The Blackthorn Syndicate

Chapter 3 - Esmeralda

My mother had loved to garden, that was the earliest memory I had of her. In the moments when I would try to remember her, I would get an image of her on her knees plucking weeds or planting new buds.

People visiting the house would always comment how they hadn't seen a house with these many flowers anywhere. My father would compliment my mother for it who would blush in response.

When I was six, my father had gotten a beautiful garden room of clear glass built to admire the fruits of his wife's hobby. In response my mother had begun to plant flowers all around it. Every morning, they would sit at the table in this glass room, surrounded by flowers of all kinds and have breakfast together - a small moment of privacy, away from the workers in the house and no peering gazes or ears. I remembered the contentment on my parents face as they would talk to each other, laugh. After all these years I couldn't remember what my parents would talk about, my sole interest had been to put more syrup on my pancakes or stare at the birds who would often sit at the roof of the glass room.

If only I had known how little time we would have, perhaps I would have paid more attention.

There had been no breakfasts in that room after the nails had closed my mothers coffin shut. My father was grieving, afterall. Imagine my surprise when I was led here for my first breakfast back home.

The room had looked like it did before, a variety of flowers planted all around it. I stared at my father sitting across from me, cutting into a tomato with utmost precision. My father was a man of principles and etiquette. His shoulders were always straight, his clothes impeccably clean, ironed with care to make sure they were void of creases. His dress shirt was starched even today, just like I had last seen it. When he returned home during the evenings, he looked equally as put together as he left the house with.

Some things never changed.

My father and I didn't share much of a resemblance. He had black hair that was now thinning out, his face was round with wrinkles on the forehead and around the eyes with a tall sturdy frame.

I, on the other hand, resembled my mother. I had her brown wavy hair, her rosy cheeks, and her slender frame. My eyes, however, were those of my father. Grey, like the skies of London on a rainy day.

Warmth filled my belly as I watched my father laughing. He was telling me how people had resorted to wild things during the war. I honestly wasn't paying much attention. I was just staring at him smiling and laughing, that was enough. He had still been grieving when she left. She was glad for his happiness.

When I came home yesterday and found him missing, I had assumed the worst. For a moment I had thought he had died during the war and someone else had been corresponding with me. It was only through the reassurances of the house help had I managed to sit still for the next few hours. By the time evening rolled in, my father walked through the front doors at exactly quarter past seven, like he used to.

So much had changed over the years yet my father was still the most disciplined man I had ever known.

He was staring at me expectantly, smiling. I was so zoned out I had missed what he had said.

"I am sorry, have you asked something of me?"

My father nodded as he took another bite of his eggs.

"Yes. I was asking if your time in Switzerland was interesting? We did exchange letters but I must admit, I am excited to hear things from you."

I stared at the spread of breakfast in front of me.

"The Johanssons were the best of hosts."

I unconsciously grabbed the pendant around my neck as I stared at my plate.

"Yes, you stated so in your letters but aside from that. Did you make any friends? I saw your report cards, it made me very proud to see how you have excelled! I am sure you must be quite a catch in your entire class!"

It took some effort to stop the smile from faltering just so his own wouldn't.

How could I tell him that I was an outsider in an already war torn world. How the only friend I had was Ingrid, the daughter of the family who was hosting me. How life hadn't exactly been easy being away. How a girl from a country that was actively participating in war was not going to be welcomed aside from the family that was forced to host her.

I stared at my old father, I saw how he had aged more than the six years time had left on him.

"I was very popular and leaving my friends was very difficult but I missed home. I didn't want to be away from you any longer."

The lie rolled off my tongue smoothly as I placed my hand over my fathers.

"I missed you, father." I repeated in hopes of sounding more convincing.

Her father nodded gently, patting her hand on his own.

"As did I." He said and took a deep breath. "You are back home now and the war is over. We are safe once more, ready to move on with our lives."

I nodded, relieved as my father took out the pocket watch and stared at the time.

"I'll bring a brochure for Oxford University on my way home. I believe you will excel in their Department of Political Science. I have connections that will most definitely strengthen your chances for an admission."

One thing I seemed to have forgotten was how it was also always business with my father.

"I shall see you for dinner in the evening. Have a good day, Esme."

"Good day, father."

I smiled. He was quick to place a loving kiss on my head as he left for work.

I looked around the empty room and towards the tree line, for a moment it was as if I saw a man standing there.

It was probably an animal.