Adelaide.
A gentle arm reaches down and brushes my shoulder. I balk.
No, no, you cannot touch me. You mustn’t touch—
But it is too late. I smell her. Clara. Gingerbread and soft lilac. Her hand grips my forearm, guiding me up, away from the smoke. Smoke, which is forming, taking shape into something I cannot,cannot—
“Adelaide! Adelaide, look at me!” Clara’s voice, filled with tears.
But my vision has tunneled, pitched toward midnight, and all I see before my world tips into shadow is the smoke. And it seems to be wearing a face.
two
Mother smiles at me, but there are too many teeth in her mouth. She braids together sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and mint and intertwines them with pale pink lace. I pull away when she crosses the bedroom to fit the crown to my scalp. There is something wrong with her face.
“Mother?” My voice is tiny and meek. I glance down to my hands and notice how small they are, how soft. A child’s hands. “Mother, what is happening?”
She fits the herbs and lace on my brow. The plants scrape my skin, drawing blood. It drips black into my eye. I blink.
This isn’t real.
Mother sinks into the mattress beside me, brushes a thatch of white hair from my cheek. “My Addie, as beautiful as a spring morning.”
I slide my eyes from her to the foot of my bed, wrapped in quilts, and then to my window, where the sunlight spills like honey through the glass. Beyond this, birds sing, and the tinny laughter of children splashing in the river echoes from down in the valley. Dread closes around my heart. Thick and choking. I know this day. But it can’t—
“You will make a beautiful May Queen, Adelaide.”
I turn to Mother, her lips stained a muted pink. She wears flowers in her hair and a dress in shades of orchid. Mother is young, healthy, her skinflushed with vibrance, and for a little while, I allow myself to sink into this moment. Live it over and over, like I have a thousand times before. No longer frightened now that I know where I am, what this is.
A memory in the form of a dream.
Mother helps me out of bed and into a soft satin dress with enough layers that, when she turns me to gaze upon my reflection in the mirror, I decide I look rather like a daffodil. She presses a kiss to the top of my head, gathering my curls in a fist and breathing in my scent.
“My baby is no longer a baby.”
Gripped by the wistful tone in her voice, I take her hand in mine. She is warm. Almost feverishly so.
“I’m barely twelve, Mother. Clara says we do not have to get married until we are at least twenty. And even then, she says that some girls choose not to marry.” I press my palms to her face, and her eyes flood with tears. “Maybe I will never grow up. Maybe I will stay right here with you and Father, always.”
“Oh, my Morning Glory.” She wraps her arms around me, holding me to her breast, and I breathe in her citrus scent tinged with green and growing things. “I would love that more than you will ever know.”
Before I can form a reply, the door to my room bursts open. Father stands tall in the doorframe. Fear imbues my chest, but then I remember what this is. Merely a dream. A memory.
He is a different man than in the present. His face splits with a grin, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Here, he is younger too. Lighter. Like the weight of the world has not yet burdened his shoulders.
“Well, would you look at this? My little Addie, as yellow as a lemon drop.” He scoops me into his arms, spinning around until laughter tumbles from my lips.
“I amnota lemon drop, Father! I’m supposed to be a daffodil.” It is very important to me that he understands my costume. If not, the entire pageant Clara and I have planned for the villagers for Beltane will be ruined.
Father raises his eyebrows and exchanges a knowing look with Mother. “Oh, forgive me. What a beautiful daffodil you make. Tell me, are you and Clara ready to enrapture all of Rixton?”
Another giggle bursts from my lips, and I clap a hand over my mouth. “It’s notjustClara and me. We simply wrote the pageant. Hester has a part too. And Liza and even Finn and Viktor.” I lean in close to whisper in his ear, his stubble stinging my cheeks. “They’re playing wasps.”
Father erupts in a hearty chuckle, the sound rich and deep, like drinking chocolate. He sets me back on my feet before planting a kiss on my brow and reaching for Mother’s hand. “Shall we go then and see this spectacle our daughter has cooked up?”
Mother smiles—a rose unfurling in the June-time sun. “Anywhere with you, husband-mine.” They share a kiss, soft and slow and infused with yearning. I pull a face, making a mockery of their expression, but deep down inside, my twelve-year-old heart burns for the same thing one day. A love so strong, so pure, nothing but death could separate it. When they break apart, Mother strokes my cheek before following Father out the door.
“Ithrandril be with you,” she says, the age-old adage smooth on her tongue.
