Page 20 of Enslaved

She means the glow from the moonfire lanterns in the passage is too bright. I nod, shoot her a hasty smile. “Good night,” I murmur one last time. A chorus of sleepy grunts is all the answer I receive before I step back into the hall and pull the door shut behind me. Still I linger, my hand resting on the doorknob. It takes a wrench of willpower to turn, step across the hall, and enter my own room.

Lir is busy laying out my nightgown and turning back the bedclothes. I don’t speak to her, sensing she’s overwrought by the doings of the day. Instead, I take a seat at my vanity and begin to pluck pins from my hair. Lir finishes her tasks then stops in the middle of the room, hands folded neatly, to ask, “Will there be anything else, Mistress?”

“No. Thank you.” She turns to go, but I spin on my stool and call after her, “Lir!” She looks back over her shoulder. Once more that strange foreboding tingles in my blood. I lick my dry lips then speak all in a rush: “You are brave and strong. Whatever happens, I know you will do great things.”

Lir blinks. There’s a sparkle in her eyes, like tears. She ducks her head, flushing prettily, her pale skin suffused in a delicate lavender glow. “Thank you, Mistress,” she says, before ducking from the room.

Sudden silence surrounds me. After the din of dinner and bedtime, the atmosphere is cold and empty. I face my reflection in the vanity mirror once more. Now that I’m alone, the question looms large in my mind:What will I do tomorrow?

I rise, my hair still half-pinned up, and busy myself with changing into my nightgown, hanging up my dress, shaking out my petticoats and other little arrangements. When these are through, I return to the vanity and, without looking in the mirror, yank out the last of the pins and set to work brushing my hair. Stroke, stroke, stroke.A hundred strokes—that’s what my mother taught me. Every night. It’s a habit I’ve striven to maintain over the years, wherever life has led me. Stroke, stroke, stroke.The rhythm soothes me, lulls me into a stupor.

I will not think about tomorrow.

I will not think about what I must do.

I will not wonder what will become of my children if . . . if I never . . . if something were to happen . . .

Why do you think only of them? They are not your blood.

My heart stops. Slowly, slowly, I lower my brush to my lap. My eyes, staring into the mirror glass, flick to the darkest corner of the room reflected behind me. There’s nothing there. Only shadow.

And yet the voice in my mind whispers:Why do you forget the one who truly needs you? They have friends now. They have others who will care for them.

He has no one.

No safe place.

No help.

No hope.

No one.

Just you.

A tickle of ice-cold breath on the back of my neck.

You’re not seeing rightly.

My gaze snaps back to my reflection, staring into my own wide eyes. Something moves behind me. I dare not look at it directly, dare not see again that phantom figure in white, her long hair falling over her face like a veil. But she’s there. Standing in that space of reality between the Nightmare and the waking world.

I drag a rough breath into my lungs, inhaling the scent of wisteria—my mother’s perfume, sickly sweet in my nostrils. Rotten somehow. Her hands rest on my shoulders like lead weights.

Then that voice. Gentle, warm, and calming:There, child. Let me help you.

I close my eyes. There’s a tug against my grip on the hairbrush. I resist before letting go. The next moment, the brush is running through my hair in long, slow, deliberate strokes.

You are becoming distracted, my love. You are letting your purpose be swayed.

I shake my head.

Hold still, now. Hold still and listen.

You know I want only what is best. For you. For your brother. I love you both more than anyone save your own dear father.

The brush continues to pull through my locks, the tines catching and disentangling any snarls. My scalp tingles.

But you must care for your brother, Clara. You are the eldest. And you are strong. He is such a delicate boy. But so very gifted! Just like his father.

---