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This morning I was informed that, unless otherwise directed, I would be taking all of my meals in my garret on a tray. Into the dining room I shall not go. Parian delivered the news with noticeable self-satisfaction. I believe my banishment has brought a great deal of joy to his life. I won’t begrudge him it. He is, after all, Cousin Archibald’s valet. Joy must not be easy for him to come by.
He’s not only thin in person, he’s thin in humour and spirit and character.
And across the bridge of my nose? A constellation of freckles. “They will fade when you are older,” Mother had said. “I hope not,” Father had called from across the room, bent over an illustration. “‘Twould be a pity for Emma to lose that bit of magic, now wouldn’t it?”
Well, Father, I haven’t lost it, though I look in this mirror and recognise myself less now than when I was a child. I suppose that happens when you’ve grown up and still don’t understand your place in the world.
Why does life give such a decision to a girl of only thirteen?
People say they are glad they never knew their last moment together. Oh, but I wish I’d known it then. It’s not on account of my bravery, but rather his. Maxwell would not have been scared. He would have leaned against the stone wall and said, “Well, Lion, I’m off, and it looks like this will be the last I see of this green place.”
But just before bed I remembered, and am now curled up on the window seat with my burning candle, the window open to the spring night, believing there must be worse sorrows than losing my mother and my father, and the only boy who ever made up a beating part of my heart. Only I can’t think of any.
“What a disappointment,” I answered. “I was going to henpeck him until he cried.” “Your humour is never appreciated in this house.” Those were his final words before he departed. I almost called after him that I understood that fact quite well.
