That’s not how I feel at all.
It’s only when my feet stop, my body rigid and unmoving, that I look up and find myself outside the stone façade of my childhood home. The windows are dark with dust and age. The moss on the roof is denser too. But so much of it is the same. The wrought-iron gate. The carved filigree patterns etched on the door. And even though the plants that filled the window ledges are wilted and yellow, the pots are still there. My mother’s pots. Thisismy home.
There is no light inside it, no sense that anyone has occupied it since my family was forcefully evicted all those years ago.
I stare at the lock on the door. I have no key. And yet, no sooner than the thought forms than I catch sight of something glittering atop one of the planters. A key, which I could have sworn wasn’t there even a heartbeat ago.
‘Thank you, Etta,’ I murmur as I pick up the heavy brass item and slip it into the lock. For what little it is worth, the Goddess has certainly held up her side of the bargain.
My breath stutters as I stand on the threshold of my home, key in place. This is what I wanted. To return here. So why am I quavering? Because without my family it will never be a home, merely a house.
A house filled with memories that may yet destroy me.
Steeling myself against whatever waits for me inside, I draw in a long breath, turn the key, and step over the threshold.
The hallway is dim and cold, surfaces layered with dust and grime, and yet somehow it is exactly as I remember it. The green tapestries on the walls. The golden chandeliers. The curved windows letting in light from the High Hold and beyond. It is four stories of luxury and even includes an orangery with more plants than anywhere else in Wrohelm, excluding the Goddess’s Garden, of course.
All that is missing is my family.
Closing my eyes, I inhale so deeply it is as though I am trying to pull the memories from the woodwork, to force laughter and songs and aromas of cooking and brews from the very bricks of the building. But as a single tear trickles down my cheek, I face the fact that even the Goddess cannot grant me that.
Summer is respectfully silent as I reacquaint myself with my old home, running my fingers along the wooden wall panels. When I feel achink in the wood, the memory hits as hard as the clanging of metal all those years ago. I was sparring with my father. We were only meant to use wooden swords in the house, but Mother was working – healing – and so we took the risk. Father always had a sixth sense of when she would return home, giving us time to hide the evidence of our shenanigans. On this occasion, though, the damage was too great to repair, and Mother chastised us both sternly.No swords in the house.
A sad laugh threatens to form in my throat, but before it can, Summer breaks the silence.
‘M’lady, should I prepare you something to eat?’ she suggests, wiping her hands on her pinafore as if she is readying herself to work. ‘Unless you ate at the ball?’
I did not. It’s been over a day since I last ate, though I haven’t noticed any hunger. It’s not a surprise. I know better than most how heartbreak and devastation can destroy a person’s appetite.
However, now that food has been mentioned, hunger pangs bloom as a dull ache beneath my ribs.
‘Some food would be good, thank you,’ I say gratefully. ‘Come. I’ll show you to the kitchen.’
At some point I’ll have to give her a tour of the entire house, but even showing Summer the kitchen, the heart of the home where my mother would brew and cook, where we would eat our meals – or in Florian’s case, mush it into his highchair – feels somehow wrong without Kay present.
As I continue down the hallway, another memory surfaces: Kay riding upon my back, using me not as a horse, but as a dire wolf; the sound of my father’s familiar belly laughs rolling through the air as he bounced a giggling Florian in his arms, while Kay struggled to remain on my increasingly bucking frame. In the end, Kay had marched off sulking because I wasn’t being anice wolfy,too focused on making our brother laugh. Perhaps that was true. I can’t even remember now. But I wish I could.
‘It’s a little worn and dusty…’ Summer mutters as she looks around, assessing her new place of employment. ‘But nowhere near as dirty as it should be.’
She’s not wrong. Though it may not be filthy, everything is on the wrong side of old.
Pots with overgrown vines clutter the shelves. They’re part of my mother’s history, and from the way several have risen up the wall, their tendrils intertwined, her irrigation system appears to have been working all this time. Even so, many are half-dead, having outgrown their too-small pots years ago, with white roots bursting through the bottoms. The temptation to help them is too much.
I reach out with my magic and give a turn of my wrist, then watch in wonder as stems shift and straighten, and wilted leaves turn lush and verdant, as the plants return to health before my eyes. They’ll need repotting – and soon – but I can give them this for now, at least.
‘Oh m’lady! Your magic is beautiful,’ Summer gasps.
A smile lingers momentarily on my lips before I turn my attention to the rest of the kitchen. It is hard to see the space with fresh eyes rather than ones layered with nostalgia, but I try. If this is the home we will live in, then it is important to see it with a view to moving forward rather than staying stuck in the past.
Only madness and despair lie that way. I should know.
Besides, I know it’s what our parents would have wanted for me: a fresh start.
Though in truth, there is nothing fresh about the kitchen. The large table requires cleaning, as do the floor and the countertops. In fact, everything requires cleaning, meaning that, as hungry as I am, cooking will have to wait until this place has been dealt with.
‘I think there might be some buckets and cloths under the sink,’ I tell Summer, already moving into action. Having a job to do will help me keep my mind off Kay and Kyor, and right now that’s what I need. ‘With both of us working, we should be able to get it useable quickly enough.’
‘Both of us?’ she says, blinking. ‘M’lady, you can’t clean. Your dress …’
