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“Of course,” she says, jerking her thumb back down the hall. She turns to walk that way. “I’ll go have a chat with Sir Jaymes the Third. He’s down the hall on the corner.”
I giggle at the thought of her striking up a conversation with my great grandfather and watch until she’s out of earshot before turning back to my mother. Now that I’m alone, the desire to be closer to her hits me, forcing my feet forward until I can run my fingers along the wax coating. I know it doesn’t truly bring me any closer to her, but the surface under my fingertips brings me the tiniest bit of comfort.
Unsure of where to begin, I close my eyes and imagine my mother is standing in front of me, alive and well. Her luminous silver hair is pulled back into its usual bun, and staring into her crystal blue eyes is like staring at my reflection. I don’t imagine her sick in bed, the blankets drawn up to her chin to help sweat out the brutal fever. Instead, we’re standing in the library, her favorite place, and she’s wearing a burgundy dress with gold details.
She looks beautiful, happy.
That’s how I want to remember her.
“You’ll never guess what dad’s been up to,” I say lightheartedly, trying to get the words flowing. If I can get past the awkwardness of pretending she’s really there, maybe I can get through everything weighing on my heart.
I imagine her rolling her eyes, a mannerism I learned from her when I was young, before a familiar smile finds her lips. “Nothing good, I’m sure.”
Yep. That sounds exactly like something she would say.
My eyes pop open for a second and I take a seat near the head of the casket, thankful for the layers of my dress providing a cushion against the unforgiving floor. After glancing down the hall again to where Lizette is entertaining my ancestor, I lean my head back and close my eyes again.
This time, when I picture my mother, she’s sitting in her favorite high-backed chair in the library, her hands folded in her lap. A thin gold circlet she prefers over a crown sits on top of her hair.
“What has he done this time?” she asks, her familiar voice sending goosebumps racing up my arms. It’s like I can really hear her, even though I know it’s all in my head.
I know she’s not really here, but dread still twists my stomach as I think about everything I came to tell her. I know it would break her heart if she were still alive. With a deep breath, I steel my nerves.
“I’m getting married,” I whisper.
For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, and I search her face for a hint of disappointment. I’m surprised when her smile widens.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m very proud.”
“What?” My brow furrows and my eyes narrow. “Proud that I’m marrying a monster?”
She shakes her head softly and adjusts herself in the chair, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m proud of you for doing what’s right for our kingdom,” she assures me, and my throat tightens a little. “You’re selfless and loyal, and I know you’ll make a stunning bride.”
Selfless and loyal. Hopefully that means wherever her spirit is, she didn’t see my tantrum in the throne room. She doesn’t know how selfish I can be.
“Right,” I mumble. “I just wish you were here to see me.”
My throat tightens again, cutting off my words. The thought has crossed my mind more than once this week, but remembering that my mother won’t see me in my wedding dress brings with it a fresh swell of emotions and the corners of my eyes begin to sting. I squeeze my eyelids shut to fight back the tears. I’ve done enough crying the last few nights–tears will do nothing to change my destiny or make things any easier.
“What if I can’t do what everyone is expecting?” I ask to change the subject. “What if I can’t establish the alliance and save our kingdom? What if I fail?”
“Sweetheart,” her soothing voice wraps around me and she reaches for my hand. I swear I can almost feel her thumb sliding gently across my skin. “It’s so easy to focus on the negatives, especially when we’re afraid. You have to pour your energy into the positives. Believe it, and you will achieve it.”
It sounds so easy when she puts it that way, and her positive outlook is exactly how she would have reacted if she was alive. When I succumbed to the anxiety of worst-case scenarios, my mother always maintained an optimistic disposition. She looked for the silver lining in every situation, always sought the best in people.
She was such a bright light in the world, and my life is much dimmer without her here.
“I’ll try,” I say, because it’s all I can manage. “I just don’t want to let anyone down.”
“You won’t. Not trying would be the only way to let them down,” she says. “I know you’ll give it your best.”
I nod, drinking in her encouragement like it alone will get me through this ordeal. I will give it my all, and I will make her proud. I have to. So much is riding on this marriage.
“What if they’re as terrible as we’ve imagined?” My voice is still low, and my stomach turns slightly when I imagine the ruthless creatures that have taken so much from us. Every time I think about meeting them face to face, I’m paralyzed with fear. What if they plan to take more from me than I can give?
“That is always a possibility,” my mother says, withdrawing her hand and getting to her feet.
Standing, we’re almost the same height, nearly eye to eye. Being in front of her is like glimpsing into a mirror of the future. She is what I will look like in twenty years–if I live that long. The minotaurs might choose to cut my life short.
