Chapter 1
Kiara
Moonlight is my favorite.
Silver paint speckles the skin of my knuckles as I pinch a long, thin paintbrush between the thumb and index finger of my left hand.
With my other hand, I swipe at the sweat rimming my hairline. Manhattan weather is usually cooler this time of year, but even with the windows open and a gentle breeze wafting in off the water, New York City’s hot as hell’s bells this September. When sunlight streams through all the windows in my studio, I often feel like an ant roasting beneath a magnifying glass.
I don’t mind the heat, though. That’s a good thing, considering I haven’t managed to leave the De Luca estate since my father’s murder a few months ago. Building this place for my mother was the only good thing that man ever did. This studio is my one escape from the rest of the house.
Sometimes the heat is sweltering up here—orfreezingcold in the winter—but at least the place is pretty.
Fifteen-foot glass ceiling. Warm, red stucco-lined walls. The space is small and square and located on the rooftop of the estate where I’ve lived my entire life. Where my mother lived and died. In one corner of the studio sits the wicker rockingchair where she used to rest and watch child-me play with her paintbrushes and wave them around like magic wands.
To me, they really did create magic, because my mother’s exceptional paintings were born of those brushes. I glance at that chair, empty now, and remember how the artificial light glared down on her face the last time I saw her, all tired and faded in a hospital bed…
My darling, there’s something I must tell you before I die.
As I shove the memory away and tilt my head, I feel a little tickle.
My high ponytail, the one I always drag my dark mahogany brown hair into before I work, hangs long enough to touch the base of my neck while I paint. I shake my hair off my skin the same way a horse whips its tail to swat away flies.
I glance at Mae Averies. “Have time for another haircut?”
Wearing a green shift dress with a burlap apron, she sits by the open door that leads out onto the rooftop, humming while she mends a pair of pants.
Officially, she’s a member of the estate’s housekeeping staff. Unofficially, she’s my lifelongau pairand closest friend.
My question prompts her to pause her melody-making and fix me with a curious, brown-eyed stare.
“It’s touching your neck already?”
“I know.” Pulling my painting hand back from the canvas, I release an annoyed breath. “I don’t know why my hair grew so much this summer.”
The forty-seven-year-old Frenchwoman beams at me, her eyes gleaming with love for the child she helped raise. “My mother used to say a young woman’s hair grows fastest when she’s in love.”
I’ll never have the chance to fall in love, but it’s a nice idea nonetheless.
As quickly as it came, the smirk melts off my face.
I’m thinking about my mother again.
Specifically, what she said to me on her deathbed.
Our relationship used to be the one thing in life I was sure of. Despite the horror of our lives and the cruelty of the ugly men who ruled over us, we shared a close and wonderful connection.
When she got sick, imagining life without her was impossible, but I still knew I’d only have to think of her to remember what it was like to be loved and cherished. The affection she had for me, much like the affection Mae has for me, may be the only love I ever receive.
And that’s okay.
Wishing for more than what I have is as foolishly misguided as reading fairy tales for cues about real life. Even though I love fairy tales and always, always will. They were one of the things that bonded my mom and me. Fantastical stories about people and magic provided the escapism we desperately needed.
I understood continuing without her would fill my heart with untold sorrow, but I never anticipated that her death would unveil the secret of my conception.
A secret that changedeverything.
How I felt about her. How I feel about me.
