As the sound of the imperial party’s footsteps receded down the hallway, the tension that had held my shoulders in an iron grip finally relaxed. The silence of the room was now deafening, pressing in on me from all sides. I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in my palms, but I managed to hold back the gesture (though it took every ounce of willpower I had left).
When the urgent message had come that Flora had collapsed, I’d raced to the cathedral infirmary as swiftly as possible. However, nothing could have prepared me for the barrage of hatred that had seeped through the door as I’d stood upon the threshold. When my ears were assaulted with every barb that Flora hurled at Carolina, it felt as though my heart was on the verge of failing.
The specter of that earlier anxiety haunting me once more, I let out a deep, weary sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to gather my thoughts. From the corner of my eye, I saw Flora stir under the bedsheets. Looking up, I noticed her fists were clenched tightly, her body trembling slightly—as if the tumultuous emotions roiling within her were desperate to break free. Though her outburst had ceased, the anger that had fueled it yet simmered within her.
The revelation of the deep-seated animosity between Flora and Carolina had blindsided me. It was clear that the words spewing from my eldest daughter’s lips had not merely been a spontaneous outburst of emotion, but the eruption of long-suppressed resentment. I struggled to grasp which was more heart-wrenching: Flora’s raw, unfiltered fury or Carolina’s chilling apathy, as if such confrontations had become nothing more than a numbing routine.
Pure self-loathing consumed me. How many years had this bitterness festered? How had I allowed my job, my duties, my very title to blind me to the yawning rift between my daughters? I had been pathetically negligent, a failure not just as a father, but as the very custodian of my family’s unity.
As I stared across the room at Flora, now quiet but visibly shaken, I found myself at a loss for words. What could I possibly say to mend the fractures I had so long ignored? The typical parental response would be to reprimand her, to assert that her behavior was unacceptable. But coming from me—a father who had been little more than a shadow in her life—wouldn’t such words be hypocritical? How could I expect her to have known better, to have done better, when I had failed to guide her at all?
No. I was the reason Flora had become this bitter, twisted young woman. This complete collapse of a functional family dynamic was my fault, a direct consequence of my thorough failure to fulfill my role as a father. I needed to take responsibility for it.
But how? There didn’t seem to be a clear path to redemption. Perhaps, then, I should start by hearing Flora out. I cautiously approached her bedside and gently lowered myself down to sit on the edge of the bed by her feet.
“Flora. Darling,” I began, my voice trembling slightly, the term of endearment feeling foreign on my lips. “I don’t wish to place blame. I simply wish to understand.”
Despite my careful approach, it was not what Flora wanted to hear. She twitched, raising her trembling head to peer at me through the strands of her disheveled hair.
“Understand?” she seethed quietly. “What else must I say for you to understand?! Carolina has always been a blight upon this family. Mother’s murderer, a worthless wretch! Need I say more?!”
The dam had already broken, and her inner turmoil continued to spill forth uncontrollably. Her padparadscha sapphire eyes, once beautiful, were now bloodshot and bulging, corrupted by the intensity of her fury—a fury that was terrifying while also rendering her utterly irrational.
“If she hadn’t been born, Mother would still be alive!” she screamed. “I long for a world where Carolina had never existed. I turned her into a joke, caused her to be shunned from high society, because the sight of her finding joy while knowing that she took everything from me was unbearable!”
I could see that all logical thought had thoroughly deserted Flora. Fury, loathing, murderous intent—these were the only emotions I could see burning in her eyes. To think I had let things deteriorate this far before even realizing it—I was indeed an abject failure of a father. This conversation should have happened years ago—a decade ago—but it hadn’t. I had convinced myself that Flora was mature, that she had been capable of accepting the harsh realities of our world.
Mature, I scoffed internally. Do you even hear yourself, Raymond? She was a child when Karen died. She’s barely an adult even now. How could she have possibly accepted her mother’s death with no support from you?
My brow knit in frustration. I was a pathetic excuse for a man who had deluded himself in order to avoid the burdens of fatherhood.
I looked again at Flora, who had finished her latest tirade and was panting heavily with exertion. Her outlook on life as she had grown up had clearly been twisted by grief and warped by fear, but there must have been something I could do, something I could say to help her now. Suddenly, a vision of Karen flashed into my mind, and the ghost of her presence gave me the courage to speak.
“Flora,” I began gently. “Your feelings are your feelings, and I would never seek to dismiss them. I only ask that you consider this—” I paused, the memory of Karen’s warm, inviting smile, the one I had cherished with all my heart, flooding my mind. “With your mind as keen as I know it to be, perhaps you’ve already pondered this truth. You must feel it in your heart, don’t you? That your mother adored Carolina with every fiber of her being; that she bore no malice, held no regrets about bringing Carolina into this world. And, Flora, that she fretted for you, cherished you, until her final breath.”
Flora exhaled sharply, the weight of my words clearly striking deep, but I didn’t relent.
“Karen understood you more than anyone else,” I continued. “That was why she was so concerned, even on her deathbed. She knew you had a vulnerable side, a sensitivity that she feared might one day manifest dramatically.”
As I evoked the memory of her beloved mother, I saw tears begin to well up in Flora’s eyes. Reflected in those pale pink orbs, I saw the image of Karen lying on her deathbed, wishing she’d had more time with her children. My heart twisted with pain—pain not only for Karen’s foresight but for my own negligence. Karen had seen this coming; she had warned me, and yet I, in my obstinacy, had dismissed her concerns. I had done nothing, hadn’t even tried to address Flora’s needs. In my misguided belief in her precociousness, I had left her to fend for herself, and this was the bitter fruit of my neglect.
Had I comforted Flora when Karen passed? Had I held her, allowed her to cry into my chest and grieve? Or had I coldly left her to cope alone, retreating into my work as if that could somehow dilute the pain? That moment should have been one of shared healing, yet I had forsaken it, burying myself in responsibilities that now seemed so trivial by comparison.
My fist clenched with the weight of my regret. It was too late to lament the actions I hadn’t taken, yet I was overwhelmed by it, feeling as if my chest might split open from the agony. Despite my titles—Prime Minister, Duke Sanchez—I had failed at my most precious duty.
Flora shifted in her bed, turning away from me. She lay back down and pulled the covers over herself. “Even so, I stand by my convictions,” she said, her voice steadier than before yet tinged with resignation. “Someone of Carolina’s kind doesn’t deserve happiness. She can’t be happy, not while I’m...”
Her voice faded into a rare hesitation, the fierceness giving way to uncertainty.
After a pause, I responded gently, “All right. If that is your answer, so be it. But I implore you not to hurt Carolina any—”
“Out. Get out!” she snapped suddenly, her anger rekindling. “I want to be alone.”
Seeing her temper flare again, I decided it was best to leave, to give her some space to cool down. Without another word, I rose from my seat and quietly left the infirmary.
✦ ✦ ✦
The door swung shut with a soft thud, punctuating my father’s departure. Alone once again, I felt a profound sense of release. Tension drained from my limbs, and a deep, slow breath escaped my lips.
The silence was comforting, but at the same time, there was a sadness to it that made my chest feel tight. It was as if the world were trying to tell me right now that I...was hopelessly trapped in my own solitude.
Oh, Mother, how I miss you. How I wish I could go back to those carefree, happy days.
The tears threatened to spill, but I squeezed my eyes shut, halting their escape. Then I recalled those words—my mother’s words.
“When you want to cry, Flora, don’t hold it in,” she had told me with that kind, understanding smile. As the memory took hold of me, the gentle timbre of my mother’s voice cut through the stillness. “When you want to cry, Flora, let it out,” she had said, her smile the last beacon of understanding to ever cut through the darkness of my life.
As if encouraged by my absent mother’s words, a lone tear escaped, tracing a wet path down my cheek and falling, leaving a dark spot on the bedsheet. Then another followed, and another, and another.
How long has it been since I last cried? I wondered, tracing between the damp splotches on the fabric with my fingers. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since I had last expressed my grief.
“Mother,” I whispered into the quiet room.
With the flood of tears came a flood of memories.
They were painful memories, ones I would have preferred to lock away forever. But they surged through me, heedless of my desires, relentless and vivid. Assaulted by a wave of nausea, a desperate need to expel this aching sorrow, I surrendered to the onslaught. I dove headfirst into the depths of recollection.
Perhaps, I thought, by remembering her touch, her kindness, I might ease this piercing loneliness.