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“My flight leaves—”
“Just shut up and come, alright? I’m not the only idiot that misses you. Atticus has already messaged me five times, asking if you’ll be there.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek and thought about the friends I left behind. Maybe if I were a different girl, I could have happily accepted his invitation and reunited with the guys I knew as a teen. But every second here threatened my safety. “I’ll think about it,” I whispered. It was a lie. There was nothing to think about.
He huffed. “Whatever. I learned not to get my hopes up about you three years ago when you disappeared without a word. I’m not willing to beg you to be a part of my life anymore. Come if you want to stop pretending that you left because you wanted to. Leave if you want to spend the rest of your life hiding away on the other side of the world because you’re too afraid to be honest with yourself. I couldn’t care less either way.”
Ouch.
I opened and closed my mouth, struggling with that invisible line of anxiety. I believed in part that I deserved his harsh words, but I also knew that I was a victim of the situation. A sense of hopelessness pervaded the circumstances.
We rode back to the castle in silence, and I made the heartbreaking decision to leave once again.
Chapter Three
CHRISTINE
The bouquet of white roses in my fist had a powerful aroma. Each time I breathed in the floral scent, I was brought back to my earliest childhood memories. I could practically feel my mother’s limber arms wrapped around me, her warm hug settling my wild soul. As a child, I teased her for being so affectionate. Now, I would give anything to feel her embrace.
My heels sank into the muddy dirt as I walked across the cemetery, moving slowly. There was a cool air surrounding me, and I felt goosebumps pebble up on my neck as I struggled to remember exactly where my parents were buried. My last visit here was quite some time ago.
As I walked, I remembered kneeling in the soil with my mother outside our home. We would spend hours in peaceful silence, trimming and working the earth with our nimble fingers. Most members of the elite had gardeners to tend their yards, but not us. Mum enjoyed getting dirt under her nails and kneeling in the filth. She used to sing to the worms she found and whisper prayers over her growing flowers.
The weeks my father was away for work were always the quietest. We would settle into a peaceful routine of pulling weeds and admiring the blooming shrubs. Gardening used to be one of her favorite pastimes. In so many ways, it was a very maternal act. Mum taught me about the right soil and the appropriate amount of sunlight and water. People driving by would stop to admire her masterpiece. The earth was her canvas.
My mother loved to create life; my father enjoyed ending it.
The roses I brought to her last resting place would make her grimace. It was a dismal offering for my departed parents—half-dead flowers tightly cradled in the fist of a negligent daughter. Even the thorns were trimmed off the stems. Mum hated it when florists did that. Thorns should be respected and revered rather than destroyed, according to her.
The danger adds to its beauty, Christine.
Even though the hastily bought flowers were not ideal, I didn’t have much time to find something worthy of my mother’s preferences in the floral department.
As if it mattered at all.
I didn’t practice any religion. It didn’t comfort me to think that my parents were up in heaven, watching over me and worrying about things such as cheap flowers or prodigal daughters. Nothingness was the inevitable outcome of death.
It wasn’t my intention to come here. It was common for some people to visit grave sites religiously, stopping by every day to speak with those they had lost. My parents were buried here the day I last visited. There was no point in talking to an overpriced rock engraved with their names.
Today, however, was different. As I thought about my parents, I felt a sense of boldness and sentimentality. My mother was a very special person to me, and I missed her terribly. The kingdom of Aldrich was a place of pain. These days, all I had was myself.
What a sad, lonely existence.
Though the man who raised me was buried beside her, I didn’t dare look at him. He matched my mother’s warmth with equal coldness. His icy determination and ruthlessness wasn’t something I ached to look back on with fondness. I missed the idea of my father—of a man who loved the women in his life ferociously. As a young girl, I idolized the memory everyone else had, and grieved alongside those who saw the image he portrayed to the public. But as an adult, I remembered the bruises, the beatings, and the brutal words he spewed. Ambition killed my father long before his body died.
“I’m going to graduate with a degree in art history, Mum. You’d be proud of me. Sometimes, I think I love beautiful things because of you.”
I paused, as if expecting my parents to respond. The quiet wind echoed their silence. I breathed in.
“I live in a flat in the city. You’d hate it, P-papa. It’s so loud that sometimes I can’t think. But it’s nice. I live on the top floor.”
Isn’t that what he wanted? For me to live above everyone else, peering down at the world from my perch? Was that why he made allies with corrupt men who promised us prosperity? Why he wanted the king to marry me off to the first lord that offered a fat check?
Occasionally, I felt conflicted by my calm career because it contradicted the violence buried deep within me. I inherited my father’s vengeful nature. It was impossible for me to control my desire to right the wrongs done to me.
My muscles ached as I shifted on my heels.
“I knew you’d come here,” a familiar voice said. I hadn’t heard that rugged tone in years. As I turned around and faced Leo, I dropped the roses.
