And yet, light enough, it could float out of my hand.
I stroke my thumb over the smooth glass, leaving a smudge over the pristine glass.
My younger sister Sybil loved butterflies. Especially the brightly colored ones. I smile, remembering how she’d wrinkle her nose at me when I told her moths were just as pretty.
Outside, a gust of wind blows rain drops against the study’s nearly infinite stretch of plate-glass windows.
She loved butterflies, and hated rainy days like this.
When the sun shone, our mother allowed us outside for an hour each day. For the vitamin D, of course. Evelyn made sure we were as healthy as possible. Less trips to the doctor. Less inquisitive eyes to avoid.
Most of our meals consisted of broccoli and brown rice with a squeeze of lemon juice. Just enough to preserve its vitamin C content, not enough to make it taste good, of course. The only sugar we had came from the brown, pulpy mush of banana, pear, and apple she forced us to eat as one of our daily snacks.
Another gust of wind draws my eye outside. The trees sway, barely visible through the pouring rain.
Days like this, Evelyn would coop us up inside.
Those days were the longest.
The hardest to endure.
Evelyn played games with us on days like this. To keep us busy, she’d tell us. To pass the time.
But those games made the seconds crawl like maggots.
I carefully polish the crystal against my hoodie and set it down on its stand.
When Sybil was a tender nine years old, after days of rain, I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was only a few years older, but I should have known better. I should have?—
…promise you won’t let me go, Bash…
—fucking known better.
That’s why I had this paperweight made.
To remind myself to never, ever, let that happen again.
My gaze slides to Evelyn’s book, still neatly wrapped. I suppose there’s really no need to put it off any longer. She’ll most likely want to discuss it the next time I’m forced to see her.
If she’s lucid.
The curiosity alone would have gotten to me days ago, but I’ve been too busy. Goes to show how much Haven and Kai’s antics have engaged my mind.
What I told the dean last night about marking assignments was all bullshit. I don’t grade papers. I grade students. I know within two, three weeks how well they’ll fare in my class. The rest is merely a formality. Paperwork to fill up my cabinets so it’ll look like I give a shit.
I have better ways to spend my time than grading mediocre essays about concepts my students can barely apprehend, let alone dissect and debate.
Like reading Evelyn’s manuscript.
If only for curiosity’s sake.
I drag it closer before shredding the wrapping. The pages lie neatly stacked in their nest of curled, glossy paper as I rock forward on my palms to read the title page.
A sneer pulls at my mouth.
Nurturing Cruelty
We must be cruel to be kind.
