Page 10 of Roaming Holiday

“Wow.” A hint of awe covers Maia’s tone. Her neck is still craned back and it looks almost comical. “It’s incredible how it still looks so pristine.”

“Come on,” Dad interjects, “we still have a lot to see.”

“But—”

“Let’s go, girls,” Ruby says, beckoning us forward with a manicured hand.

We pout, wanting to bask in our love of academia for a few moments longer. With our arms still linked, my sister and I begrudgingly follow Andrew and our parents through a gargantuan set of doors.

“Gracea,” I say to the two men who opened the doors for us. A look of gratitude passes their otherwise deadpan faces. I want to use every chance I get to practice Maldanian, even if it’s to thank a couple of museum employees.

The room we enter doesn’t appear to be a showroom, but a sitting one. The tall windows and French doors to my right allow the late-afternoon sun to paint everything in a yellow hue, emboldening the already golden decor. Between two couches is a coffee table, and farther back is a fireplace. Above it, a large, classical-looking painting of a pale woman in an elegant dress and bejeweled sash. A woman I’ve seen before. My stomach tingles. It can’t be.

“Maia.” I stop walking, which forces her to stop, too.

“What?” She follows my gaze, then smothers a gasp. “Is that…?”

“Our birth mother? Definitely.”

6

NINA

Maia bristles. “No. That’s impossible.”

But I’ve seen a picture of her before. Eleven-year-old Nina sneaked into Dad’s room and rifled through his nightstand because he avoided all conversations of my real mom. He refused to talk about her and I wanted answers. I found a single picture of her—of them. They were smiling together. It was only her side profile, but I returned to that picture dozens of times in the following years. Maia, too. I know that profile. I know that face.

“Welcome! I hope your flight was smooth.”

I flinch at the new voice. A woman greets Dad with a hug before shaking Ruby’s hand. I don’t hear their introductions to one another; I stare at her striking similarities to the painted woman above the fireplace. Same dark hair, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones. She walks over to Maia and me with an outstretched hand to shake, her heels a subtle clack over the marble floors.

“Nina, Maia. It’s lovely to meet you two at last.” Her professional tone and demeanor belie the growing sadness in her glassy eyes. “My name is Beverly.”

“At last?” Maia repeats.

Beverly gestures to the seating area, and we only move when Dad and Ruby do. The three of them sit across from us.

“What’s going on?” I ask, craning my neck toward the painting above. “Why does that look like?—”

“She is,” Dad says, and my entire body tingles—down to my toes. My heart thunders. This can’t be happening.

“Ophelia Jolie Elias,” Beverly says, enunciating each syllable. “My older sister.”

“Ophelia Jolie Elias,” I whisper. My shoulders tense.

“Wait—that’s our mom?” Maia asks, glancing back and forth between the portrait and our father. I spot her swishing earrings from the corner of my eye. “What the hell is this, Dad?”

“I’m giving you answers,” he replies. As with every mention of Mom, he sounds defeated.

“And we needed to be in a palace to do that? What’s with these theatrics?” Unlike her, I don’t feel angry. I’m confused. Wary.

“They’re not theatrics,” Beverly says calmly. “We are telling you here because this is a complicated?—”

“Who is we?” Maia interjects. “And if you’re my aunt, where were you our whole lives?”

The older woman flinches. My stomach twinges—not out of pity, but of how noticeable her relation to Ophelia is. Ophelia Jolie Elias. Those three words echo in my head. Ophelia Jolie Elias. Her full name remained a mystery my entire life. Until today.

My sister’s questions are valid, but I want to know more about Ophelia Jolie Elias. Anything. I want to understand why they think this is complicated, why there’s a painting of Ophelia Jolie Elias inside the palace, and why Dad had to fly us to the Mediterranean to say it.

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