Page 5 of The Silversmith

“I found… something,” I began, uncertain whether to reveal the contents of the note, “and confronted her about it.”

“Good.” She pursed her lips and assessed me. “I hope you gave her hell.”

When she’d lived with us, Gemma worked to cultivate in me the biting wit she spoke of, but defiance and aggression didn’t come as naturally to me. She said I was too timid, dangerously so. In my defense, I hadn’t had much time or opportunity to practice fighting back, not while holed up in this secluded cabin.

“She’s not coming back,” said Gemma.

My heart sank. I knew it was true, but hearing her say it cut deep. “I figured as much.”

“You don’t seem too devastated.”

“I’m angry, not devastated. I presume she left me for a reason.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Why are you here?” I mindlessly scratched my elbow just to keep my hands busy. “Why now?”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to be alone for three damn months!” she hissed. “I was originally given the order to come back two weeks from now, right after your nineteenth birthday, but the timeline changed.”

“Given the order by who?”

“Elowen wasn’t supposed to leave,” she said without answering my question. “She was supposed to stay with us, but that woman does as she wants.”

“She’s alive?”

Gemma nodded. “Last I heard.”

Sighing, knees trembling with relief, I sat down across from Gemma. My mother and I hadn’t parted on the best terms. The bond between us was weak, and I may have not wept for long over her death. That didn’t mean I wished for it.

“I need to show you something,” I said.

I unfolded the letter to S and placed it in front of her. She glanced for less than a second, then covered it with her palm and crinkled it into her fist.

“Do you know who he is?” I pressed.

She took a swig of water and avoided my pleading eyes.

With a curdling stomach, I snatched the glass from her hands so she had little choice but to match my stare. “Gemma, who is this letter written to?”

“Damn Elowen for leaving me to do her dirty work.” With a reluctant sigh, she met my gaze and tilted her head at me. Her eyes held curiosity and pity that irked me. She gestured for me to return the water. “Did you ever wonder why Phillip was a drunkard?”

My mother had never confessed to blaming me for my father’s drinking. She didn’t have to. The melancholic expression he’d often worn in my presence made it clear there was something about me that haunted him, and she resented that. Resented me.

“Of course I wondered,” I answered softly, sliding her glass across the table. I’d always wrestled with the suspicion that his issues began and ended with me.

“Did you ever wonder why you don’t look like him?”

I looked down at my fair-skinned hands. My father and little brother had tawny complexions with dirty-blond hair, a stark contrast to my pale skin and strange silvery locks.

“I never looked like Elowen, either.” Though I’d envied her stunning chestnut waves, high cheekbones, and hazel eyes. I rose from my seat and walked over to the counter and poured water from the kettle into a stoneware mug for tea.

“That’s because you look like your father.” Her fingers danced on the small oak table. “Your real father.”

I gulped and allowed the warmth of the mug to soothe the quickening chill in my fingers that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air.

“S?” I asked, barely whispering.

“Simeon. Simeon Whitlock.”

I thought I’d heard the name before. Maybe once or twice, my father—Phillip—and mother had mentioned him when they thought I wasn’t listening. Something about his wishes, his orders, and it not being “time.”

“My mother had an affair?”