Chapter 7

I entered her room and shut the door behind me. Books and music scores and photos of people I'd never encountered littered her walls. Lovingly, nauseatingly, decorated in coordinating shades of blue, from light to dark. Such care was taken in picking out every last accessory, from the frilled drapery to the coverlets swathing her princess bed. It all made me sick.

I thought of the room I’d grown up in—cold, hard, coated in ice, with nothing but a few animal pelts and hides to keep me warm. Some nights not even a fire was lit in my hearth, if Mother was in a particularly foul mood. She often was. Her way of showing her love was harsh, and it had made me strong.

Lorelei was soft. Like her surroundings. She would never survive in my world because she was accustomed to being pampered and spoiled. I knew how to fight for my life, because I’d had to since the day I was born.

I picked up a notebook and flipped it open. Empty. Then I examined the photo of her taken by the water. Hair billowing, feet bare, she looked... happy.

There was a soft knock at the door. I turned to see her. Vivienne. My... mother, standing, watching me with such reverence.

“I apologize.” I set down the photo frame quickly. “I was just—”

“Snooping.” She smiled, holding up a hand. “It’s fine, I’d do the same thing.” Her head rested against the door frame. “It’s just strange to see you standing in here. It reminds me of how much I miss Lorelei.”

I swallowed rising bile and forced a reassuring nod. “Yes, of course. How long is she gone for?”

Her posture shifted, and she straightened. I watched the little muscles of her jaw work. “Oh, she'll be home soon enough. I'm just being overly dramatic.” Then she gestured to the hall behind her. “Tea's ready, if you're interested.”

I winced a little. Tea. The very thing I’d used to poison her. Then, forcing out another guilt-ridden thought, I followed her.

She busied herself about the spacious kitchen, peeking tentatively in cupboards and drawers as though she were a stranger. This wasn’t a room she spent much time in obviously, which explained her need for a housekeeper.

Vivienne offered an embarrassed smile. “I swear Brigit rearranges things on me just to make me crazy sometimes.” She half laughed.

I continued to watch as she put biscuits onto a plate. It was pretty, trimmed with gold and painted in vibrant flowers. Much like the ones that bloomed in Mythlandria. She would know them. She'd been there at least once before.

Once the tea had been poured and the biscuits suitably arranged, she sat on the stool across from me. “So, tell me, what is this assignment about exactly?”

I cleared my throat, prepared to make this sound real. “We’re supposed to pick someone we admire and find out as much about them as we possibly can.”

She laughed, but it was nervous and uncomfortable. “Well, that’s quite a project.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t need to divulge anything you’re unwilling to make publicly known.” You get to keep your deep, dark secrets, Vivienne, since I already know what they are.

The smile in her eyes vanished all together as they narrowed. “What makes you say that?” She was nervous, like any woman with so much to hide.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything.” I took a sip of tea, keeping my gaze fixed on hers. I set down my cup and offered a warm smile. “I just know that everyone has secrets, things they’d rather not have exposed to the world. Families especially, as you said, hide all sorts of little white lies.”

She stared at me for a minute and then smiled. “Of course. You’re right, I suppose they do. Anyway, we’re discussing my music, and that part of my life is an open book.”

I cocked my head. “I know, which is why I'd like to delve a little deeper into your family lies—sorry, I mean life, if I may. And you can tell me to mind my own business if I touch a nerve. Is that fair?”

She shifted in her seat but didn't answer.

I flipped open the notebook I'd taken from Lorelei’s room. Who knows, perhaps keeping notes might help me sort through everything later. “How long have you lived here in Drearyton Cove?” In the human world.

“Oh, most of my life, really. I was born here—” She pointed to the walls, “—but now I live in a house not too far away.” She gave a quick smile.

I nodded. “And you live here with Lorelei, was it? Do you just have one child?”

Was that too soon? Would she suspect me? I nibbled my lower lip in anticipation of her answer.

She blanched a little but opened her mouth. “I gave birth to two daughters. Twins,” she said slowly. “Unfortunately, one died at birth.”

My eyes widened. Liar. So, that was the story she'd fabricated? Quickly recovering, I scribbled in the notebook. “I see. Sorry,” I added, because it seemed like the sort of thing a human would say when given such information, regardless of how false. She had no idea how difficult I found it to keep the bitterness from my tone.

“And the girls’ father?” I pressed, not lifting my gaze. I was afraid she might see something too hungry in my eyes. Speaking of my parents in such a covert manner felt odd. As odd as it was to consider these individuals my parents at all. “Is there, or was there, a Mr. Alundra?”

She cleared her throat, shifted in her seat. Her fingers trembled slightly as she fiddled with her cup. “He passed away, also. My, what a sad sounding story I'm giving you.” The nervous laugh returned. “I promise, it’s not all so melancholic.”

I bet it wasn't. You had the child you wanted to keep, and you both had a lovely and full life, quickly forgetting that Oberon and I ever existed. Part of me hated her in that moment. Hated the baby blue room, hated the warm kitchen and steaming tea, hated the floral plates and biscuits. Hated it with the same seething passion I reserved for hating Lorelei.

“It’s interesting,” I said, daring to lift my gaze, despite the hatred she might see in my eyes. “I interviewed another celebrity once. She had a similar story to yours. Only, hers was slightly different. She'd given birth to two children but chose to give one up. I always wondered why a mother would make a choice like that. Choose to willingly give up her child.”

She paled even more, looking like the ghost of the woman who’d sat down to tea with me. Her stool squeaked back as she abruptly rose and reached for a bottle of red wine to pour herself a glass.

“Did you ask her?” Her lips perched on the edge of the glass before she took a long sip.

“I didn’t think it was my place,” I replied, then paused to sip some tea. It was too hot and too sweet, but it served as a good distraction. “I was just curious, since you're a mother and all. Why do you think someone would do that? And how would they decided which to give up and which to keep? Hypothetically.”

If my questions were making her uncomfortable, and I could see that they were, she pushed through them with grace. She settled back onto her seat and crossed one long leg over the other.

“I imagine there could have been a number of reasons. Financial reasons, perhaps. Or maybe the child was very sick.” Her gaze wandered. “Or maybe she just had no other choice.” She shrugged. “I can tell you this, however, whatever the reason, I know it could not have been an easy decision to arrive at.”

I stared at her blankly, trying to read whether those were her own reasons or merely examples.

“I’d like to think that's true,” I added.

A phone buzzed on the counter, moving around the glassy surface.

Vivienne scanned the screen and cursed. “I swear, no one can do anything right.” Her eyes lifted to me, and she smiled. “There was some sort of mix up, and they'd accidently booked two girls to stay with me. Angie’s got it sorted. She's great at all of that PTA, bake-sale, helicopter-parenting stuff. Sooo not my thing.” She laughed, lifting her glass of wine. “Lorelei used to complain all the time, that if it didn’t have a musical score attached to it, I wasn’t interested. What about you? What brought you into the music program?”

I’d always loved music. It was my refuge from the cold, dark days of my life. But I never had the opportunity to pursue it in the way Lorelei had. Would I be a beautiful songstress, or a great instrumentalist if I had? Too late now.

“I, uh, I never had much of it in my life growing up,” I said slowly. “I suppose that's why I find it fascinating now. To be able to take something like a voice, or an instrument, and make it create sounds that can steal your breath, or seize your heart, or soothe your soul... well, that's a true gift.”

She stared at me wide-eyed for a beat, then toasted with her glass. "Indeed, it is." She looked around, a little unsure of what to say next, but clearly eager to ask something. Her face warmed. “Are you and your mother very close?” she asked. “Does she share your love of music?”

My muscles twitched. The spotlight wasn’t supposed to fall on me. “Unfortunately, I’ve never had the opportunity to get to know her.”

Her mouth turned down. “That’s so sad. I’m sorry. A girl needs her mother.”

“Well, I’ve managed just fine.” I spoke sharper than I wanted. Then softened it, with, “But perhaps that will all change someday.”

Her head nodded gently. “So, anything else you'd like to know about my family life? Or can we move on to music?” She leaned forward onto her elbows and flashed a smile.

She looked more at ease now. I squelched the sense of comfort it arose in me. I could not afford to feel comfortable here in this woman’s world, or in her home. Birthright or not it would never be mine, no matter how much I pretended.