlet carpet lay across the stone floor. A roaring hearth served as one wall, while the rest were great, tear-shaped windows.The windows looked out onto the rolling moors of the Silent Lakes, where the low hills appeared splashed with bright purple swamp heather and silver bog daisies. In the distance, Demelza could even see the enchanted gloom that kept Prava’s realm separate from the rest of the Isle.
Today, the breakfast table had been laid with boiled quail eggs, parfaits of tadpole, spider geleé and toast points. A samovar of tea solemnly puffed steam and marched back and forth across the linen.
Demelza had almost gleefully braced herself for a fight, but when she sat down, Araminta did not look up from the book she was reading. Her mother was dressed in a white gown. Her shining hair was swept into an elegant bun. Demelza cleared her throat, but Araminta did not notice. She never noticed. Sometimes Demelza suspected her mother would not look at her on purpose…
As if she was that ashamed of her youngest daughter.
“Is father joining?” asked Demelza.
“He will be late,” said Araminta, gaze fixed on the page. “I believe Prince Arris is to be married today? Or perhaps tomorrow? And you know how grumpy your father gets when there’s any sort of announcement from Rathe Castle.”
Poor prince, thought Demelza. Royal weddings were so often their own funerals.
“I’m sure father’s mood won’t be helped when he discovers how little headway I’ve made in my research,” said Demelza. “A sacrifice born of… something and beast… I actually think—”
“Stop!” said Araminta. She threw down her book withsuch force that her teacup rattled. “I cannot listen to this first thing in the morning!”
Heat rushed to Demelza’s cheeks.
