I grit my teeth and brush my hair harder, attacking my tangles as if they were his arrogant face.
At least I have one comfort.
Hewon’trecognize me.
I wore my bonnet yesterday. I was dressed in rags. Furthermore, I doubt he has any room in his tiny, self-obsessed brain to remember the likes of me, someone he assumes is yet another girl in love with him.
Footsteps sound on the stairs leading to my bedroom, startling me. I lower the brush and whirl to find my stepmother clearing the threshold. She pauses just inside my room and studies me through slitted lids. “The dress will do.” Her words come out clipped.
She moves closer, and I brace myself, muscles tensing with every step she draws near. Her eyes flash to the brush. She extends her hand, palm up.
I hand her the brush and she motions for me to turn around. With bated breath, I do as she wants, turning my back to her. The brush comes to my head. I flinch, expecting the bristles to dig into my scalp, but she simply drags it down the length of my hair. My heart leaps into my throat at the closeness, the uncharacteristically gentle gesture. She’s never brushed my hair before, never done anything a mother would do for a daughter.
The last person to brush my hair besides me was my true mother.
I breathe away the tears that prick my eyes and refocus on the feel of the bristles running through my hair, waiting for the moment the motions turn rough, punishing.
“We must speak of your expected behavior tonight,” she says, and I shudder at the proximity of her voice. “You will say and do nothing to sully my name. You will not show off or draw attention to yourself.”
I bristle at that. Even after all these years, she still expects me to do what she considersshowing off. Not once have I sought attention for myself, and never have I desired to outshine her daughters. It isn’t my fault I used to get more attention for my accomplishments back when Father was still alive. I didn’t ask for it. All I wanted was to play the piano.
And sing.
It was the singing Mrs. Coleman hated.
It was the singing that killed my father.
Mrs. Coleman lowers the brush and hands it back to me, but when I try to turn around to face her, she squeezes my shoulder to make me stay in place. I wince as one of her fingernails digs into the bare flesh above my puffed sleeve. Then, without a word, she hands me several hair pins. The plain kind, not ones with jewels and baubles like she and my stepsisters are keen on wearing. I take them from her.
“Keep them where I can reach them,” she says.
I hold the pins near my shoulder and feel her gather my hair off my neck. Again, I brace myself for pain, but it doesn’t come. I squeeze my free hand tight to steady my nerves.
Mrs. Coleman takes a pin from my fingers and slides it against my scalp. She takes another and speaks again, maintaining a quiet, chilling tone. “Do you know why I took back my maiden name for myself and my girls after your father died?”
I don’t dare shake my head, don’t dare disrupt her ministrations. My answer comes out barely above a whisper. “No.”
“Because I didn’t want my daughters associated with the likes of you.”
I already figured this was the answer, but I’ve never understood the reason behind it. My stepmother acts like she’s better than the fae when we’re amongst human society, speaks as if the fae are no better than animals. Then when we’re around faekind, she boasts about how well she understands them, brags on and on about the fae figures of great importance she knows, naming all her supposed fae acquaintances and connections. She constantly seeks their favor, hunts for husbands amongst the royals like there’s nothing greater to aspire to. Then with me…with me, she acts like I’m no better than dirt. A tear breaks free from the gathering pool and trickles down my cheek. Thankfully, I have no cosmetics to ruin.
A word unbidden comes from my lips. “Why?”
She slides another pin into my hair, and this one grates against my scalp, making me cry out. “You know what you did. You’re the reason your father is dead.”
My lungs contract at her words, my throat dry. Another tear streams down my cheek. She’s right. It was my fault. It was all my fault.
She pushes me roughly away from her, and I stumble before righting myself. “You were a thorn in our marriage and now you’re a thorn in my side every day.”
I turn to face her, trembling, a cold sweat beading behind my neck.
“I should have dropped you in an orphanage when I had the chance. It would have saved me three years of grief.”
I go still. Not because her words sting but because they’re full of lies. I focus on them, inviting a whirlwind of rage to overpower my shame, my sorrow. “You made me stay with you,” I say through my teeth. “Begged me.”
Her eyes go wide. “I did not beg.”
“Is manipulated a better word?”
