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The building was filled with a blinding golden light, brighter than the sun, brighter than anything Gothel had ever seen. She wondered how she hadn’t seen the light from outside the building.
“Magic, my dear!” said Manea with a laugh.
Gothel was dazzled by the brilliance of the flowers, too awestruck to reply to her mother. She couldn’t guess how many flowers were in the room. Her mother had placed them around the circumference of the conservatory on many rows of tiered benches, resembling seats in an amphitheater. The entire room was filled with the flowers, except the very center, which had some magical markings painted on the floor and a small wooden table with some of her mother’s magical items on it.
The light of the rapunzel flowers was glowing more brightly than the lights coming from the numerous lanterns her mother had hung on large wrought-iron hooks around the room. The sight of it almost took her breath away.
“This is your real inheritance, Gothel. This is our legacy,” said Manea, her arms outstretched.
“The rapunzel?” asked Gothel in a small voice.
“Yes, my intelligent beast. After I’m gone, it will be your job to protect it! This is paramount, my blackhearted child. If you intend to live as many lifetimes as I have, then you will have to protect the rapunzel, if for no other reason than to ensure you and your sisters will always be safe from the indignity of old age.”
“I understand.”
“I think you do, my dear.” Manea paused, then continued. “There’s something I want to tell you, something you can’t share with your sisters. They wouldn’t understand. Remember when I said that hurting you would be like hurting myself?”
“I do.”
“Did you wonder what I meant by that?”
Gothel looked into her mother’s eyes, searching for the answer, and then she realized she had always known. She had felt it since she was very young, but never had the proper words until that moment.
“Because I am you. I don’t know how, but I can feel it.”
“You’ve always been the smart one, my sweet. Always so sensible. You know I love your sisters, but you’re truly mine, Gothel. You’re my favorite,” said Manea, giving her daughter a rare smile.
“Really? Is that true?” asked Gothel, wondering if her mother was being honest with her.
“What makes you doubt it?”
“Our names,” said Gothel in a small voice.
Manea laughed. “Because you don’t have a flower name? You think that makes you any less precious to me? It makes you unique, Gothel. It makes you special. Now go. I have much to prepare before our ceremony later tonight.”
“Mother, you’re not planning to go into the mists anytime soon, are you?”
“No, dear. I have a lot to teach you before I do. Does that disappoint you?”
“No. Not at all!”
“Good! Now go! I have a lot of work to do.”
Gothel was quietly reading a book in the library while her sisters sat nearby, fidgeting nervously. There was a large fire blazing in the stone fireplace flanked by enormous skull statues that supported the stone mantel. The light from the flames was dancing on the numerous leather-bound books that filled the wall-to-wall bookshelves dominating the room. That was Gothel’s favorite place in the world; she always felt at peace there. So many books to read and worlds to escape into, so much history to learn. No matter what was happening, no matter how distressing it was, all she had to do was go to the library and all would be well in her world. That evening was different. She couldn’t distract herself from what was happening in just a few short hours. That night everything was going to change.
“You’re nervous,” said Primrose, curled up in a black leather chair across the room. Gothel thought it was interesting that Primrose always chose that chair: the one with the carving of an old tree filled with ravens on the wall behind it. There were many carvings like that around their mansion, but that tree was a little different from all the others; there were blooms, almost too small to see, just little sprouts, bursting from the branches, and Gothel wondered if her sister had even noticed. It was so like Primrose to be surrounded by life, and by color. She wondered how her poor sister had found herself in such a dreary place. It was as if she had been brought there from another world. Now, her sister Hazel looked like she belonged there. She looked as though all the color had been leached from her. She looked like a ghost, sitting in her chair near the fireplace, the light dancing off the carvings of winged griffons behind her.
“Am I nervous?” asked Gothel, surprised.
“Well, I know I am!” said Primrose.
“Honestly, I’m not sure how I’m feeling. Excited, maybe? I don’t know.” Gothel stood up. “Oh, my goodness! Think about it, Prim! In a few hours, after we take Mother’s blood, we’re going to be able to hear each other’s thoughts, like all the time!”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m as excited about that as you are, Gothel,” said Primrose, rolling her eyes.
“Why?” asked Gothel.
“Oh, I don’t know, Gothel, maybe it has something to do with never having privacy ever again!”
