Chapter 33 The Sound of a Falling House
Seraphina POV
The steam from the shower had finally dissipated, leaving the bathroom mirror streaked with vanishing ghosts. I pulled on a simple cotton shirt and soft leggings, the kind of "home-wear" that signaled a girl ready for a quiet evening. I ran a comb through my damp hair, watching the girl in the reflection, Serafina Vance, mimic my movements. She looked so soft. So fragile.
I descended the stairs, my bare feet silent on the polished wood. In the dining room, the woman was in motion. She was smoothing out the napkins, her fingers nimble as she checked the alignment of the silver. The table was a masterpiece of domestic normalcy.
She looked up, her face softening into that familiar, suffocating maternal glow. "There you are, Sera. Feeling refreshed?"
"Much better, Mom," I said, my voice a perfect, melodic lie.
"Good," she said, tapping a fork against her palm. "The teacher called from school earlier. Mr. Harrison. He was asking about the school trip on Thursday. I told him you’d be there."
"Yes," I replied, pulling out my chair. The wood gave a short, sharp scrape against the floor.
"I’ll help you pack tonight," she said, leaning over the table to adjust the centerpiece. Her eyes stayed on me, filled with a desperate kind of helpfulness. "We’ll get everything you need. If there’s anything special, any snack or a warmer jacket, you just let me know, okay?"
I offered her a fake smile, the kind that didn't quite reach the muscles around my eyes. If only you knew what I actually needed, I thought. If you knew the celestial hunger gnawing at my insides, you wouldn't be standing there talking about jackets. You’d be running. "Thanks, Mom. I'll let you know," I said.
She beamed, satisfied with the role of the doting mother, and turned back toward the kitchen. The swing door hissed shut behind her. I sat in the silence, staring at the empty plate. This house, this woman, this life, it was all a temporary stage. I was just waiting for the curtain to fall.
The front door clicked open.
The sound was followed by a heavy, familiar tread. Arthur Vance stepped into the foyer, his coat dusted with the grime of the city. He looked exhausted, the skin beneath his eyes dark, but his face broke into a wide grin the moment he spotted me.
"I'm home!" he called out, dropping his leather briefcase with a heavy thud.
I stood up and met him in the hallway. He pulled me into a tight, scratchy hug, the smell of jet fuel and cold air clinging to his suit. "I missed you, Sera," he grunted, squeezing my shoulders. "I brought back plenty of things for you. Gear for your trip, clothes, everything. We're going to make sure you're the best-prepared kid on that mountain."
We were still standing there, Arthur recounting the highlights of his business trip, when a shadow moved in the open doorway.
A girl stepped over the threshold. She was about sixteen, her frame thin and her shoulders hunched. She clutched a tattered duffel bag against her chest, her eyes darting around the entryway like a trapped bird. She didn't say a word; she just stood there in the draft of the open door.
The kitchen door hissed open again. The woman emerged, her face lighting up at the sight of her husband. "Arthur!"
She rushed forward, and they collided in a happy, messy hug. They stood there for a heartbeat, two humans celebrating a mundane reunion, until the woman’s gaze drifted over Arthur’s shoulder. She saw the girl.
The warmth left her face instantly. She pulled back from Arthur, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the teenager standing on her rug. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice turning sharp and cold. "Who is this?"
Arthur cleared his throat, the sound rough and uncomfortable. He didn't look at his wife. He gestured vaguely toward the dining room. "Let’s sit down. Let’s eat something first. I’ll explain everything once we’re at the table."
The walk to the dining room was a funeral procession. We took our places, the woman at the head, Arthur at the foot, and the girl huddled in the seat next to me. The steam rose from the bowls of food, but no one touched a fork.
Arthur took a deep breath, staring at his reflection in the polished wood of the table.
"Concerning the child," he began, his voice low. "I told you about her before. Years ago. The woman from the seminar."
The woman’s hands clamped onto the edge of the table. She already knew the story, the illegitimate daughter, the secret he had kept in another city, but the reality was sitting three feet away from her.
"Her mother called me while I was away," Arthur continued, his voice rising in a defensive blur. "She said she can't take care of her alone anymore. She said the girl has to follow me. She had nowhere else to go, so I brought her here."
The woman’s vice rose to scream immediately. "You brought her here?" she shouted, her chair screeching as she stood up. "Without a word? You just show up with a child and expect me to have a place set for her?"
"There wasn't time to call!" Arthur bellowed, standing up to face her. "The mother was being admitted! What was I supposed to do, leave her on the street?"
"You've known about her for sixteen years, Arthur! You could have told me you were bringing her into my house!"
They started to hail insults at each other, their voices clashing like thunder in the small room. The woman was pointing a finger at him, her face contorting with a rage that looked like physical pain. Arthur slammed his hand onto the table, making the water glasses dance and spill.
I leaned back in my chair, picking up a piece of bread and watching them.
How pathetic, I thought, a surge of cold joy bubbling in my chest.
Watching them scream was the best entertainment I'd had in weeks. All this human drama, the betrayal, the anger, the tears, it was so loud and yet so completely small. They were fighting over a "secret daughter" while the very thing that would destroy their world was sitting right between them, eating their bread.
I looked at the girl beside me. She was trembling, a single tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. She looked at me, her eyes pleading for a sister, for someone to tell her it was okay. I gave her a blank, empty stare.
The chaos was perfect.
I took a slow, deliberate sip of my water, the cool liquid sliding down my throat. The shouting continued, a beautiful white noise that masked my own intentions.
If they only knew where their real daughter actually was, they wouldn't be wasting their breath shouting over this human nonsense. Their petty betrayals were just a temporary stage, and by Thursday, the performance would be over. Once Elena’s light was mine, I would discard this weak body and finally return to my immortal self.
Let them fight, I thought, a small smile finally touching my lips. Let them burn the whole house down. I won't be here to see the ashes anyway.