Page 82

The tears come hot and fast, unstoppable, as if I’ve been torn open and everything inside me is spilling out.

I should’ve known, for one reason or another, love never lasts. I am my mom, shaking with sobs. I am Karmela, dressed in mourning black. I am every ancestor of mine, losing their lover. I wanted to know more about my family’s past, to somehow find my place amidst my heritage—well, this is it:

Alone and grieving.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I slowly wander back to Lavender House. Tears continue to silently roll down my face as I walk past a concerned Karmela, up the stairs, and collapse onto my bed.

It’s for the best, I tell myself.

Through the haze of my sadness, I swear I hear it whispered back, soft and eerie, as if the house itself is trying to soothe me. For the best. For the best. For the best.

Thirty-Five

Petra

July 2026

The remaining time leading up to the gala melts together in a lavender-scented fog. My search for the diary wanes as I continue to be unsuccessful. Even my anger at Karmela dulls, replaced by a growing uncertainty—maybe the diary never existed, was just a trick of my mind. Another dream. A delusion.

To distract myself, I help Karmela with her final preparations, trying not to think about Luka or Magdalena’s threat. But footsteps stalk me in darkened rooms. Saints and angels with bloody torsos leer down as I pass. I no longer know what’s real or not, my mind teetering on the brink of madness, while around me the house sparkles, like a blushing bride unaware of her guests’ distress.

The night before the gala, Karmela and I eat dinner in silence. I barely taste the fried fish or the soft chard and potatoes she made, desperate to retreat to my room. But just as I rise from the table, Karmela stops me.

“What will you wear to the gala tomorrow?” she asks, her tone light, excited.

The question catches me off guard. I hadn’t thought of it at all—there had been much more pressing things to worry about. “I don’t know. Does it matter?” I snap, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it.

Karmela gives me a stern look. “Of course. We are the hosts. We must be dressed our best.”

Host. The last thing I want to be in this godforsaken house. “I guess I have that black dress,” I answer reluctantly.

Karmela purses her lips, obviously displeased with the idea. “Come, I want to show you something.”

She hastens up the stairs. Whatever she has in mind, it will be easier for me to just play along, so I follow. She leads me to her bedroom, where she kneels in front of a large chest at the foot of her bed. Lifting the lid, she rifles through a pile of linens. After a while, she pulls out a gauzy piece of fabric, a dusty lavender tulle. It looks oddly familiar, and when she stands and holds it up, recognition strikes me.

“This belonged to your mother,” Karmela confirms. “It was one of her favorite dresses.”

Time seems to slow as I take in the gown. It’s the same dress she wore in the photo with my dad, together at the gala. Tentatively, I step closer, reaching out to touch the fabric. It’s delicate and romantic, with a pearly gray undertone that matches the shade of the flowers outside.

“Why don’t you try it on?” Karmela suggests gently.

The dress is a softer, dreamier style than what I typically wear, yet a sharp ache blooms as I think of the photo, the way my mom’s eyes shone with love. Maybe, by wearing it, I can keep a piece of her memory alive, if only for one night.

“Alright,” I say. Karmela gleefully turns away as I slip it on. I ask for her help zipping up the back, and when I finally face her, she gasps.

“Oh, it fits you perfectly. Come see.”

She beckons me toward a standing mirror beside her armoire. She’s right. Though I don’t have my mom’s curves, the dress drapes elegantly over my body. I sway gently from side to side, watching the hem float like a cloud above the floor.

Karmela steps beside me, gripping my arm. “You look beautiful.” Tears glisten in her eyes and she hastily wipes them away.

“What will you wear?” I ask, my voice softer than before.

“Oh, I have a black dress,” she says simply. “A nicer one.” I should’ve known. It’s the only color I’ve ever seen her wear. Always the widow. Our family legacy.

“There’s one more thing,” Karmela adds. “I’ll be giving a short speech, just before dinner tomorrow, welcoming the guests. I was wondering if you could say a few words as well. Something simple, just to thank everyone for coming.”

My gut knots in protest. The last thing I want is to stand in front of this wretched house, pretending to be proud. I could refuse—better yet, I could leave. Slip away in the morning, catch the ferry, disappearing like my mom did. Magdalena said herself it was one of my choices. Luka would be safe, as long as he kept his word and stayed away from this house.