After the soiree’s conclusion, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed in the night as a lone horse-drawn carriage bound for the Sanchez estate made its way down a moonlit road. Inside, both Flora and I sat together, a most uncommon occurrence. Typically, we journeyed separately, but today, due to our father commandeering most of our carriages for his own use, we found ourselves having to share a single conveyance (much to my chagrin).
I couldn’t help but harbor a smidgen of resentment. This was Father’s idea of a touching reunion after his latest weeklong absence? To take our entire fleet of over a dozen carriages for a simple trip to the royal castle? I couldn’t understand it. Yet, considering that this was my father, there was likely a deeper rationale for even a decision as inexplicable as this. I just hoped he would have the wisdom to return them tonight—otherwise, there’d be hell to pay.
My father was seldom present. Given his duties, extended stays at the castle were a standard part of his life, and entire weeks away were not unusual. Even on the rare occasions that he was at home, he largely sequestered himself in his study, sifting through the avalanche of ducal responsibilities that had piled up in his absence. Honestly, his perpetual busyness bordered on the absurd.
I let out a deep, contemplative sigh as I ruminated on my future—or lack thereof—and my discontent did not go unnoticed by Flora. Sitting across from me, she clicked her tongue. “What’s with that look? What, do you think I want to be here any more than you do? You should be grateful that your Saint-to-be is even willing to share her only carriage with the likes of you.”
Flora’s flawless features twisted in anger and disgust. Clearly, my evident unhappiness had struck a nerve. For many, the sight of such beauty marred by anger would be unsettling. But for me, it was all too familiar. I met her gaze without flinching.
My lack of a reaction only heightened her irritation. Shielded from public view, Flora’s fury could finally flow freely. “You ungrateful little brat! Is this how you treat your betters? To think you aren’t capable of even a modicum of appropriate respect... You really are an unwanted little freak.”
An unwanted little freak.
She knew exactly what to say to get under my skin. My composure cracked, and I bit my lip in frustration bordering on despair.
That was all the opening she needed. A sly, almost predatory smirk crossed the Saint-to-be’s face. “You know, Carolina, you’re quite the enigma. For someone born into House Sanchez, how is it that you bear no resemblance to anyone in the family?”
My face tightened, my discomfort evident. She knew precisely which of my insecurities to exploit.
Her grin widened. Eager to see me squirm up close, Flora left the seat facing mine and invaded the bench on which I sat, nestling up against me. She reached out with her pristine, pale hand and gently lifted a lock of my hair. “This dull gray hue,” she mused. “It’s neither icy blonde like mine or Father’s, nor the deep black of Mother’s glossy locks. The color of yours is closer to black, to be sure, yet so far from the luster of Mother’s gorgeous raven tresses. It’s more akin to ash, don’t you think?”
She made a show of blowing my hair out of her hand in the same manner she might dust off a tome before running her fingers through her own hair. Her silver-white locks shimmered in the moonlight, a dance of radiance against the dark night sky.
Despite my intimate knowledge of the malevolence at the center of her being, her ethereal beauty still rendered me momentarily spellbound. To be so beautiful that she could obscure the venom that lay beneath...
What a wicked woman she was, to the very core.
“But to your credit, what is gray but a shade of black?” she drawled on. “Your drab hair, unremarkable as it is, isn’t the most downright offensive aspect of your appearance. No... That distinction goes to those vile, bloodred eyes of yours.” She gently laid her delicate fingers on my cheek, against the corner of one of my eyes, before narrowing her own padparadscha-sapphire gaze. “I inherited my soft pink color from our mother, but you? Such a deep crimson. Father’s eyes are green, so no... It couldn’t have been him. Tell me, just from whom did you inherit them?”
I quivered, wordless.
“You really have to wonder why the household continues to say so fondly that you’re ‘the spitting image of the duchess.’ Just how cruel can they be? After all, how could a disgrace like you ever hope to rival our mother’s radiance? At best, you are merely a pale reflection.”
Her words, sharp as knives, wounded me with every syllable. The invisible scars of my heart screamed out in agony, and a silent plea rose within me, begging her to cease her verbal onslaught. I had to give my supplication a voice. “Flora. If I’ve upset you, I apologize. Can we please—”
She cut me off. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear sister...” Her words dripped with feigned contrition, while her features contorted into an unsettling sneer. “How could I forget the greatest tragedy of all? And how thoughtless of me to bring it up.”
Dread surged within me; I knew exactly where this was heading. An internal scream resounded in my mind, begging her to refrain. Desperate to shield myself, I moved to cover my ears, but I was a fraction too late.
“You didn’t know our mother well, did you?” Her words took on a mocking lilt. “In fact, you couldn’t have. You’re the one who killed her, after all.”
I gritted my teeth, wrestling with the bitter truth. Our mother—Duchess Karen Sanchez—had succumbed to an ailment that overtook her soon after giving birth to me. Although I wasn’t the direct reason for her passing, it seemed logical to implicate me. Our mother had been the picture of health throughout her short life, and the first and only time she’d ever been seriously ill was directly after my birth. They said it was the postpartum weakening of her constitution that had proved to be her undoing. Even if I wasn’t the immediate author of her end, it was clear that my birth had played a crucial role in diminishing her vigor.
If I hadn’t been born, perhaps she might still be alive.
That endlessly tormenting thought scraped against my soul, the pain threatening to rend my heart in two.
“Mother was truly one of a kind,” Flora began, her voice tinged with melancholy. “Gracious, kind, compassionate... Much like the Holy Mother herself. She wasn’t extraordinarily brilliant or capable, but she was able to draw people to her in a way that Father or I never could. She did so very much for our family, and the flourishing of our realm under Father’s reign was due to her and her magnanimous spirit.”
Flora’s padparadscha-sapphire gaze bored coldly into mine as she extolled Mother’s virtues in this oft-repeated litany. The emotions therein were raw and acerbic, rife with resentment and loathing for my being.
“Which is why I’ll never forgive you—the one who robbed us of her. I’ll never accept that you bear her likeness. I’ll never accept you.” Flora’s final declaration lingered heavily between us. She held my gaze for a few seconds more, and then, seemingly satisfied, she returned to her seat. As she stared out the carriage window, I couldn’t help but notice what seemed like a flicker of sorrow, a hint of longing in her eyes.
How could it be? As her words slashed and wounded me, how was it that she looked more like the pitiable victim of a deep torment? Lost in my miserable thoughts, I softly closed my eyes, letting the rhythmic clattering of the carriage lull me into a daze as we headed towards home.
✦ ✦ ✦
The rest of the journey was spent in silence. We finally arrived, and taking the coachman’s hand, Flora and I both alighted from the carriage. Without so much as a parting glance, she quickly disappeared into the manor, leaving me to gaze up at the imposing walls of our residence. The windows were unusually dim for this time of night, which struck me as odd; it was too early for most to retire. Even given my and Flora’s absence, the lack of illumination seemed peculiar.
As I pondered this somewhat trivial anomaly, our butler approached me cautiously. “Welcome home, Lady Carolina,” he intoned. Then, with a more discreet inflection, he added, “His Grace is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
His words took me by surprise. “Father is...?” I wondered aloud.
While Father had summoned me many times before, never once had it been at an hour this late. But...no. Even that wasn’t quite as unexpected as the other bit of information. He’d summoned me to the drawing room?
The drawing room rather than his personal study?
“Do we have guests?” I inquired.
The butler paused for a beat. “I’m afraid I cannot say, milady.” Perhaps commanded into silence by my father, he simply shook his head. Knowing him well, I knew that pressing further would be in vain.
With no other option, I braced myself to face whatever awaited in the drawing room.
“Very well. Please, lead on.”