Page 12 of Of Shadows and Death

Once Mother is inside, I pull up the coils of my hair. When I turn around, she is staring at me incredulously.

“Yes, Mother?”

“What is that dress?”

I glance down and brush at the skirts. “Oh, this? Just something I’ve been working on.”

Her mouth thins, and she raises her hand. Before I can move, vines surround my arms, thorns pricking at my skin. I wince as they draw blood, then stare at her, agonized. “Please, stop. This hurts.”

Her face is a mask of thunderous rage. “You know how immodest this is. I don’t want to see you in it again. Do you understand?”

The thorns grow, digging into my arms. “Yes,” I say, grimacing at the pain. “I understand.”

Mother’s vines slide sinuously down to the ground and disappear. She stares at my arms in distaste. “Clean those up. I cannot take care of you if you take sick. I have my duties.”

I nod and she disappears upstairs. I get to work patching my wounds. Anger pounds my heart and I grit my teeth as I dab the cuts with Mother’s salve. It stops infection, but does nothing for the scars left behind. I know from experience.

When I am finished, I rush downstairs. After one last twirl, I slip the dress off and spread it out on the floor near the door to the next floor down. Mother never comes down here, so at least it will be safe. Carefully, I spread out the fabric, sitting back on my heels and admiring the beautiful garment. Some of my blood stains the sides, but I can clean it out. I swear I will wear it again, even if it is only when Mother is gone. I rub a piece of the fabric between my fingers, loving the sound it makes, before dropping it.

Turning to my bed, I pull the patched working dress off the floor. I sigh as I pull it up, wincing as the rougher fabric scrapes at my cuts.

“Rapunzel, I need meals before I leave again.”

With one last glance at the dress, I head back upstairs to do Mother’s bidding.

Later, I am at the table when Mother arrives and sits across from me. I lick my lips as she spoons food onto her plate. “Mother. Who is my father? I’m twenty. I am old enough to know.”

I have asked this once before, when I was little, but I received no answer then. Only a promise for when I was older. Mother’s eyes flash with rage, but I don’t back down. I already suffered at her hand today, and the dress catching on my cuts is a constant reminder. What are a few more?

When I continue to stare, her hair lifts, and a burned smell fills the air. Finally, she stands up and stomps upstairs, slamming the door. I breathe out of my mouth and slouch in my chair. Of course, she didn’t have an answer, but I hoped she would.

I eat my food alone, then set about cleaning the kitchen up when Mother comes down. “It is time for me to go to the desert,” she says gruffly. “I will be gone quite a while. I am not sure how long. Maybe three weeks, maybe two months.”

She stares at me until I look at my feet. “No dresses, no desserts.”

I nod. “Yes, Mother.”

“I will know if you disobey.”

I nod again, wondering how many times my head can go up and down before she is satisfied.

She drops her bags out the window, and I follow her, dragging the exhausting coils of my hair. I throw them out the window. She stares at me intently. “Rapunzel. Your dad is dead, do you understand? Don’t ever ask again.”

I nod, hopefully for the last time today, and don’t respond. Mother turns and climbs out the window. The portal whistles and she is gone. I collapse on the floor and cover my face.

Chapter Twelve

The next day, I lay in bed until the sun is high in the sky. Hunger is the only motivator getting me to leave. My dress remains by the door, and in an act of defiance, I put it on. Mother is not here and I see no reason to keep it on the floor like a pile of trash.

The fabric whispers against my skin and I smile, feeling slightly better. I go upstairs and make a quick breakfast, staring outside. Raúl was so thoughtful to bring me this dress. I shake my head. But the things he said… I can’t ignore them.

Determined, I search through my recipe book. At the very least, I can make a dessert to say thank you for the gift. I settle on sweet sticky rolls with cinnamon, since we have the ingredients now.

I set out my components, immediately feeling even better as I set to work. I hum as I create my dough, pleased with the results. When it’s ready, I slide the pan into the oven. Happily, I bring out my mending and inspect Mother’s robe. It is finished, and I make sure no stitches are amiss. Once I am satisfied, I go about ironing it. The patch is a success, and there is no evidence a hole has ever been there. I drape it over the chair.

Since I am done with my mending, I decide to sew a bag for my dress. It’s too beautiful to leave on the floor, and I would like somewhere to store it when Mother is home. I gather scraps of fabric, ones too mismatched to use for anything else, and by the time I have my pieces basted together, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafts over the floor.

I check the rolls, and they’re done, so I set them out to cool. It is finally almost dark. Raúl said to call him if I wanted him to come, and tonight I will try it. I wonder, though, why on earth I am willing to call such a dangerous creature, even if he is a friend.

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