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“OH, I love this color on you,” Sherlotte said, holding up a garment against Sophie, angling it toward the mirror.
They were in Sophie’s salon. Sunlight streamed through the windows, gilding the room in a warm glow. A shimmering sea of fabrics and colors spilled across the room—an eclectic wardrobe amassed over years of Johann’s travels. He’d bought each piece for his daughter, souvenirs of distant ports and past adventures, though most had remained tucked away since the day they arrived.
Now, at last, they were seeing the light of day. Mother and daughter sifted through the collection, deciding what would accompany Sophie to the capital and what would be left behind.
“Now this,” Sherlotte said, lifting another garment, “is something special. Timeless. It’ll serve you well to have a piece like this.” She reached for another and gave it a glance. “This one, though…a bit bold for a married woman. Best to leave it.” She sighed. “A shame. I just know it would look stunning on you.”
But only Sherlotte spoke, smiling, enjoying the moment. Sophie, by contrast, said nothing—only watched her mother, brow drawn slightly, her gaze distant.
“Um, mother,” she said at last.
“If it’s about Martha, she’s already told me,” Sherlotte replied, her eyes still on the fabric in her hands. “She told you as well, didn’t she? The story of a certain noble’s daughter?”
Sophie hesitated, uncertain.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to scold her for it. That story belongs as much to the maid as to the girl. Throwing everything away to follow your lady across the sea… I’d say she’s earned the right to tell it, don’t you think?”
With that, Sherlotte finally turned Sophie’s way. She gave her a graceful smile, folded up the clothing with practiced grace, and set it down. Her gentle eyes, framed by long lashes, quietly swept across the salon.
“You’ve heard so many stories in this salon of yours, haven’t you, Sophie?” she said quietly.
“Yes,” Sophie replied.
So, so many stories. Stories of joy, sorrow, and lives well lived—each one lingering in the air like motes of fine dust, caught and held, suspended in a sunbeam.
Sherlotte turned to face her fully. “But I’m afraid you won’t be hearing mine, Sophie. That noble’s daughter from some far-off country died that night in the storm, her body lost to the sea. Nothing left of her at this point but sea foam and story now. The woman standing before you is Sherlotte Olzon—your mother and your father’s wife.”
Sophie gazed up at her, then let her eyes fall. “…Right.”
“The past, when spoken aloud,” Sherlotte said gently, “has a way of coming back to haunt you. Like a ghost, it’s best left where it lies. I’m told the noble family in question has their heir situation sorted, so I doubt they’ll come knocking—but regardless, there’s nothing in that story that concerns you. Nothing you need to carry.”
Sophie gave a quiet nod. “All right. I understand.”
Everyone carries a story. Some tell it freely; others take it to their grave. Either choice is its own kind of courage.
Sherlotte sat down on the nearby sofa and patted the cushion beside her.
“Anxious, Sophie?” she asked as her daughter joined her.
“A little,” Sophie replied. “But more than that, I’m also…” Her cheeks turned a deep crimson. “Excited.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Sherlotte giggled, light and musical. “You like Kurt?”
“I do.” She could feel the blush deepen. So she answered while looking up and away.
“Have you kissed?”
Beautiful decision to have looked away.
“We have not.”
“Goodness. Are you trying to make poor Kurt explode?”
Then, Sophie felt her mother’s finger under her chin, lifting it gently.
“Sophie.”
“Yes?”
“It seems you’ve chosen well. He’s upright. Sincere. If he loves you, and you love him, then I’ll not meddle in your affairs. But,” she added, seemingly with a caveat, “that also means what happens from here on out is your responsibility and your responsibility alone. Yours and his, together. You’re getting married, Sophie. I can hardly believe it. Please accept my congratulations.”
The fingers now brushed gently across Sophie’s cheek, once so rough, now soft to the touch.
“And please.” Her voice broke. “Accept my apologies. For the first seventeen years of your life. For all the pain.”
Tears slipped quietly from her eyes.
“Oh, how you must’ve hated me… For birthing you like this, for not being able to give you what the other children had. And yet, you never once blamed me. Never raised your voice. When I think of that, Sophie, of your kindness, I’m filled with shame. And regret, and sadness. I’m sorry, Sophie. Your life should never have been so hard. Can you ever, ever forgive me, I wonder?”
“Are you kidding me, Mother? I never hated you. Not once,” Sophie said firmly, despite the tears in her own eyes now. “Because I knew it wasn’t easy for you either. To look at your child and see none of the beauty you or Father had. To love someone who only ever reminded you of what might have been.
“So thank you. For not turning away when I came home bruised and bleeding and caked in dirt. For holding me, even when I didn’t ask to be held. For choosing me, again and again, when it would’ve been easier not to.”
Her voice trembled.
“For standing beside me when I was small and strange and hard to love. I know it cost you more than you ever let on.”
She reached for her mother’s hand.
“So thank you, Mother. Truly. Thank you for loving me.”
And pulled her into an embrace.
Sherlotte returned it, trembling, weeping openly now.
The sunbeam filtering through the tall windows bathed them both in light.