Page 41 of The Silent Princess

“What a shame it would be to be exiled from Westhaven over a misunderstanding.” I huff, containing my rage so as not to betray my affection for Ella and place her on the front line of my enemies. Cutting Mara’s hand is still very much on the table, and I vow to myself that should she ever do this again, I will act on it. For now, I am granting her my mercy, as Ella has been crowding my ability to think properly, and since a hand cannot regrow, I would rather push down the irreversible for now. But at the rate things are going, there is no doubt I will have to find a way to protect Ella from her at some point.

“I’ll see myself out,” I declare in an ice-cold tone, watching her fissured composure fake confidence as I turn to walk out. I leave this place as if I own the building, passing by the front desk.

“You might want to check on Mrs. Brooks,” I tell the receptionist. “She looked…” I fake a thought. “Quite sick.” The girl in question nods, eyes lifeless, as I make my way out, two steps at a time, cracking my neck as I slide into my car. Threatening Ella’s stepmother. Check. My phone rings as I settle behind the wheel.

“Nate,” I rasp, my brother unusually early.

“You have to come to the office right now. Something happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just get here,” he deadpans, as if we cannot afford the luxury of speaking truth over a potentially surveilled line.

“I’m on my way.” I blink hard, pushing away a monumental incoming migraine. The lack of sleep is getting to me more than I would ever wish to admit. What I’d give to ice my forehead right now and lie down until it goes away. I start the engine when I catch, out of the corner of my eye, Mara Brook, standing at the top of the stairs, pensive, arms crossed.

Not a violent man, I try to convince myself.

But for Ella, for Ella, I think I could become the one thing I swore myself I would never be.

Ella

I am walking through lands made of blizzard and mist and trees, with the comfort of thick layers of brown fabric covering my body in the shape of a dress. There is no sound but nature clinking away, gray fog surrounding me as I⁠—

“Ella!” Mara’s voice pulls me out of my eighteenth novel set in the Cotswolds, where the heroine was weighing which path to take after meeting a most unconventional suitor. Sitting on my bed, I close my book, eyes stinging from the amount of reading I have been doing lately. Though, I cannot afford to fall behind on the schedule list from the university if I want to start next year at the same level as everyone else. I am planting seeds. Lots of them. And one day, one day, they will bloom. Still, now is not the time for the harvest yet. I have to put in the hours if I want to have enough literary culture before the start of the year.

I need to get ready and start my chores. There's a sound behind my door, and I wait. Is someone there ? Walking on my floor, touching the boards with featherlight steps, turning my handle slowly as I shift in bed, sitting abruptly, clutching my book. The door opens on a tight, monstrous, tall, and cold expression.

Mara.

“Good morning, Ella,” she lets out, hands clasped over her stomach, as if posing for a photoshoot. Standing perfectly in the middle of the doorframe, had she not been my tormentor for more than a decade, I could have mistaken her for a monster claiming my life once and for all. Too bad there is no lightning striking behind her. That is the only thing missing from her dramatic entrance.

“Hi,” I say silently. “Can I… Mara, do you need anything?” I sign, mentally mapping every object I could use as a weapon in my bedroom. Surely this is not normal, right?

“When you…” She licks her teeth. “Work,” she spits with disgust. “Or whatever you call what you do at night…” She inhales like a tired lioness ready for the kill. “Who do you talk to?”

“Talk?” I sign, hoping she will see the obvious.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“I don’t know, colleagues? People who work at night with me. The doorman.”

“Is that all?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, studying me.

How on earth could she know about Tristan and me? What does she know exactly? It has always been him and me, and I am sure Ronny, Anja, and his chauffeur are not the kind to swap information with a woman like her. Our job is built on discretion and efficiency. What would be in it for them?

“I work and come home. That’s all,” I lie, but it doesn’t feel wrong; instead, it feels like a shield of flowers I’m protecting myself with.

“Alright, then…” Her tone shifts, covered in honey and a costume of love. “I’m not mad, Ella. I have been too harsh with you lately. You are valued here. I know it is not always… easy. In fact, I wanted to offer to take you shopping with me today. Just us girls.” Does she…mean it? Is she really sorry for how she treated me? Would it be dishonest to refuse her olive branch? “So?” I look down at my feet, unsure, before offering the slightest nod. “Good,” she states. “We’ll leave after lunch, once you are done with your morning tasks. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I say without a sound. She gives a little hum of approval, then walks away. An afternoon. Just her and me. I longed for it as a young girl, but now, things have changed so much. Can I put the sand back in the hourglass? Is it possible for me to forgive all those years of neglect in the hope of mending our relationship?

Or at least try?

I get ready, sliding into my clothes slowly, reminding myself of Tristan’s presence and protective nature yesterday. How his wound affected me to my core and how worried he was about my safety. Did he feel our two desperate hearts beating in unison, or was it me alone, in my head once again, tormenting myself with a game made for higher players, ones used to women wearing silk gowns and swimming in diamonds? Life has never been easy, nor kind. Pressure has been eating away at my happiness, year by year. The pressure to be good, to be kind and humble, and to be there for everyone. To let the crumbs of me chip away, so that everyone could take the part of me that fit them most. All those versions of me I cannot seem to perform well enough no matter how hard I try. Good daughter, diligent stepsister, obedient stepdaughter, maid. I peek outside, my finger tracing shapes on the glass, my breath turning into smoke on the translucent surface.

Caged. Trapped in a place parading freedom before me like a lottery win without the ability to buy a ticket. I press my finger against the window. Harder. Noticing a slight flinch of the glass, given the poor structure of the last floor’s wooden windows. And I know that if I pushed more, I could almost, almost shatter it. I stop, remembering a book I once read on the making of diamonds. They weren’t built by accident. It turns out that diamonds are built under immense pressure. Pressure. Thick and heavy on my shoulders. Everywhere, left and right, coming from all angles, making me want to scream a loud scream, one that could shatter a window like this one.

Diamonds are built under pressure.