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Ainsley
The woman staring back at me in the reflection of the mirror was barely recognizable. In only a week’s time, I’d slimmed down. My face was taut, paled. The bags beneath my eyes were thick and heavy with the same darkness that I felt had swallowed me whole.
I was alone.
Jackson was here, yes. But he was busy taking care of things. As was I. Locked in a room with mountains of paperwork, and only a small amount of training on how to actually be the Duchess of Rookhallow Proper.
However, it had kept me busy. So busy, in fact, that it allowed the pain that Jackson and I shared to be quashed to nearly nothing.
Except for the part where Killian hadn’t returned as he’d said he would. I was convinced there was an explanation. The keys or Hattie’s ridiculous notion of heroism must have stalled him. Perhaps he was protecting me by taking orders from her.
But whatever the case, he had left me alone.
I twisted the braid around in my hair. My mother had always begged me to wear it like this. Today was for her. And no pain other than the pain of being in a world without her was allowed inside today.
I straightened, dropping my shoulders, and looking at myself again.
A bit of makeup. Rouge perhaps? She liked it when I would make an effort at these things.
“We have five minutes, Ains,” Jackson spoke through the crack of the door. His voice was different, hollower. One day, perhaps things here would be as they were. And happiness could live once more.
“I’m almost done,” I said.
A few swipes of the brushes later had me set. The counter held a beautiful, mirrored tray that spun, displaying all the various fragrances, perfumes, and makeup options. It had been my mother’s. I picked up the bottle of her favorite scent and inhaled it before gripping the container to my chest. I sprayed it on my wrists and then dabbed two dots behind each ear, before pocketing the entire bottle.
Ready,I thought to myself.
Jackson had prepared the carriages and the entire procession to the memorial. It was to be held in the small white church just down the road from the manor, where my mother had volunteered and ran a little kitchen that would send baked goods to the needy of Darkhold.
I gazed out the carriage window behind us and saw a grotesque number of black carriages rolling along with us.
“That many?” I questioned.
Jackson nodded. “There’s more than will fit in the church. They have figured out how to let everyone pay respects, though. Nothing to worry yourself about.” He stared out of the window, his hand over his mouth. “She was adored.”
“She was.”
Jackson dropped his hand on the seat, and I gladly took it. We sat quietly, hand in hand until the carriage slowed. “Ready?” he inquired.
No. “Yes.”
We stepped out and I was grateful that we would be the first ones inside. The first seated. That others could file in, and I would not have to look at their sad faces staring at me.
Throughout the entire service, I felt the weight of the stares, nonetheless. They looked on in sympathy, some looked on in anticipation of the first mistakes I would make. Others were betting on how long it would take me to fail. Society was just as cold and calculating as it had been when I had left. Funeral or not.
I recalled feeling that overwhelming sensation and having my mother’s hand to guide me during my father's memorial. When Gretta turned up. My lip twitched at the thought of her, but then I smiled, thankful that I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.
The haze of the handshakes, curtseys, and condolences blurred together. Jackson stood by my side, and to his credit, handled much more than I could.
“I wouldn’t have made it without you,” I said, hugging him after the very last person had left the church. We were to remain behind until everyone had cleared, and then we were free to leave. To go back to life and get on with things, as though one memorial could heal the pain of loss.
“You’re Ainsley Lilstrum. You would have made it regardless of my presence.” His smile was the most genuine I’d seen the entire week.
“Now I only have to make them proud,” I said.
“You will—”
Jackson was cut off from the rest of the sentiment by the church door clicking open and shut. We turned toward the back, and I honestly couldn’t tell if it was relief flooding my gut or anger.
