The Blackthorn Syndicate

Chapter 11 - Esmeralda

No one had ever talked to me this much. I was mostly left to my thoughts, what I wanted was of no value. It was always orders that needed to be fulfilled or decisions already made.

I was an outsider in the small town in Switzerland I was sent for refuge. People in small towns weren't exactly open to outsiders. Whispers started early on in school as the war threatened to come to their own doorstep, followed by a push here, a smack there. I was a refugee disrupting their peace, my tormentors used to say.

There was no truth to it. I was just a girl on the sidelines. A character in someone else's story as I tried to bide my time, waiting to go home.

Within a few months I had started wearing clothes that covered my body more. The Johansson's had been welcoming but that didn't make me one of them. It wasn't a coincidence how Ingrid didn't like to sit with me during lunch or how no one noticed me flinching when I would sit on the dinner table or wore clothes that left no skin bare even during the summers.

Another bad thing about small towns was that people protected their own. I learnt that the hard way early two years ago. I had made the mistake of filing a report when one of the boys in school had tried to push me down two flights of stairs. If he had succeeded I would surely have died. The police hadn't bothered to file a report and dismissed me but they had told those boys.

I remembered them ambushing me the next day. That day had been the worst of the abuse. My back never truly recovered after that. Often when I would sleep in a camisole, I would feel the rough scars. Somedays, I felt like I could feel the phantom pain.

Overtime, I had learned to take care of my wounds. There was no one to go to for help. The days in the kitchen spent kneading dough or baking a cake were the only comfort I had. The only time when I could escape my mind and pretend I was someone else. I was thankful to Mrs.Johansson for introducing me to the art of baking.

I watched as Willow continued to tell me about school. She was a year younger than me but so full of life. Perhaps I could relate to her if I hadn't been sent away and experienced all that I did.

She had shown me every single nook and cranny starting from the library to the gardens, the stables, the vast collection of cars Mr.Richardson owned, along with the pond with ducklings, the servant quarters and the kitchens. She had introduced every servant we stumbled upon along the way along with the stoic security guards that patrolled the grounds.

She hadn't asked many questions or felt uncomfortable with my lack of responses. It wasn't anything intentional, I was just too overwhelmed and didn't know what to say. In the past six years, no one had really asked what I thought.

We had ended up skipping lunch and had tea in the garden later on with sandwiches.

"You don't talk much." Willow finally said as she opened the room to a gallery. She hadn't stopped talking about it during tea.

I turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile,

"I don't know what to say." I admitted and Willow just stared at me, as if searching for something before nodding.

"You can say anything you want, you don't have to think too much. I am sure it must be alot to take in. My brother told me your mother passed away when you were young and then your father sent you away because of the war. I am sorry, things must have been very difficult for you."

I knew things weren't easy for me. But I never thought of them as too difficult. So many people had lost their lives during the war. I had just endured everything just to give my father a peace of mind that I was safe, even if I hadn't truly been.

I turned to stare at the paintings on the wall, they were beautiful portraits of people I knew nothing of. I wondered how many of them were dead.

"It was a privilege to be provided safety. I understand so many people must have died simply because they did not have the privilege to escape the war the way I did."

The reply sounded monotonous even to my ears. The scars on my back took away all feeling but my issues were of no concern to any stranger. Besides, this arrangement was temporary, my dad would take me home soon.

I glanced at Willow, who seemed to sense the weight of my words. Her eyes softened with an empathy that was almost foreign to me.

"You know," she said softly, "you don't have to be strong all the time. It's okay to let someone in, even just a little."

Her words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the silence that usually surrounded me. I wasn't sure if I could ever let my guard down, not after everything I had endured. But for a moment, standing in that grand gallery with Willow's kind eyes on me, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of truth in her words.

I studied Willow's face, trying to find any sign of deceit or pity. All I saw was genuine concern, a kind of innocent empathy that felt foreign and uncomfortable. My instinct was to reject it, to push her away and retreat back into the fortress I had built around myself. But something about her sincerity made me hesitate.

"Thank you," I said finally, the words feeling awkward and stilted on my tongue. I wasn't used to expressing gratitude, especially for something as intangible as understanding.

Willow's smile widened, lighting up her whole face. "Come on, let me show you my favorite part of the house."

She led me through the gallery, her chatter filling the silence as we walked past portraits of stern-looking men and elegantly dressed women. The corridor seemed endless, each painting a reminder of the history and legacy of the Richardson family. It was a stark contrast to my own fragmented past, a history that felt more like a collection of wounds and scars than a lineage.

Willow stopped in front of a large wooden door, intricately carved with floral patterns. She pushed it open to reveal a spacious balcony.

The balcony overlooked the estate grounds, illuminated by the distant city lights. The sight was both breathtaking and surreal, a stark contrast to the grim memories etched into my mind.

"This is where I come when I need to think," Willow said, leaning on the ornate railing. "It's my little sanctuary."

I stepped out onto the balcony, feeling the cool breeze on my face. For a moment, I closed my eyes, letting the tranquility of the place wash over me. It was a strange feeling, to be in a place so peaceful after years of chaos.

"It's beautiful," I murmured, more to myself than to Willow.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "I come here to clear my head, to escape for a while. We all need a place like this, don't we?"

I wasn't sure if I had ever had a place like this. Even in Switzerland, there had been no sanctuary, no escape from the relentless torment. But standing here, high above the world, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

Willow turned to me, her eyes bright with curiosity. "What do you do to escape? I mean, everyone has something, right?"

I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. The kitchen had been my refuge, the act of baking a way to lose myself in the rhythm of kneading dough and the warmth of the oven. But it felt too personal to share, too fragile a lifeline to expose.

"I bake," I said finally, the admission feeling like a confession.

Willow's eyes widened with delight. "Really? That's amazing! You'll have to bake something for us sometime. I'm sure everyone would love it. No one has really cooked for us aside of the servants."

I managed a small smile, the idea both terrifying and thrilling. The thought of baking for others, of sharing a piece of myself, was daunting. But there was also a part of me that longed for that connection, for the simple joy of creating something beautiful.

Willow had extended a hand of friendship, and for the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could grasp it.

"We should head back," Willow said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Dinner will be ready soon, and my brother doesn't like to be kept waiting."

I followed her back inside, the warmth of the balcony lingering with me. As we walked through the grand halls of the Richardson estate, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this unexpected friendship. Willow had shown me kindness without expecting anything in return, and that simple act had begun to thaw the ice around my heart.

Maybe, just maybe, there was still a place for me in this world. And maybe, with a little help, I could find it.