“My family is dead. I would like to be alone for a while.”
She stood silent, staring at the fresh mound of dirt over the bodies of her parents, lying next to her grandparents and their parents before them. She didn’tknow how long she stood there, only that she was vaguely aware of the manservant staying for a while before hesitantly turning to go.
Then she was alone.
***
Elizabeth wandered the house like a ghost. She picked up her mother’s knitting and sat in her father’s chair by the fire. She visited her old bedroom that had been left untouched. She had been such a silly girl back then, thinking she would be able to run away from her responsibilities and have it all work out.
She had been a fool.
Walking into her parents’ bedroom, she sprawled on the bedspread that still smelled of her mother’s perfume. Her hands traced the pillow covered in flowers that her mother had lovingly and painstakingly embroidered as she stared at the wall, trying not to give in to the burning in her eyes.
In her father’s study, she stared at the bookshelves as if she could summon his presence. His spectacles rested on the desk as if he had just set them down.
He had been a good father to her when she was younger—he had played and celebrated with her when she had been excited to show him things. Though he withdrew when he grew uncertain how to interact with a teenage girl who had been sucked into her mother’s world of court intrigue and suitors, he had always made sure the city of Briarton flourished and that she and her mother wanted for nothing.
Her father had his faults; he was proud, often blind to what was really happening around him. He was intelligent and solemn and could come across as cold. But he was not a bad man.
Just like me,she realized with a stab of guilt. The things she’d disliked in him were the very traits she’d inherited.
She ran her fingers across the shelf of heavy leather-bound books with records and sums from running their estate and helping to run the city of Briarton. When she reached early adulthood, he had taught her sums and figures and entrusted her with helping run the estate business, even though it was unconventional to teach a daughter. He had always put their family first; he always made sure she was well looked after.
Even though she had spent the last year in silence and anger with him for pressuring her to find a husband, she found herself remembering all the happy memories. He had always tried to do right by her and her mother.
Maybe I judged him too harshly.
The realization left her feeling horrible—that she had finally forgiven him, but he was no longer here to hear it.
The finality of death was suffocating. The realization that there would be no more chances for apologies or kind words to mend what was broken between them. And there was nothing she could ever do to bring them back.
She rummaged through her parents’ things, looking for a piece of them she could take with her and hold close to her heart. Something to ease the crushing feeling in her chest that this was all her fault.
In the top drawer of the desk, she found a chain with a silver key.
The keys to her father’s safe.Of course!
What better place to hide a clue that only she, his daughter, would think to look?
She smiled at the thought.
A small kernel of hope flared that she might find a letter that’d explain it had all been a ruse and they would be found healthy and happy in the next town over.
With nervous hands, she removed book after book from the bottom shelf, turned the dial to the code her father had her recite as a child, and slid the key into the lock.
Click.
There was her father’s crossbow, several extra bolts, a small sack of gold, and a leather-bound journal. There was no note, and if they had even a minute of notice before the attack, her father would have grabbed the crossbow from the safe.
Her shoulders slumped, and the small, foolish flicker of hope went out.
She flipped open the journal, and her father’s penmanship was unmistakable. The journal struck her as funny. Her mother had journalled often, and she had been forbidden to touch them. But she had never even seen her father’s journal before. She brushed against the mahogany leather and scanned inside the cover.
The phrasing would have made her smile if she had read it on any other day. Even in writing, he’d maintained the same dry sense of humour he’d always had.
The first few pages held nothing that piqued her interest, only a lengthy synopsis of his business ventures and early life before nobility. She had debated sitting down and reading it more thoroughly, but she was not yet strong enough. She didn’t want to read his more recent journal entries. Did not want to hear allthe ways in which her father was angry with her. All the ways in which she had failed her family.
She closed the book and put her head between her hands, sitting where her father used to sit. She had never felt worse in her entire life, and she thought she would die of pain, of grief.
