Black Heart

2. Troubled Breakfast

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WHEN DAWN CAME, I gave up trying to sleep. I slid off the sheets and began to blow the candles in a wave, stopping a second or so to catch my breath. I tiptoed to reach the ones perched on prickets high up in the shelves. I coughed and rubbed my throat, soothing it from the smoke the candles left in its wake. I slid the curtains open, squinting against the brightness of daylight that fell upon the manor. Today, the sun warmed my face, leaving a small sting on my skin. Today, it was my mother's death anniversary.

My mother's death falls on the same day when the lost deities were born out of the light of heaven and the heart of the earth, the day when evil was at its weakest. The holiday was called Ve Azosa—the Great Birth. The days were longer, nights shorter.

I paused to listen to the song of the beasts, wondering what sort of debauchery they suggested but the wind was silent. The vedraza's murky presence retreated in the darkest shadowy corner they could find. I felt their presence slowly fade into a void and it would stay that way until Ve Azosa concluded. They were creatures of the night. They feared light.

I changed back into a day dress, this time a plainer variant of the same black color. I fought the incoming yawns, the lack of sleep finally catching up. These days, I spent my nights restlessly, tossing and turning. The anxiety seethed beneath my skin, reminding me that a fortnight from now, I would turn eighteen. I would come of age. I fought another yawn and occupied myself with trying to look presentable. If Grandmother catches me yawning, I'd imagine she'd subject me to one of her condescending glares.

An hour later, Valentina found me sitting on the edge of my bed and frowned when she saw me already wearing the mourning dress, my hair done up in a chignon, my face covered with the barest hint of powder, cheeks pinched, lips tinted red. Unlike me, her hair was a tangled mess, the remnants of drool on the side of her jaw lay untouched. She still wore her nightgown

"You're already looking like the grim damsel," she said. "Well at least your skills in hairstyling improved." She waved at my hair which I admit, took me a long time. I was proud of my work.

"You may want to look suitable for breakfast, Valentina," I said, standing up and smoothing my dress.

"If Estenze doesn't want my face, she can tell me to go away," she huffed, knowing that Grandmother would not have the heart to tell her that. Nevertheless, she walked towards my wardrobe, flinging it open.

"Let me borrow one of your dresses, Eliza," she said. "I don't have any mourning dress."

"I only have one," I said.

She snickered. "All of your dresses would suit a funeral." She traced her fingers on the row of dresses falling between shades of black and grey, proving her point.

That's because you have the luxury to choose what to wear. That's because Grandmother loved you more than me. I clamped down the poisonous words and looked away. It was not her fault that she was Grandmother's favorite. She was the grandchild without a demon's heart.

She changed into one of my dresses and I resented the fact that she fit in it better than I would. She seemed to glow, with her sun-kissed skin and rosy cheeks, a stark contrast to my pale, translucent skin. Even without the cosmetics, she looked like a doll with puckered lips. She borrowed my powder, puffing her face with it, trying to cover the scar that marred her face, a line of torn flesh from her left brow down to the bridge of her nose—a blemish in her otherwise beautiful face. The scar whitened with age but it didn't make her any less disfigured.

I looked away, feeling guilt at the evidence of my transgressions. Even after all these years, even though I knew she forgave me with all her heart, I felt the sting of guilt that festered in my heart. And here I was with my jealousy and resentment.