Corinne Feistra was a gorgeous woman. No one denied that.

She shared the maroon colored hair of her father and brother, as well as the peridot green eyes that seemed to mark their family.

In truth, Mila hadn't known her aunt well. The woman, if rumors were to be believed, had been a rebellious child from a young age. She had been infamous for her sharp tongue, her hatred for the family of prophecies, the Prophyrios, and the royal family.

None of these facts had made her stunningly popular.

What she knew was that her aunt had been one of the first people to speak negatively about her curse in front of the staff.

This was back when she was little. At that time, they had even shared the family dining room, though after Corinne left and Sienne passed, the room had fallen into disuse.

She always wore long sleeves, high collars, and never spoke of her grandfather with any warmth.

The wine in Corinne's cup is swirled, the woman's fingers prim on the stem. Sienne sat to the right of the empty head of the table, while her aunt sat on the left. Vineil didn't have time for family dinners, even then.

Corinne had been on another rant the moment they had all eaten their food. Mila, sitting next to her mother, had been given some paper to doodle on, too little to care much about the topics her aunt would rave about.

This was different.

"Hah. Sienne, love. Would you like to hear what the crown prince's terrible secret is? You see, after they tried to hide his prophecy, I did some digging."

Sienne interrupts, her tone sharp. "Corinne. Enough."

"What, don't have faith you have your servants under control? Come now, Sisi, you need to handle them firmly. Father was a good-for-nothing, but his servants were too frightened to dare disobey. It was the only thing he did right."

A sip of her wine. Sienne glowers.

"Where was I? Ah, right. The prince. So it turns out that his dirty little secret is he will dilute the pure royal blood with-"

"I said, enough."

Mila freezes, peering up. Mommy never spoke sharply; the tone of her voice frightened the small girl. She's tempted to duck under the table and flee.

She wishes she had followed the urge when Corinne laughs.

"Fine, fine. Then let's talk about you," Her eyes land on Amelia. She wishes she were anywhere else. "Have you gotten used to your prophecy yet? It'll cause you problems, you know. A damn shame you weren't given a simple one. They could have predicted your hair, but no, instead you're given the curse of a Big One."

Sienne sits up, hands slamming to the table, the force causing the silverware to clatter. She leans over the table into Corinne's space.

Corinne continues, unfazed. "Imagine. A child who foresees the withering of the soul... isn't that the same as seeing death? It almost sounds useful, if it wasn't such a burden."

Mila wilts a little. She's young, yes. Doesn't understand all of her aunt's words. She does understand, though, the heavy weight of eyes on her, from more than just her aunt. She understands that the tone the words are delivered is not a friendly one.

"That is enough. She didn't ask for it. She's young, let her live peacefully."

The women glare at each other, heated. Mila glances at the maids who stand about, looking just as nervous as she. The tension in the air is palpable.

"Precisely, she didn't ask for it," Corinne hisses. "So prepare her. Prepare her for her maids to be trash. Prepare her for the people who will be cruel. Prepare her to grow up fast, because they won't wait for her. Your loyal servants already-"

Mila squeaks when a sharp crack fills the room. Wine spills. Corinne's cheek is almost as brilliant a red as Sienne's hair.

Sienne gathers up her child, holding her to her chest. "You're no longer welcome here. Bring in a guard. You have three days to vacate."

Mila can't see her aunt, her face pressed against her mother, feeling the brush of a cherry blossom petal against her cheek. She can't see Corinne's face, but her voice remains sharp as steel.

"Fine. When your darling little girl's prophecy ruins her life, don't come crying to me because all you did was coddle her."

Mila can't help herself, moving to peer over her mother's shoulder.

Any other words are left behind as the door closes, Sienne petting her hair as she moves to get back to her room. "I'm sorry, darling, it's okay..."

If it's okay, Mila wonders why her aunt lost a petal in that fight.

Any mention of her aunt after that event had been taboo. Not that Mila had been particularly interested. Anyone her mother fought with wasn't someone she wanted to be around.

In some way, she also couldn't help but take on her mother's thoughts where Corinne was involved. After that altercation, the whispers about her curse had been more prevalent than ever.

The viper's nest had been poked; she couldn't help but blame the person who held the stick.

Now that she's older, though, she wonders if, in the long run, it really made a difference.

Mila is fifteen now. Her self-isolation had always been normal, outside of her rare meetings with Ovi and Ivan. Clainon had taken to trying to suggest she come out more often, a new development, but she never agreed. He probably wanted to convince her to attend parties, now that she's at an age where those become vital. 

She doesn't care. She has bigger fish to fry.

The final straw with her father, the petal he most recently lost, hadn't even been her fault in truth. Mila's regular visits with Ovina were well known.

Her meetings with Ivan had apparently been a secret. She supposes that anything that she didn't feel the need to disclose was viewed as such. Whatever the case, a new maid had stumbled on the realization of who Mila was meeting at times. Rumors quickly spread that she was debasing herself with a Hundreis. 

The news had sent Clainon into something of a panic, and as always, the loyal butler reported to Vineil.

The result remains the same. Her father is on his last petal and Mila is left to pick up the pieces.

She doesn't know her dad. He's more of a mythical being, locked away in the confines of his office. This doesn't mean she doesn't love him. Some part of her clings to the poison of hope, no matter how irrational.

Mila doesn't want to be here to see her father die. She's tired of it. Tired of being blamed and tired of being left behind.

Andreis is here. He would handle the rest.

Speaking of the boy, he's now fluent in their language. For some reason, he still tries to talk to her. He sent letters after the incident. The two of them had been kept apart since it happened. This was mostly Mila's avoidance at play, rather than an active effort of anyone else.

Mila hadn't responded to one from him. They all lay unopened on her desk, a neat pile of stationery. Maybe it's guilt. Perhaps it's apathy. She hasn't named it yet.

She turns a different letter in her hand, opened once, then abandoned. It had arrived about two years ago, on her thirteenth birthday. It's faded on the edges from being turned in her hands so often. It used to be red all through, but where she had worn it down, it was now a grey white.

Now with Vineil on his last petal, it feels like her only opportunity.

She cuts it open, taking a deep breath before she pulls it out.

Dear Amelia,

It has been many years since we saw each other. I considered many times whether I should contact you at all. I feared my brother would cut all communication between us, but there's no point dawdling on what-ifs.

I am sorry for the loss of your mother. While Sienne and I didn't agree at the end, I did quite like her. She seemed a good fit for Vineil. I know my brother, though. He likely hasn't been a good father, if much of one at all.

If he has left you feeling unsupported, you may come and live with me. He's a halfwitted fool at the best of times; I doubt he would deny you if you made the request. I live out in the country with my husband. It's not the life you know. We don't do extravagant parties, nor do we have maids and butlers to attend us. We work, we build, and we do it all again the next day.

You are welcome here, Mila. Merely send word, and a room will be made.

Sincerely,

Corinne Luvrone

Her eyes catch repeatedly on the line 'you are welcome here.'

It's a foreign concept, and one she doesn't believe. Still. If it gets her out of this house, then it's worth a try.

Mila drafts a response, her hands trembling as she hands it to her carrier pigeon. She pets its head with her finger.

"Get it to her safely."

The bird is sent with its letter. She turns to her bed, pulling out the Sienne doll.

She pets her knitted hair.

"I guess I'm leaving this all behind. I'm sorry I didn't become the Feistra you hoped I would."

It's the last night she hugs her mom to sleep.