Page 5 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“I stay with my men,” Prince Odhran clarifies with a snarl.

The air is stale with tension as they glare at each other. Neither of them yielding. Neither making a move. “Then I bid you a good night, Your Highness.” My father drops his chin to his chest, lowering into a poorly executed bow.

“Your hospitality has been… generous.” Prince Odhran smirks, sarcasm practically oozing from his pores when he raises his chin. He passes my father to collect not only a refill for his empty glass but the entire bottle from the cabinet, along with a spare. My father seethes, his hands balling into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t say a word. His collection is his treasure, which is being plundered while he stands defenceless. When Prince Odhran turns, I finally see his face and the smirk I sensed earlier. That smirk disappears instantly the moment he finds me watching him from the shadows, listening in on their private conversation. By right, he can have me dragged to the town square for my ear to be removed this very instant. According to the king’s decree, he’s obligated to. A single offender sliding past without reprimand sets a standard for more to follow. Letting me go is the start of chaos.

My heart races, and I scurry back. The shadow from the balustrades is narrow, but I’m hidden within it. I ought not to be visible at all. Blood roars in my ears as every beat of my heart pounds painfully in my chest, panic coursing through me.

“Too late, young one. One can’t hide once seen.” The menacing voice laughs from the echoes of my mind.

My muscles tense, locking me in place as I watch the man below. I stare at him while he looks directly at me in return. One moment stretches into another until time practically stands still. Then he straightens his posture, flattens the lapels of his black coat, and exits the manor without a formal acknowledgement of my presence or my intrusion.

A cold breeze blows from behind me, brushing against my cheek, and I jump to my feet, padding to my room as quickly and as quietly as I can. My hands tremble. If he truly saw me, if he reports my transgression… I feel sick. There will be no one to defend me against his allegation. No one willing. No one able. Not even Declan. Unless… I swallow, suppressing my fears. Unless he lies and says I was with him. His family will exile him from their home. Our lives will change instantly. He’d blame me for it all.

I’d rather lose a damn ear than hurt him.

If Declan even thinks of saving me… I squeeze my eyes shut. I won’t allow it.

FOUR

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Be weary on the eve of Samhain. This is when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. Angering a spirit may earn you a free ride to the other side.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

“Wake up, lazybones,” Laoise chimes, invading the solitude of my bedroom.

“Go away!” I roll onto my stomach and cover my head with my pillow.

“You’ve already missed breakfast. Do you mean to miss lunch, too?” Her footsteps pause. “Brynney?” she whines, drawing out the nickname she gave me. I sigh heavily into my mattress. She isn’t going to leave me alone. That much is clear. I love my sister, but sometimes she can be downright annoying.

I fist my bedding in my palms, wanting nothing more than to sleep and dream of the quiet meadows beyond these walls, to hide and pray the world forgets about me… that Prince Odhran forgets me. If I simply disappear, it will be so much easier for everyone.

“What day is it?” I ask, clearing my throat.

She doesn’t need to vocalise her answer. I know from her high pitched squeal that it’s the first of seven days leading to Samhain. When I was a little girl, we could expect feasts, dancing in the village square, and merchants with masks and exotic dresses on display, but the real event was always on the night of Samhain when we’d light the bonfire at the center of the yard and dance barefoot, wearing our finest dresses and animal themed masks. The air smelled of fire, sage, and juniper, and sounded of my mother’s voice, singing songs that felt more like stories. What we have now, since my mother’s passing sixteen years ago and the marriage of my father to his second wife, is the watered down version. My stepmother took what was special and unique, ripped its heart out, and served her version of Samhain on a silver platter for all to consume, and I hate her for it. I hate that she erased my mother from the celebration of Samhain despite the tradition of remembering our dead during this time. It makes it hard for me to smile and be excited. Laoise leaps from my bed with a cheerful shriek. Her footsteps are hurried yet light as she dances to the far end of my room. I groan into my mattress once more, begging for some form of reprieve. Maybe she’ll leave and come back later.

The abrasive sound of my armoire opening grabs my attention, and my blood chills in an instant. Nobody rifles through my belongings. I count on them not to. One only needs to open the third drawer to find the dried black flowers I harvested from the woods two weeks ago. I keep them hidden underneath my favourite shawl, alongside my mother’s journal and her copy of The Herbal Healer’s Handbook. One of these was meant to burn along with the last of my mother’s belongings, and only someone who should be locked away for witchcraft has use for the other. Their discovery will be damning at best.

There are no exact signs that identify someone as a witch. It can be an inexplicable recovery from illness, or an onset of mental instability. It can even be a mark on their skin that wasn’t there before, or an awkward laugh. Somehow, the royal guard knows immediately when a witch is in their presence. People showing signs of witchery are removed from society immediately, taken to the palace or some place undisclosed to us. All I know is that those reaped, are never seen again, and that villages and towns are inspected by the royal guard once a year in order to identify those who have not willingly surrendered to the crown.

My father knew of my mother’s heritage and kept her away from the royal guard and any other formal gathering. She was hidden while she was well, and when her condition worsened, she was locked in her room in isolation until her passing. My father called her confinement a mercy, but I still remember the mouldy smell of her room. The door closed and windows sealed shut. The sharp fragrance of burnt sage and juniper was stifling, but the growing paleness of her skin every time I snuck in to see her was worse. There were always plates of food on her bedside table, but she shrank away before my eyes. Her hands were rendered skin and bones when I held them last. Skin and bones and cold as ice. I don’t know if sickness killed her, if magic devoured her spirit from within, or if starvation was her silent murderer.

I blink past my fatigue. The room around me slowly comes into focus through my narrowed lids. Despite the dark oak floorboards and matching furnishings, my room is bizarrely bright. My heavy emerald-green curtains sway gently back and forth, billowing in a breeze that shouldn’t be blowing. A golden spear of light illuminates every fleck of dust floating in the air before me, like tiny specks of gold suspended in time.

“Why don’t you have anything colourful in your wardrobe!” Laoise closes the first drawer with a heavy slap and reaches for the next.

I stand and rush toward her. “Lee…”

She yanks the second drawer open and rifles through its contents. Every muscle in my body contracts. “Honestly, Brynney, you need a new wardrobe. Desperately! I’ll bring this to our governess’s attention immediately. How will you ever find a suitor—”

“Laoise, stop. I can dress myself.” My head spins as I close in on her. I should’ve hidden them better. I should’ve known. If she finds them… How will I explain this to her? She shoves the drawer back in and tugs on the third, ignoring me completely.

“You must have—”

“Laoise, no!”

I lunge forward, slamming the drawer shut as she opens it. At first, she’s silent. For one painful moment, she says nothing but stares down at her hands in shock and disbelief. Those three seconds feel like minutes. Then her scream fills the room, and my insides quiver, turning to liquid. Dread draws all the heat from my cheeks as I look at her. There, wedged between the dark oak frame and its matching drawers, are four delicate fingers. Trapped. My eyes widen. She’ll be ok. No one has to know. She’ll be ok. I want to pace the small space in front of the armoire. I want to pull her free. Time feels as if it’s at a standstill and racing forward all at once.