Page 62 of The Silent Princess

“Dad, how have you been feeling lately?” I sign before the back of my hand rests on his forehead, the warmth nonexistent. Fever is scary, but the opposite is even worse.

“One of those days, Ella, one of those days,” he repeats, wincing, putting on a brave face despite the obvious situation.

“I…” I say it silently. Where can I start? How can I ask him what Tristan and I discussed yesterday? Could it harm him more than he already is? I did not think about that, but now, in the light of day, frail and weak, Dad does not seem like someone who could handle bad news.

“What is it, love?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just…take your time. Time isn’t an issue.” It is, Dad. It truly is.

“Things with Mara and the girls aren’t exactly going well and…I’m starting to think that she might have something to do with your current state. Did she… Did she administer something to you? A drug? A painkiller of some sort?”

“No, no. Mara is kind and loving… She would never do such a thing. Just this morning, before you came, she was here and…so nice, so kind… All she does is be kind and help me with paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” My alarms are on. Dad hasn’t been working for years; there’s no logical reason he should be signing anything.

“Oh, nothing you should worry about, Ella. Business things, banking access, that sort of thing.”

“Dad, I think…”

“Ella, don’t see evil where it isn’t. She’s family. We are a family.”

“But…”

“Sssh,” he breathes, leaning back into his pillow, closing his eyes. “I’m going to…nap a little.” And without giving me enough time to talk to him about moving into a flat downtown, Dad is already asleep. How? He never does that. Not in the middle of a conversation. Something is going on, and I have an awful intuition it has to do with Mara. My dad is too weak to see her real side, so I will have to protect him myself. I will carry him on my back if necessary.

The rings of a bell chime from the kitchen. A jolt rides up my nerves. Time and time again, I have heard it. The bell. My bell. Shiny and golden, Mara found it in an antique shop, once used by nobles to call their servants, now used whenever she pleases to call me, since the house is too spacious according to her. My fingers find my necklace, and I would like to think that I’m holding my mom’s hand right now. Kissing Dad on the forehead, I make my way to the door before stopping midway. Mara is used to people doing everything for her. Surely, if she were to tamper with Dad’s meds, she would leave a trace. Crouching, I scan the floor. Nothing under the dresser, nor the bedside table, and the…

Gotcha.

An empty syringe, with no label, waits under the bed, probably pushed there with the back of her cream stilettos at an inopportune moment. Or perhaps I am imagining things. Grabbing the plastic tube, I turn it over. There is still something inside. Not much. Just a thin film clinging to the plastic, catching the light when I tilt it. Blue translucent liquid shines inside the tube. My stomach twists. I know all of Dad’s meds. Because I am the one here for every appointment. I know the dosage and how often he takes them. I know his meds. I have organized them, counted them, watched the nurse explain every single one and warn me about the risk of overdose. Labels, dates, instructions. This… This one is not part of the doctor’s approved list.

I stand, looking over at my dad resting under the white sheet, the fabric unmoving, still perfectly tucked due to his absence of movement. He exhales, long and slow, as if the air is being pulled out of him instead of given.

It’s okay. You’re okay. He’s just sleeping, look. He’s breathing. But for how long? a voice inside me whispers.

The bell rings again, and I flinch. Cruelty disguised in a civilized metallic ornament. I close my hand around the syringe, the plastic biting into my palm, then slip it into my pocket. I am not crazy. This is not…normal. One isolated incident could be acceptable, but this is going on top of years of neglect, obvious deals made with dangerous men, hush-hush conversations, and slaps to my face. Tristan is right. I need to get out of here, or Mara will find a way to get rid of me, and I am sure her way will be much more painful. The bell rings sharper, and I groan internally, drops of lava starting to bubble in my inner volcano. How does it feel to be angry? Is that it? I could almost… No. I can’t.

I look left and right, flexing and unflexing my hands. Punching a pillow would be most agreeable, but I need to get out before I do, because you cannot fight fire with fire, and I refuse to express any sort of violence. Shaking my shoulders, I let out a long exhale through my nose.

Come on, you can do this.

You are not alone anymore.

You have Tristan in your corner.

Closing the door, I’m aware of the syringe in the pocket of my high-rise jeans, thankfully hidden by the length of my navy blue sweater.

“Took you long enough,” Mara spits, hands on her hips, wearing a silky blush blouse above a mid-length chocolate skirt. There are pearls running along her neck, and beige heels topped with a crisp red lip and her usual updo. Valeria and Emily are still sleeping, so this is just the two of us. A sudden urge to ask Mara about the syringe tugs at me, but I quickly remind myself of Tristan’s commands. Lay low, stay on schedule, don’t make her suspicious. She sighs, as if I am the object of all her worries. My shoulders relax at the reminder that she will be out most of the day, far from Dad. I am not sure anymore how safe he is in her presence, and I will make sure to add more doctor and nurse appointments when she is here, and be there myself when they are not. That leaves only the evenings when I am at work, but I know for a fact that Mara will be sound asleep by then, since her beauty sleep matters more than achieving world peace. It will be a stretch, but I will make sure to always be around, or have someone caring for Dad there in case… In case evil truly exists. That is it, isn’t it? I wish it didn't, but my world is starting to accept the possibility of its existence, disguised as family. And with it comes the need to protect my father, since he cannot protect himself. So I will clean, sure. But now, more than ever, I will also keep an attentive eye.

“I need you to go to the dry cleaner. An idiot at the club poured wine on my dress, the polka one. Also, I want the house to feel fresh when I come home tonight. There’s a smell, vinegar or something. I don’t like it. Make it go away.” I nod, words boiling on my tongue. “The girls’ bathroom needs a deep clean, and I want you to clean our hairbrushes too. It’s disgusting.” An unusual image of me punching her right in the face with the sole of a shoe hits me. What is happening? I have never had such thoughts. Yet I have never questioned her morals or how she treats me until now, and now…a veil has lifted, or someone gave me glasses, and I can finally see. Her orders, requests, and complaints sound rather different now. Insulting, debasing, rendering me not only a servant but a subhuman; her attitude toward me dismissive and rude, as if she deliberately wanted me to feel inferior.

“Anything else?” I sign, hiding my anger, a comeback stuck right in my throat.

“Well,” she sneers, coming closer, a strange smile fading onto her face. “If you do well today, Ella, I might have a little surprise for you next week.”

“What kind of surprise?”