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Since the day in the greenhouse, I’ve felt blank and brittle. I don’t even feel like questioning Gran about what Isolde told me about my mother. It all feels pointless. But maybe that’s what it’s like to be a proper beta. Compliant and unquestioning. Unperturbed as long as my basic needs are met.
Anyway, I should be grateful for all I have—not resentful. Really, I’ve been lucky to work in such a nice, big house with my grandmother.
The Order states that all beta children are to be separated from their families at fifteen to move on to the job they’ll hold for the rest of their lives.
While Nancy’s been here for as long as I can remember, both Beth and Cleo started working at Sage House about when they were fifteen. Neither of them has seen a single member of their families in the five years they’ve been here.
Cleo told me she once went into Coriander’s to pick something up for Isolde, and it wasn’t until she left that she realized the beta at the makeup counter was her youngest sister.
“Do you want to go back and talk to her?” I’d asked. “I’ll cover for you, and you could—”
But she cut me off with a guffaw and a shrug. “Nah, I don’t much care to know her. She works at Coriander’s! Whatever would we talk about?”
I was shocked by her indifference, but it made me realize how lucky I am. I’ve got Gran and I’ve been able to spend my entire life in one place, and it’s been happy, mostly, and probably a lot easier than some betas’ lives.
But through it all, I lost sight of the one thing a beta should never forget—my place.
Because no matter how nice my life has been, I’ll never be one of them.
Noah may carry me to my bed when I fall. Stella and I may share whispered secrets and fight like sisters. And Isolde may be the only real mother figure I’ve ever known.
But I’ll only ever be their maid.
And I think I finally understand that now.
So, during my kitchen exile, I’ve gone through the motions of a well-behaved beta. I cook meals for Noah and Isolde. Wash their dishes. Iron their clothes. And, of course, I drink every cup of tea Gran puts in front of me.
Is this what being accountable means? My ghost demands from deep inside me. Because it sucks.
During the day, it’s easy to ignore. Each time thoughts of Noah weave their way into the hard shell surrounding my consciousness, I stomp them out.
And when a memory of Isolde’s face telling me to be accountable pops into my head, I breathe it out with a deep, resigned sigh and focus intently—almost painfully—on the shirt, soup, or countertop in front of me.
But at night in bed, I can’t contain the tears. I weep for my childhood. For the unbridled hope that used to live inside me. And for him. It feels like something has come to an end. Like I’m mourning a life I never really had.
I had an especially bad cry last night, so all day today, I’ve felt a bit raw and on edge. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to realize there’s something going on with Gran.
She’s been ill all week and getting worse by the day—coughing, sneezing, and wheezing. But whenever I question her about it or encourage her to sit down, she dismisses me with an unintelligible grunt and a wave of her grisly hand.
And now, watching her drag a wobbly, wooden chair over to the tall cupboard that lines the far wall, I prepare myself for an argument.
“Let me get what you need, Gran,” I call out from where I’m kneading bread across the kitchen.
“No, I got it.” Garblegarblecoughcough. She wheezes unintelligibly, followed by a quick, accusing glare as she lifts a leg to climb up on the chair.
“You shouldn’t be balancing on a chair like that,” I insist sternly.
She ignores me, and I release an exasperated sigh as I reach for a towel to wipe my hands. I step closer, watching warily as she shakily climbs the chair and wobbles on her toes.
I wince when her entire body trembles as she wheezes and gasps, her fingers dancing around a bowl blindly. Presumably, she’s trying to reach a large ceramic bowl sitting on a high shelf.
This is ridiculous.
She doesn’t notice Cleo and Beth come stomping up from the basement, on their way to venture down the hill into town. I only nod vaguely at them, my eyes glued to Gran.
Beth only gives the situation a sideways, suspicious glance—she’s been yelled at by Gran too many times today to interfere. But Cleo’s always been the one with the biggest heart—or the stupidest, depending on how you want to look at it. She stops and stands next to me.
“What is she doing?” she whispers in my ear worriedly. “She looks terrible.”
