In the Open Cage

Chapter 4

"What is he doing here?" Misa spoke with too much venom on her tongue. She struggled against her mother's embrace and escaped only when her father asked for some tea. "And where is Elma and the others?"

"A pleasure to meet you again, Miss," the captain said. His voice was pleasurable, but his eyes held no kindness. "The servants were excused for the night. I believe you still have a report to give at the purgehouse."

"What?" Maran's eyes bulged. His glare burned into Misa. She kept her face down, feeling her cheeks heat up. "A report? Exactly what have you been doing outside?" Her father's face was so red, Misa was sure he would soon blow up.

"It's nothing, Father," Misa muttered. "Just something I witnessed. That's all."

Soiya returned with a tray. "Captain, why don't you take a seat. You too, Maran. Perhaps we can talk it out over tea?"

Maran struggled to keep his breathing steady. Misa could see his body shake with ragged breaths. She remained silent, knowing that agreeing with her mother would only push his temper further.

"Very well," Maran's voice shook. "Captain, please take a seat. Misa, you will remain in your room until we have finished our discussion."

Misa's head shot up. "But Father!"

"Now!" His tone left no room for arguing. A flare of anger ignited in Misa's chest. A splintered crack resonated from her fist.

"I don't understand how I'm not supposed to act like a child when you continue to treat me like one!" she blurted out. "Perhaps the only way I can be mature is when I'm treated like an adult, like when I go outside! I'm twenty, Papa, not five! Think about that!"

Fuming, Misa turned on her heel and stormed to her room. She fully knew her outburst had been childish enough to prove her father right, but at that moment, she didn't care. She was tired of staying stuck inside trying to paint a world she could never see for herself.

Once inside her room, she sat on her stool and glared at the canvas. Her painting was derived from paintings she had studied in books. Nothing about it felt real. The ocean had skilled strokes to mimic the texture of water, yet Misa could not feel the breeze against her face nor hear the waves lapping against the sand.

It was an illusion, just like her freedom. In a fit of rage, Misa grabbed ahold of the canvas and ripped a strip through the middle. She scrunched the piece of leather and crushed it under her shoe. How could she ever hope to paint something she had never experienced? Her piece had just been a copy of another artist. Where were her own meaningful strokes on the picture?

Hot tears ran down her cheeks. Misa forcefully wiped them away, scratching her face with the rough material of her sleeve. She hated her father. He had taken away her freedom. He had taken away her whole life.

Blood dripped from her left hand. Misa released her grip and saw the cause. The swan's neck had snapped, and the splintered edges of the wood had dug deep into her skin. Cursing, Misa picked the pieces with her right hand and dropped them on the table next to her canvas.

A warmth spread from her gut and tingled down her arm. The sting on her palm began to disappear until no pain remained.

Gasping, Misa stumbled from the stool, nearly falling over. She stared at her hand in wonder. Blood still smeared across her palm. She reached over for a rag sitting with her painting supplies and wiped it away. No wound. Only smooth skin lay underneath the layer of crimson.

"Witch!" Ervan's accusations echoed in her ears. "You're a witch!"

"No..." Misa could barely whisper. She couldn't believe it. It had to be dream. Yes, it was all in her head. It wasn't blood smeared on her hand. It was paint. Red paint.