I see it happening as if I’m floating above my body. The heavier-set officer removing his cap, head hanging, the younger, slender officer stuttering out words I never expected to hear. The scene flashes forward to me standing in a cold morgue between the two sheet-covered bodies of my parents.
It’s weird, but I remember initially being relieved they were beside each other, even here.
In my dream, I don’t relive seeing them uncovered, thankfully. The bruised and nearly unrecognizable faces of the people who meant everything to me are enough to make my stomach churn even now. The coroner mutters something about anautopsy, but explains that this was the most gruesome motorcycle accident he’s ever been called to.
I shake my head, shock numbing my tongue. The cold of the morgue burrows down into the marrow of my bones. My dad had incredible reflexes and rode with the utmost care, especially with my mom.
How could this happen?
My chest is a hollow, gaping hole.
Luckily, Lizzie is on duty as I creep from the Hall. My feet lead me down a narrow path that takes me to the stream on the south end of the property. I need to be close to my parents today. My mood is reflected in the weather. The clouds are a thick gray, blotting out the sun and casting a chill in the air.
I tighten my robe around me and meander along the path.
My childhood memories seem to be the only thing I cling to for solace lately, which is why they have led me here to the ancient pine tree that stands close to the water’s edge.
When I was little, my mom told me it was a fairy tree and that if you left an offering for the fairies, they would offer you a favor. I pull a scrap of pale blue ribbon from my robe pocket and tie it into a bow before placing it at the base of the tree.
I stand there a moment, closing my eyes, and send up a prayer to whichever god may be listening.
“I’m lost,” I cry. “I have no purpose and no dreams, and I miss them so much.” A tear slips down my cheek. “Show me the way,” I whisper.
The wind carries my words away.
The sun breaks through the dark morning clouds, bathing the land around me in its glow. The sun’s warmth attempts to burn away my gloom as well, but I don’t allow it.
Turning on my heel, I hurry back to the house, not noticing the ribbon has vanished.
My room is on the second floor and overlooks the front entrance to the Hall. It’s a spacious, cozy room decorated inshades of purple. The wisteria and clematis that climb the front door stoop reach right under my leaded window, and a fragrant breeze floats in from the opening.
The breeze ruffles the sheer violet curtains, and something lightly clatters to the floor. Passing the antique bed, I make my way over to the window to see a twig with an attached clematis bloom on the mauve rug.
That’s curious.
I peek out the window to the long pebbled driveway and the circular courtyard that encompasses the bubbling fountain, but I don’t see anything out of place. Shrugging it off, I deposit the flower onto my nightstand before flinging open the oak armoire to grab some jeans and a light sweater for the day.
As I head into the bathroom, I debate what I should do with my tangled, wavy hair before I see myself in the mirror.
It was definitely a rough night.
Bruised shadows bloom under my eyes. The contrast of the violet on my pale skin makes my slate eyes look hollow.
A combination of my parents’ faces stare back at me in the mirror. My mom’s cheekbones and my dad’s full lips.
The resemblance makes the hole in my chest grow. The matter of my hair gets set aside as I pull out my small cosmetics bag and begin to revive my appearance.
A moment later, a much fresher face stares back at me. I brush my long hair back and contemplate what to do with it. I loose a breath and settle on a braid while wondering about the small offering that was left on the window sill.Are birds leaving me offerings now?I chuckle and push the thought aside while I plan out my day.
I don’t want to be alone, and with Gran’s busy schedule, I decide to hang out with Torin. Spring is fighting to make its presence known; the early spring flowers bloom brightly, and buds cling to the branches of the bare trees.
My hands are warm in the pockets of my jacket as I meanderdown a path that will take me to the stables. Torin often likes to start his day off by tending to the horses.
Thundering hoofbeats reach my ears, and I spy Torin, with a proud seat, upon the inky black stallion my Gran gifted me when I first arrived. We named him Sleipnir, after Odin’s eight-legged horse. I’m relieved to see someone giving him the attention he deserves.
If I’m being honest, he always felt like too much horse for me. My parents were excellent riders and often said horses respond to your emotions. I firmly believe that. I’m naturally anxious, so it makes sense for horses to react to my undercurrent of fear when I ride them. It usually wasn’t a good time for either of us.
Torin notices me watching from the fence and guides Sleipnir my way.
