Warning: This chapter contains references to violent bullying and child abuse.

I think I’d always loved Elanora. Now, looking back on it, I can’t say there was ever one moment where love struck me as some shockingly, life-altering realization. It felt more natural than that. The same way that dirt soaks up water or that flowers turn towards the sun. 

We’d met at the kingdom’s annual summer fair, when I had been six and Ella would have been around seven. I’d had a hand all knotted up in my mother’s skirt, and Ella had been sprinting ahead of her father. I feared the tall strangers all shouting in excitement while Ella wanted to see exactly what wonders there were to behold. She’d had braided daisies in her golden hair and then stopped when she saw I had none. I couldn’t remember now exactly what she’d said that caused me to release my mother’s skirt--it was all just a fuzzy glow of a memory now.

There had been a slight parting of her smile as she pointed two fingers toward my hair. A rushed, enthused exclamation about yellow daisies looking best against dark hair like mine. 

I was unsure if, in that memory, she’d extended only one or both of her hands out toward me. But I’d never forgotten the way her sun’s afternoon glare caught the edges of the flowers. Or the warmth I felt when she smiled as she carefully tied the stems of the daisies together. It had seemed so effortless as she weaved them into my loosely tied hair and then wrinkled her nose as she laughed. Even now it made my heart thump against my chest. The slow burn of love that never left my heart again. 

Not even two years after that, her father died, and she stopped smiling with the same freedom as that day. 

I’d lost my own father long before I’d ever met Ella. Mine, however, had simply walked out shortly after I was born. I don’t know what thoughts my mother had faced then. Had she thought about throwing me away and starting elsewhere? Had she thought of throwing herself at whatever man would take an abandoned woman with a newborn? Neither of those suited my mother’s style, though. Instead, she had focused entirely on supporting us as a seamstress instead of remarrying. Ella’s mother had never had the chance to prove such resilience. Instead, she died when Ella was young and her father had quickly remarried a woman with her own two daughters. That stepmother and those stepsisters were all she had left after his death. I think, initially, he’d wanted to fill her life with the fullness of a woman’s energy. The sort of energy he believed he lacked. But they'd held another sort of power entirely.

Wickedness. That was the word I’d used for them. It was the first time I think I’d ever used that word. Wicked was what I had called them once when I found Ella with half her hair cut off and unspilled tears in her eyes. She’d still been gripping handfuls of her gold locks with smears of blood left behind where the scissors had gotten too close. 

Wicked. Wicked. Wicked. 

“Good morning,” My mother greeted me. Before I’d even fully settled at the table she placed my breakfast at my spot. The usual thin bowl of porridge was accompanied by an unusual letter. When I looked up at my mother in confusion, she just smiled and nodded towards it.

“What is this?” I asked as I picked it up. A griffin laid imprinted upon the red wax with a daunting sword and shield behind it. The royal seal. I looked at my mother silently once more as she smiled to herself and broke apart a piece of brown bread. My puzzlement only continued as I ripped open the seal. 

I could smell the harsh, earthy notes from my mother’s bread as I studied the words. Nothing about the letter fit into our humble kitchen that housed neither spare dirt nor goods. The script was written in rich, black ink. It was the sort of pigment so dark and clear that we wouldn’t see it in letters between common traders like us. A bottle of it probably cost more than any of the dresses my mother sewed. 

The “T” it began with had so many flourishes to its two lines that it felt like my eyes were traversing through a labyrinth. 

“To Lady Fleming,” I mumbled out loud. Lady? Only outsider traders and peddlers ever used that name for my mother. The slimy flattery that was meant to soften my mother’s eyes towards their wares and overpriced goods. It felt as insincere in writing as it did out loud. The affairs of the royals mattered to us about as much as ours mattered to them. That is to say, not at all. So why did my mother look so happy–“We are pleased to extend the honor and glory of attending a royal ball?” Somehow, the words sounded ominous as I spoke them to her. 

A ball? My mother nodded and offered me a piece of bread. 

“Every lady of marriageable age in the kingdom is invited.” 

Right, the Crown Prince had recently turned eighteen, hadn’t he? They wanted a Crown Princess. Both my mother and I knew it was unlikely any commoner girl like myself would ever be chosen by the royal family. There were occasions when some particularly outstanding commoners married into royalty. They, however, were usually exceptionally beautiful, lucky, or talented. A Duke's long-lost daughter or a chosen of the gods hidden in poverty. Even if it was unlikely to marry the prince, though, it was a good chance for pretty enough young girls from around the kingdom to meet lesser nobles or wealthy merchants. 

“Everyone will need new dresses.” My mother was practically giddy at the words.

Ah. That was why my mother was so happy. There would be so much demand that commissions would spill out from the nobles’ tailors right into our coinbags. It meant a high influx of business for us. A chance for our sewing to be seen by every person of note in our kingdom. If even one of those wealthy merchants or lesser nobles took a liking to one of our dresses, our business would be set for generations. And I’d never have a chance for myself again for my entire life. 

When I finally set the letter down and took the bread from my mother, she stopped me with her eyes. Silent, staring, and considering. 

“Was Elanora here last night, Esther?” It wasn’t particularly accusatory but it made me flinch. 

“No,” I lied and snatched the bread quicker than I intended. It was easier to stare down at my bread than it was at my mother. I never knew what to say to her and it seemed like an instinct to deny some measure of the truth. Even if she knew better. 

It wasn’t that my mother disliked Elanora. She didn’t have time to dislike anyone. But that was exactly the point of contention. There was no time for animosity or charity, for anyone. Her time had to be spent raising her daughter and running her business. As far as she was concerned, it was that noninterference that kept the thin wood in our fireplace and clothes on our backs. A little cinnamon in our porridge wouldn’t hurt either. 

“I can’t say I don’t understand why you’re such a loyal friend,” she said as though I hadn’t said anything at all. I suppose I looked suitably caught, so there was no reason to pretend otherwise. “She’s sweet, and you’ve been friends a long time.” Ten years. Most of my life. “But it’s not helpful to either of you. She’s better off finding a husband.” I felt my eyelashes flicker, and I shoved a piece of the bread into my mouth. It tasted like sawdust and felt dry against my tongue. “You’ll be able to take over my business.” Something I’d never wanted to begin with. A sad old room with other people’s desires sitting on my lap. “You don’t need the distraction. Or such fruitless burdens.”

“I know,” I muttered as I tried not to choke on the rye flavor. 

“But she’ll only get out of there if she finds someone.” Ella’s family was one of the village’s worst-kept secrets. Everyone knew what her family was like. But her mother was the closest thing to a noble we had—even worse, she was a landowner. No one wanted to get involved in their family’s business. My mother least of all. “She’s pretty though.” Beautiful, I wanted to correct her. Unmatched. Everyone had to see that. Even with her rough hands and windburned cheeks, she had to be the most striking thing in the whole town.

And she was kind and loyal. She’d blow on my hands when they were cold and snuck tarts from her stepmother’s dinners when we struggled. 

“Maybe she’ll finally get the chance now with this ball.”

And what about me? Didn’t I deserve better too? My first choice was to take over this dreadful business I’d never wanted. The one I watched wore away at my mother and kept us up until the candles burned down to their wick. Or my other choice was to simply marry some merchant twice my age? A man who wouldn’t care a bit for me and who could leave me at the drop of a hat like my father did? One made me feel so weary and the other so cold. What if I knew either of those choices would kill me?