Once upon a time, there was a girl who was loved. In the coldest of nights, a constellation of hands reached forth. “Come,’’ they said. “We love you like the birds love the sky, like the rivers love the sea. We do not need the sum of you, we do not need your candor. We need only your honest smile.”
The girl stood and welcomed the voices that willed her toward freedom. She left her chains behind and followed the dawn.
Mum has always smelled of carnations. A lifetime ago, when we first found out I could only tell the truth, I remember tracing theircrinkled pastel petals as she explained how they represent a mother’s love. I remember her scrawled notes and musty yellowed textbooks filled with inked floral illustrations. I remember how she’d tucked a dainty yellow cinquefoil behind my ear.
“And now the world knows you’re my beloved daughter,” she’d said. “Flowers are more than beauty, my dear. They are messages, stories, dreams, and memories. They can always provide people with hope, and one day, you’ll see just how much they can change lives.”
“Can they change mine?” I had asked.
Mum had smiled sadly, as she so often did.
“Maybe,” she had lied. “But I will still love you, cursed or not.”
Now as I fight unconsciousness in the safety of her carnation perfume, I wonder if perhaps she hadn’t been lying after all.
I can’t open my eyes. My body is drained of energy, and it’s a feeling I’m sadly all too familiar with. When I was bleeding out, my muscles were a weak withered plant without sunlight or chance of survival. But this is different. I’m exhausted, worn to the brink, but there’s no allure of death. I’m the morning after a broken fever—sweat-dappled and short of breath. I’m the first day of spring, when the buds break through the earth, optimistic that the weather will be warm enough to bloom, anticipating those light spring showers. I’m alive and my mother’s arms are around me.
“Fliss, baby,” she says, her voice thick. “Can you hear me? Please, wake up. Please. Ruth, help me. Please.”
A light touch on my forehead revives me further, soothes like a soft bed in a safe cottage. “Give her time, Betty.”
The hand moves to my throat and magic dives under my skin. Ruth is silent. Mum gasps and starts to shake.
“R-Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes…It’s gone.”
Mum’s tears splatter on my shoulder as floating noises around us sharpen.
“Card, are you okay?”
“I’m good, babe. Help me up.”
“Borage, come here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Take Morgana to the dungeons. I want the utmost security at all times. Inform me immediately when she regains consciousness.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain, send one of your guards for the physician. Tell him to bring something for my wife.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Will?” Bastion is panicked. “Will? Will. Hey. Wake up. Will.Will.”
I groan.
I twitch a hand.
“Fliss?” Mum pushes back my hair. “Come on, baby. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I squint open my eyes and find the world a blur, a wash of colors. Mum and Ruth lean over me with identical concern.
“Will? Ruth! He’s not waking up!” Bastion calls, and Ruth disappears from view.
Mum sits me up and wipes my cheeks. Her own are puffy and glistening with tears. There’s something off about her expression, something lacking. She wobbles a smile. Guilt. That’s what’s missing. Replaced by insurmountable relief.
