Page 3 of Cross + Catherine: The Companion

She surprises me.

She tells me this felt normal. That watching Cece grow from a young girl to a young woman was normal, too. And, she adds, “It always kind of felt like this was where Cece was going to end up, but we didn’t know how long it would take for her to settle on it.”

Catherine raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. It kind of strikes me how much she looks like the red-headed woman in the picture next to the leather chair she rests in. Her mother, Catrina. The dark hair and green eyes come from her father, but she’s definitely her mother’s child.

“Being a Queen Pin and a mother must be …”

“It’s a challenge, but I like those.”

She offers it like there’s nothing else to ask or say, and so I don’t ask anything more in that vein.

My gaze drifts to the photo on the stand again of her mother. Catherine catches me watching it, and smiles.

“Do you know there are some who consider your mother to be a very cold woman?” I ask.

Catherine’s laughter is both light, and bitter. Sharp like glass, and yet sweet like maple syrup. I think if that person was close enough to feel the coldness radiating from Catherine at the idea of someone disliking her mother, they would turn into ice.

Her mother was the best mother, she explains, her tone warming again. The kind of mother that supported her children no matter what, and always took their interests into perspective before inserting her own.

“And she loves us,” Catherine adds, shrugging, “she has always loved us even in times when we didn’t give her very much to love. I would like to know what is so cold about that.”

I couldn’t tell her.

I don’t know, either.

And with that question, it’s clear Catherine is done for the moment. All it takes is the suggestion that someone might criticize her mother, and she shuts down.

It’s clear—obvious.

Her mother is like her.

They are similar.

They are equally strong women with lives that shaped them into who they are today. A person might not like their choices, or their way of living, or even how they chose to do things, but it is not your life.

It is theirs.

Queens.

This is the queen’s home, and so she should not be insulted.

Still, I dare one more question. “What do you hope the fans of your stories will find within this companion?”

Catherine stills.

Quiets.

Smiles.

“I hope they find our life is good,” she murmurs, “and that alone makes them happy.”

I, too, hope it makes you happy.

—Bethany-Kris