Page 86 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
He sits slowly, his lips curled down, and wraps his hands tightly around the cup. The warm amber glow from the kitchen lamp deepens the lines on his face. “You look worried, Lizzie. What’s wrong?”
My mouth is dry, and my prepared speech isn’t quite as natural as I’d hoped. “I sang last night. For the gala Willow organized.”
“That’s… nice.” He averts his gaze. “Can you do the shopping after work tomorrow? Take Kiro and Marge with you. We need wood, flour, and a bit of witch hazel powder to keep the spiders in check.”
“I sang. And peoplelovedit,” I continue, unsettled by his blatant attempt to switch the subject.
“Mm. I’m not surprised. Did Marge iron out your new uniform? I asked her to.”
And I see it then. The avoidance. The guilt.
By Thanatos and all his reapers.Devi was right.
“Papa…” My voice cracks.
The cup shakes in his hands, and he sets it down on the table with a heavy sigh.
“Papa. A girl at school figured it out. She knows about my… song.” The word feels horrible, blasphemous.
I have a siren’s song.Me.
“But when did you even find out about this? Did something happen while you were singing?” he breathes, his voice thin and strained. “Is your song something you could… feel?”
Tears spill over my lids, hot and unrelenting. “No. I had no idea I even had one. Not until she told me.”
Before I can process it, his hand curls around mine like a snow serpent guarding its eggs. His voice drops, urgent and sharp. “Promise me you’ll never sing again. As long as you don’t, there’s no way for them to tell you’re one of them—at least, none that’s widely known. If you never sing again, you’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” I croak.
The words crush me, each syllable laced with a contempt that twists in my chest. I want to cry, to scream. The idea of never singing again feels like a death sentence. I’d rather cut off my own arm than make that promise.
Papa sighs. “Oh, I’m so sorry, my Lizzie. But not singing is a small price to pay compared to being exiled, shunned, or worse—locked away forever.”
The air between us feels too thick to breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks away, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, I think he won’t answer, but then his shoulders slump. “Your mother asked me not to. She didn’t want you to think ill of her—not if it could be avoided.”
“Who was she, really?”
“She was as I’ve always told you. Brave, strong, and absolutely lovely.”
He rubs a hand down his face, the gesture tired and worn, before he stands. His chair creaks against the wood, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen.
I stay silent, my mind racing as he crosses the room to the magical chest where he keeps his most important documents. He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering over the lock, then presses his thumb against it and mutters the combination. The metallic click reverberates through the room.
My breath catches as he retrieves a sealed letter from the lid’s flap pocket. “She gave me this for you,” he says, turning it over in his hands like it’s a most cherished treasure. “In case you inherited too much of her blood after all. She made me promise not to read it.”
I stare at the letter, my chest tightening. “But you always said she died suddenly.”
“Go to work tomorrow. Do the shopping. When I get home, we’ll talk. Alright?”
I nod, almost tearing the letter from his grasp, the ball of saliva in my mouth too thick to swallow. My heart pounds as I retreat to my bedroom, close the door, and crawl under the covers.
Hands trembling, I rub my puffy eyes, desperate to hold it together, to keep the sobs clawing at my chest at bay. But as I unfold the letter, my resolve cracks. The first words blur through the tears I can no longer stop.
How fair is it that this letter, the only tangible piece of my dead mother that exists, was kept from me all this time? If not for Devi’s meddling, would Papa have simply ripped it to shreds?
