If I were bold and vivacious, I would have danced with all those handsome suitors tonight, but there’s only one man I wished I could have danced with.
I smile, wondering when I’ll see Jasce again.
Hopefully soon.
ChapterThree
ANNORA
As I slipfrom the parlor, a shadow detaches itself from the wall. My heart leaps at the sight of my mother. She wears a dressing gown over a nightdress, and her hair hangs in tangled strands down her back. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, like she’s been crying.
“Annora,” she says, and for a moment, hope flickers inside me at the thought of her wishing me happy birthday.
“I saw you tonight,” she begins. “Why must you insist on parading around? You should have stayed hidden.”
“I-I thought you might wish me h-happy birthday,” I whisper, my voice small against her disdain.
A scoff escapes her as she steps closer to me. “What’s there to celebrate with a face like that?”
Tears sting my eyes as my fingers twitch, longing to trace the scars on my face, but I resist the urge.
It’s a weakness she’d only relish.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology slipping out automatically.
It’s a dance we’ve done countless times before. Me, apologizing out of habit. Her, not caring that she hurt me.
Lately, her verbal attacks have increased in frequency. She spares no one. My sisters. The staff. The guards.
She sways and catches herself against the stone wall, her fingers scraping against the rough edges as she struggles to stay upright. I know that unsteady gait. Recognize the glassy look in her eyes.
While I was in the ballroom celebrating with Asha, Emerin, and Tahira, she had been alone in her bedchamber, consuming more of that vile flower.
She’s addicted to its poisonous nectar, and it’s destroying her, rotting her from the inside out.
She doesn’t even look like herself anymore. She was once a regal beauty, with flowing copper hair and lively gray eyes. Now, she’s gaunt and sallow, her cheekbones protruding sharply and her collarbones jutting out.
“Mother, is everything well with you?” I ask, my voice trembling with the longing to help her, to somehow change things for her, to find a way to make her happy again.
Her eyes narrow, and her lips curl in disdain. “What concern is it of yours, girl?”
“You are my mother,” I say in a fragile whisper, as if at any moment the words might fracture me, splintering my heart into jagged shards. “And I miss you.”
Can’t she see the pain etched in my eyes and my longing to reconnect with her?
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Your concern is as misplaced as your presence at the ball.”
“Mother.” I squeeze my arms around myself as I continue. “Please.”
“You should leave,” she says, her tone as cold and unyielding as the northern glaciers. “Before your ugliness sours my mood.”
Her words pierce my heart, and I clench my jaw to keep the sob in my throat from escaping. How could she say something so cruel? So untrue? I know the scars that mar the left side of my face are hideous, but I cannot change what happened.
I open and close my mouth, grasping for the right words to break through her hostility, to find some glimmer of the mother I once knew, but there is only contempt in her eyes. No warmth, no love. Just bitterness and scorn.
I dip into a stiff curtsy. As I straighten, I catch a glimpse of my scarred reflection in the looking glass behind her. The scars taunt me, reminding me that I will never be beautiful like my sisters.
I turn away from mother and feel the weight of her stare on my back like an unwanted cloak draped over me. Somehow, I still manage to lift my chin and walk with grace through the corridor.
