Page 39 of Malicent


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I TAKE MY DINNERS OUTSIDE now, seated on a worn stone bench half-consumed by moss. The garden is quiet here, untouched by the castle’s endless movement. The willow trees drape their limbs low, like thin fingers trailing in the cold breeze.I prefer this part of the garden—it’s undisturbed, and the hush of the wind is my only company.

The air has sharpened with the season’s change. It feels crisp and refreshing. I welcome the chill, it keeps me present. Grounded. Setting down my bowl of grapes, I pull my knees to my chest, tucking them beneath the folds of my dark blue gown. Beyond the hedges, the night thickens like a dark expanse swallowing the garden. My thumbs graze the soft cotton stretched taut over my knees as the evening begins to breathe.

“Millicent.”

The whisper drifts through the wind.

Nightmother.

Darkness stirs in response. It seeps across the grass, twisting around the brush, and slithering up the willow trees. The garden wilts beneath its touch, dulling into a barren landscape where life is devoured by the void.

The hollowness creeps outward, until it reaches me…fills me.

Echoing the hollowness, my next heartbeat feels distant, as if my pulse is no longer mine. I inhale deeply, letting the cold air flood my lungs.

I EXHALE, WATCHING MY BREATH coil into the cold air. Another breath—haaa—the sound rolling out like a firebreather’s conjuring, as though I might summon warmth from deep within.

Snowflakes swirl around me, gathering in my cupped hands. I lift them closer, marveling at every snowflake. I try to memorize each unique shape. I wish to paint them for hours, but themoment warmth touches them, they vanish—a quiet loss. I forget within a moment what they looked like.

Suddenly—impact. A burst of cold against my coat.

Arcadia.

She grins from behind a low stone wall, her white hair blending into the snow. She’s peeking at me through snow-dusted air.

I laugh—wild, untamed—and crouch low, my hands already working to pack my own snowball. She won’t win this fight.

“Arcadia!” I laugh, rising to launch a snowball straight at her head.

She yelps, narrowly dodging as I take off after her, giggling. The snow fights back, dragging at my shins and climbing to my knees, but I push through. Arcadia’s laughter echoes ahead, so light and free, like it belongs to someone untouched by the world.

Out of all the girls our age, Arcadia is my best friend. We always said we were soulmates of a sort. Opposites in every way—her white hair, deep mahogany skin, and golden eyes are stark against my black hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes. Yin and yang, we call it. A balance only we understood.

Then, the crunch of footsteps behind me draws my attention.

I stop short, my breath still caught in a laugh. Turning, the cold air stills my lungs.

“Nora.”

I bow deeply, the weight of my skirts pulling snow into the folds of the fabric. The sight makes me smile—for once, the black I wear like all the other girls is marked by something else. Something uniquely mine.

I rub my cold hands together, trying to coax warmth into them. I cup them close when that fails and blow hot air over my palms.

Nora’s smile is tight, but that is just how she is. Mama used to say not to mind it, so I never do. Arcadia is long gone; I don’t blame her. The other girls avoid the elders unless summoned. They are busy. We’re not to waste their time.

Nora steps forward, reaches out, cupping my face. “You are freezing, little one.” She strokes my skin softly, so tenderly that my heart melts. I drink up every ounce of affection I can get. I miss Mama every day. Grief is a living, breathing creature inside me, a beast that never truly sleeps.

“How about you come inside?” Nora murmurs, her thumbs smoothing over my cheekbones. “Warm yourself.”

Nora says not to cry. Crying is a weakness, and it will not bring Mama back.

I still cry.

Alone, in the dark. With Ollie curled against me, or Arcadia’s hand in mine.

Nora is right. Crying does nothing.

And yet, I cannot stop.