Page 35 of Of Glass and of Gold

No surprise I’d be their chaperone since Eucinda’s ankle was still injured. “Yes, Ma'am.”

She targeted me, half her face drowned in shadows, making her cutting glare all the more menacing. “As an attendee.”

“I’m not within the age requirement,” I blurted out, hoping logic would squelch this conversation. Proper society wouldn’t dare do anything other than what they were permitted in the presence of royalty. Eucinda wouldn’t risk the shame of her stepdaughter being flagrant with the rules. Convincing her shouldn’t be difficult.

She inhaled a jagged breath, either trying to lasso her rage or muster the strength to argue. “You will go as an attendee,” she repeated.

Before I could protest, the candlelight illuminated why she stressed the point. Her cheek had been left red and swollen. It seemed Caine had come to do more than chat this time around. As awful as the woman before me was, I winced at the evidence of his abuse, knowing I’d caused it.

“Eucinda, you know how I feel about the royals. My father would still be here if it wasn’t for them.” I fought to hold back the tremble in my voice. Rage or sorrow, I didn’t know, didn’t dare dive deep enough into the emotion to name it.

“You don’t know that.” She tore away her gaze, her words softening.

“Even stepping foot in that castle as a chaperone felt like a betrayal. I won’t dress up and play nice, not for people who conduct shady business and leave us to starve in the streets.” Fighting to keep my voice low so I wouldn’t wake my sisters, my clenched fists trembled.

We hadn’t spoken of this subject in a very long time. She’d forbidden me from voicing my theories in her presence. At one point, our shared grief over my father had been our one connecting thread. When she’d snipped that connection, I’d fortified myself against her. Losing her hadn’t been at all comparable to the loss of my parents. As much as I might have craved her approval and affection as a child, I was far from that girl now.

“You will,” she stated coolly.

“We both know that compared to Melody, I don’t stand a chance. She will win the prince’s favor, and all will be well.”

“I won’t let you risk this family and this house based on your hopes, you foolish girl,” she snapped, rising to stand on unsteady ankles. She’d dug out one of my father’s old canes and supported herself on it.

The reminder of him only deepened my conviction. “No.” My mouth quivered, not used to speaking so defiantly in her presence, though there were worse words I would love to say.

“Perhaps you need more motivation to entice Prince Nicholas.” She hobbled over to my armoire, the point of the cane slamming into the ground with every hit. She swung the doors open, revealing my limited wardrobe.

I watched in silence, not understanding her meaning. Apparently not finding what she sought from the pathetic collection, she scanned my desk. The moment I put together her interest in the daggers that I’d lazily left in the open, my heart lodged in my throat. I didn’t need her knowing about those. She’d probably try to sell them.

She snatched one and returned to my clothing. I understood too late as the sound of shredding fabric ate the silence.

“What are you doing?!” I didn’t bother to keep my voice down now.

Fabric tore as slash after slash attacked my wardrobe. Those clothes didn’t hold sentimental value, but they sure as shit were practical. In her feeble condition, I knew I could put her on the ground. Stop her before she left me with nothing but the clothes on my back.

But the backs of my hands sung with the memory of her retaliation, so I dug my heels into the floorboards and waited for her tantrum to conclude.

Thankfully, she left two or three tops before she moved to the desk. She set the dagger down, and I immediately wanted to wash the handle from her toxic touch. Thinking she might have finished her destructive fit, she proved me wrong when she started picking up individual items. A container that held my bobby pins, a red velvet lined, heart-shaped jewelry box that my father had given me crashed to the floor, spewing its contents.

I didn’t dare move to pick it up. I’d probably get the thrashing of a cane to my back if I tried. So I stood by, letting her huff and puff to get it out of her system. A few torn shirts to repair was a better alternative than her kicking me to the curb.

My palms ached as my nails bit into flesh. Next, my hairbrush hit the floor. I could tell she threw the items with enough force that she’d hoped they’d break, and I didn’t let my lips move from their neutral position when each attempt failed, though I hoped the shame and embarrassment left their mark.

Then my blood ran cold. In her vicious, vindictive hand, she’d picked up the glass heart. The last birthday present from my mother when I was seven.

"To remember what you mean to me, my Nora girl, I give you my heart."

The complete opposite sentiment from the woman standing before me. Loving, kind, supportive. All the things I dreamed I’d be before the world decided I was worth little more than a bug beneath a shoe.

But my mother’s love, her memory, had been reduced to a single gift. The last good and tangible thing I had of her. My body began shaking.

“No, please, stop,” I begged, my eyes instantly blurring. My hand came up between us, like when trying to calm a wild horse.

“You need to stop holding onto the past, Nora. It’s stopping you from securing our future. Maybe if this house is all you have left, you’ll work harder to keep it.”

“I’ll work hard, I swear.” My lip trembled now, too.

The look in her eye made me believe she wouldn’t do it. I saw the contemplation run across her face, knowing exactly what she held and the weight of it. She’d done horrible things to me, treated me like garbage the moment my father wasn’t here to keep her in check.

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