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Thicket gripped the sword he had given her, doing her best to block out the thoughts and tumbling fears as she glanced down the hall at her family’s old wing.

Caspian’s warning masked all the warmth she accumulated from the bath, turning her wet curls to ice as they clung to her freckled cheeks. But she had to see it. Had to revisit a piece of who she had been when this had all started.

But standing before her old bedroom…

Caspian had been right. The sight was unnerving.

Thicket’s room was in shreds. Her sheets were torn and scorched in various places, as though small fires or lightning had charred the fabric. Her walls had slashes cut through them, and the wallpaper was missing large chunks where it had been torn straight off the wall. Her furniture was broken into mere splinters, scattered throughout the room. Her wardrobe was knocked over, revealing her clothes which spilled out of the open door. All of the fancy gowns and dresses were shredded, pieces of it tossed around the room, as if someone had played a game of he loves me, he loves me not with it.

Lavender had done this.

Her sister had done this, had caused such destruction in a mere temper tantrum. Thicket wondered when it had happened. During the curse? After she had woken up for the first time? Or perhaps periodically, taking her frustration out on Thicket’s belongings since she had been out of reach.

As sad as she was to see her room in shambles, it wasn’t because she mourned any of her belongings or the room itself; she had no sentimental value to any of it. The thing that made her insides sag was that her own sister had hated her so much that she wreaked such havoc on a place that had been, in a way, the essence of Thicket.

She had wanted to see her old room to maybe learn something about herself—the Thicket she was before the curse—out of pure curiosity. She was almost glad she saw this instead. It was a reminder that the old Thicket was dead, gone, never to return.

It also put things in perspective. A small part of her had hoped Lavender would see the error in her ways and that with time to reflect, she might feel some remorse for her actions. But after seeing her room in shambles… Thicket no longer clung to that hope. Her sister was twisted and wicked, driven to evil by her own insecurities, just as Thicket had been driven to cowardice by her own self doubt.

Everyone started somewhere and Thicket liked to believe that that somewhere was good. But along the way, they encountered challenges that threatened that goodness. One could either choose to accept it and move on, overcome it, or let those challenges consume them and morph it into something dark. She was grateful she had been able to overcome her challenges and that her soul had been able to withstand them. Had possessed enough light to keep her morality intact. She, just as anybody else, could have easily fallen down Lavender’s path.

That alone drove her to the room across the hall. To her surprise, it felt familiar to her. It was only after stepping inside that she realized why.

This was Lavender’s room—the room from her dreams. It had the same dark walls and fireplace stacked with various textbooks. And across from it, the vanity mirror. Thicket approached and picked up the hairbrush her sister had used in her dreams. By the thick coating of dust outlining where the hairbrush had once rested, she knew her sister hadn’t touched this room in a very long time.

Thicket left and approached the third and final room at the hall’s end.

The suite was as large as her house had been in the Dream World. A bed sat in the center, coupled with matching nightstands on either side. On her right was a sitting room. It didn’t appear to be used often. Chests were stacked in the corner behind the sofas, making the space appear more like a storage room than anything else.

Curiosity brought Thicket closer. She opened the lid of the first chest to see it piled with various objects, some of which were clothes from both a man and a woman.

Thicket’s breath caught in her throat. This had once been her parents’ room.

She lifted one of her mother’s old dresses from the chest, made of rippling emerald and cream fabric, the edges of which were embroidered with shimmering golden thread. She brought it up to her nose, breathing in its scent. Past the chalky notes of dust, Thicket detected the slightest hit of jasmine mingling with fresh roses.

Her chest caved in. It was the exact same perfume her mother had always worn in the Dream World. Thicket’s phoenix cooed softly, its warmth igniting the space beside her heart, as though trying to fill the hollowness carved in her soul.

Clutching the dress, she headed for the closet on the opposite side of the living room, wanting to see what else her parents had left behind. Strung across racks were a series of elegant dresses in every shade of purple imaginable. On the surface, they appeared to be perfect but as Thicket inspected it closer, she noticed hints of wear. Loose threads and patches where the fabric had thinned.

These were Lavender’s clothes. After a century of abusing the same garments without any seamstresses to fix or replace them, they had taken a toll.

Thicket backed away, spinning to take in the world anew. Her sister had claimed this room for herself, shoving their parent’s belongings aside to make room for her own. Thicket hugged her mother’s dress tighter to her chest.

What had it been like, to live, to sleep, in a room once occupied by your parents? To have their presence, their scent, their memories coat every surface like old, chipping paint?

What had it been like to live in the room of those she had killed?

Thicket made her way to her parent’s—her sister’s—the bed, slowly settling herself upon the mattress. It dipped under her weight. On the nightstand beside her, a book on advanced magic sat, well worn and with a spine that was barely strung together with loose threads. Another book sat beneath it, this one somehow in an even worse state. Thicket rested her mother’s dress on her lap and drew the second book out.

The leather cover was flimsy and scratched, yet she could still make out a set of initials printed on the bottom right corner. She traced the letters MV with her index finger. It matched her mother’s initials.

Maria Vogeli.

Maybe this would tell her a bit more about her parents. About her life.

Thicket thumbed the book open and immediately drew back. The page was cramped full of scribbled text. Hardly a fleck of white remained visible. Thicket turned the page, her head already hurting from the moments she had attempted deciphering it. The next several pages were similar. She skipped those as well, not bothering to read them, stopping when she came across a page that was startling blank—except for a stream of text flowing down the left hand side.

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