“Haven't you embarassed yourself enough? This is a disgrace, Amelia…” 

The familiar voice of her father cuts the air with a frigidity she had long since grown used to. Deep, smooth, filled with disappointment that was more familiar than his face at this point. When was the last time she had heard any fondness in his voice?

“Father, please, I’m so-“

 “Apologies are wasted breath with you. I’ve had enough of your empty words. The Feistras name can afford no further degradation.”

His tone is so detached, so final. Any further complaints die in her throat. She knows well, all too well, that she can’t convince him of anything. What would her punishment be? Housebound once more? Moved to an even further place to stay so he wouldn’t have to look upon his shame’s face? It’s not the punishments that hurt, anyway. They rarely impact her at all, sadly enough. It’s how he looks at her when he deals them out. That's the real hit.

Her eyes flicker up, meeting their twins in her father’s handsome face. Peridot green, pale yet luminous. Captivating, at least on him. The eyes that mark their family as clear as day. On Vineil Feistra, they are beautiful, spoken of with reverence. How beautifully they stand out against lightly tanned skin and his deep maroon hair, the single streak of silver that frames his face all the more noticeable. His face is cold. It’s always cold. A mask of stone, chiseled marble with those light green eyes that cut cruelly under the dim lighting of his office.

Her wrist aches from where she clenches it, nails digging deep. Her dress, soft satin in a simple dark grey, looks drab against the canvas of her flowing pink locks. The fabric crumples around her, less the look of a young lady of a grand house and more that of a beggar looking for reprieve. She finds none.

Amelia Feistra is a stunning woman. She likely would have even been considered the flower of society were it not for the fact that she was a child born of misfortune. "A child would be born under the blood red moon who would foresee misfortune;" that was her. Born June 19 under the bleeding red light as her mother, bless her heart, tried her best to hold out, to prolong birth to save her child the crushing weight of prophecy. 

Her eyes slide from her father’s eyes- now locked on some parchment in front of him. A tick in his jaw. He must be deciding her fate while working on the duties of the manor, as is usual for him. Looking at her too long always seemed to pain him. His hand clenches around his feathered quill, his veins popping. 

Her eyes move back up.

Two petals. Chrysanthemum. A pretty white. When she was a child, there used to be so, so many petals. Now there are two pathetic wisps left. 

No one else sees these flowers.

She can do more than just see them, the one fact that keeps her from wondering if she is crazy. She can feel them if someone lets her touch the area, though she hasn’t tried since she was little. Her hand lifts to her tiny flowers, her two forget-me-nots, making it look as though she’s pressing her palm to her chest. Some have groups of flowers. Some have a single one.

Her own has seven petals left.

“You will think on this latest shame. Stay in your room for two weeks,” his breath punches out, his jaw clenching. “I’ll not see hide nor hair of you until then.”

There's irony there, she thinks. There's an acrid bitterness building within her, but she holds her tongue. As always.

His hand raises, and with finality, she is herded out by the family butler, Clainon. 

She glances back at her father as she's herded out, not sure what she’s hoping to see.

Her heart sinks to the ground, watching as one petal wilts off, its presence falling away to his desk. It fades to ash.

Time is up. He’s on his last petal-

And it’s her fault.

“My darling girl,” Sienne coos down at her toddler, stroking her soft pink hair. The child giggles, clutching her dress. Tiny hands raise in the air, fingers opening and closing, begging to be lifted. The silent request is met immediately, Sienne scooping up her girl, nuzzling the little one. “I hear you’ve been playing all day today!”

Amelia, already a sweet little troublemaker, grabs onto her mother’s pretty red hair, lightly tugging. “Mummy!”

Sienne knows her daughter hasn’t had it easy. The prophecy makes even their most loyal servants eye the small girl with concern, their faces drawing into frowns before they remember their place, before they place on the smiles of civility. She does all she can to protect her baby from any worse treatment, fearing the sharp child would notice. Her efforts are mostly alone. Vineil works day and night to keep their family in good standing. Ever since they had their child, the efforts to destabilize their standing had been increasing. 

Amelia is babbling. “The new maid has pretty flowers… they’re yellow, and huge! And, and, they smell good,” the girl pauses, eyes widening. Her hand flies to her lips. “Mummy’s still are the best flowers of all though.”

The mother chuckles, shaking her head in amusement. “Oh? And what is mummy’s like?” 

Her hand strokes through soft pink strands. This was a new topic, or at least one Amelia had begun to discuss lately. She assumes the child is simply imaginative. 

“It’s pink, like my hair! It’s kin’a weird though, it used to have a lot more petals,” her small hand reaches out, touching Sienne’s chest, above her heart. 

“Oh? And how many did it have?”

 Amelia is distracted, her eyes locked on her hand. Her little fingers rub together as though feeling something between. Thinking, perhaps. 

“Mmmm… this many.” Amelia lifts four fingers, her peridot green eyes wide as she stares up at her mother. 

Sienne gives an indulgent smile, her hand wrapping around the child's. “Four? My, that is a lot. And how many are there now?”

Her daughter’s nose scrunches up, her eyes narrowed. She leans in, whispering as though she is sharing a big secret. Sienne leans in to please her child, smiling encouragingly.

“There’s jus’ one.”

She’s not sure why, but a small chill runs down her spine. For a moment, she wonders if this is more than the childish imaginary world of a child- or if it’s more.

Seeing her baby growing concerned at her silence, she immediately pats her head, moving to grab a storybook. 

“Then that one is very precious, just like our time together.”

She kisses the top of the girl’s head, acting like all was normal.

The uneasy feeling doesn’t leave for days.