My room was silent when I entered. I didn't light a candle.
I didn't need to. The glow of my own eyes bounced faintly off the walls. I stood in the center of the floor, unsure what to do with my body.
My cheek was hot. Not from being hit — from almost being hit.
I reached up and touched it. My hand trembled, but not from fear. Just... movement that wouldn't stop.
Then it happened.
The sound.
The first whisper.
"Pathetic."
I froze. My breath stopped in my chest like it got caught on a thorn.
Another whisper. "Liar."
"No," I said aloud. "That's not—"
The walls of the room seemed to narrow. I stumbled backward until I hit the dresser. One of the drawers slid open slightly, and a wave of lavender sachet filled the air.
Floof barked from inside the closet.
I opened it fast, falling to my knees. The warm, heavy body of my dog pressed against me with all the weight of someone who understood too much. He licked my face twice, nose wet, fur tangled.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He didn't respond, just whimpered once and pressed his whole side against me.
The whispers came again — faint, sharp, sliding between the folds of air like paper blades.
"No one wants you."
"You'll never leave."
I covered my ears. My eyes burned white in the dark.
"Stop," I hissed. "I'm not—" I slammed my head against the door once, then again. Floof barked louder.
I gasped and staggered back into the middle of the room.
The window whispered.
The air itself seemed to breathe wrong.
Then—soft footsteps.
A knock.
"Pecola?" Ami's voice, gentle and warm like a scarf in winter. "Are you awake?"
I opened the door slowly.
She was in her nightgown, a long wrap around her shoulders. Her silver hair was loose. She carried a paint tin and two brushes.
"I thought maybe we'd do a late-night painting," she said. "Unless you're too tired."
I shook my head.
We didn't speak as we walked down the dark hall, her arm looped lightly in mine. She guided me with the gentleness of someone who never wanted to be too much.
The library was quiet, except for the fire crackling in the small hearth.
She lit one lamp and nothing more. The rest was dim. Safe.
We set up on the long table near the windows.
Ami laid out blank canvases. I opened the paint with trembling fingers. She didn't say anything about it. Just handed me a cloth to wipe them.
"Here," she said. "Your brush."
I took it.
We painted in silence for a long time. The fire hissed. Floof lay curled at my feet, his breathing slow and even.
Then she spoke.
"You paint like you're trying to remember a dream."
I didn't look up. "Dreams are soft. I want to be sharp."
"You are," she said.
I dipped into a deep green. "They called me a liar."
"Who did?"
"The house," I said. "My mother. Joy. Everyone."
Ami sighed. "You're not a liar. You're just... more honest than they want."
I tilted my head. "But I forged a letter."
"You didn't lie about who you are. You lied to get where you need to go."
I thought about that.
On her canvas, she painted a portrait — her sister, I think. It was soft. Her brushstrokes always looked like they came from a memory, not a photograph.
When she saw mine, she paused.
The forest. Tall, dark, winding. Branches like arms. A light deep within it — a flicker. A glow.
"You've never been there," she said slowly.
"No," I whispered. "I don't think so."
Ami set her brush down.
"I've wanted to show you something for a long time," she said.
We cleaned the brushes in silence. She folded a shawl over my shoulders, lit a candle, and led me through the back halls of the mansion.
We passed the parlor, the sitting room, the second library. The wind outside howled like it had something to confess.
At the end of a narrow corridor — a door. I'd never noticed it before.
Ami took out a ring of keys. Her fingers shook slightly as she unlocked it.
We stepped inside.
A small shed. Cold. Full of dust and strange smells. Candlelight danced on the walls.
In the corner — a small chest.
She opened it and pulled out a single book.
Worn. Leather cover. A symbol etched in gold.
She handed it to me.
"The lore," she said. "Of the Perennial Forest. Hidden truths. And maybe... answers."
I traced the cover with my fingertips. The symbol felt warm, almost alive.
"I can't read it," I said.
"You'll learn," she replied. "You're the only one I trust to."
I nodded slowly.
She touched my hand.
"There's so much I've kept from you," she said. "Me and Arnold. To protect you. But maybe... it wasn't protection. Maybe it was fear."
"I'm not afraid," I said.
"I know," she whispered.
She hugged me then — really hugged me. Not polite. Not quick. A long, tight, shaking hug that said everything she couldn't.
"I'm sorry," she said.
I didn't know what for. So I just said, "Thank you."
I awoke with my cheek stuck to the open book.
The page crinkled under my skin, warm from sleep and sweat. The leather cover still smelled like wax and dust and something older than either. The candle beside me had burned itself out. The room was filled with faint grey light, the hush of morning pressing against the windows.
I touched the symbol on the book again, like it might change beneath my fingers.
It didn't.
Floof stretched and yawned near the foot of my bed, then climbed up and curled beside me, his weight settling over my legs like a wordless reminder: today was supposed to be like any other.
But it wasn't.
I didn't know what I'd read. Only that it itched in my chest now, like a question trying to form.
Downstairs, Arnold's conga beat rolled through the floorboards. Muffled. Cheerful. Heavy-footed. I could smell eggs. Butter. Syrup.
I got dressed slowly — same dress, stitched and washed so many times the seams knew me better than I did. I re-braided my hair, tight and even. My fingers found the mirror, and I stared not at my reflection — I didn't have one — but at the space my eyes might've met someone else's in.
I whispered, "College," just once.
I didn't know if I meant the place. Or the dream.
Then I opened the door.
Arnold was singing.
He always started soft, then got louder when he noticed you. Right now, it was something about a garden and honeybees, his voice rough and warm like gravel in molasses.
"There she is," he called without turning. "Miss Bookworm herself. You sleep alright?"
"Yes," I lied.
"Liar," he teased. "That's alright. Some days, you gotta lie to make it through breakfast."
I sat at the kitchen table, Floof following close and flopping with a dramatic sigh beside my feet.
He served pancakes stacked too high, with a swirl of jam on the top like a crown.
"You're spoiling me," I said.
"No, I'm preserving you," he replied. "Keeps you from turning into one of them cold marble girls in the foyer. You need sugar to be sharp."
He tapped his spoon against the side of my mug. A soft rhythm. I tapped back with my finger.
I waited until he was close enough to hear me without anyone else hearing.
"What's in the shed?"
The pause was too long.
His song stopped. Only for a second.
Then: "Firewood, mostly."
"I saw the book."
Another pause.
Arnold sighed. "I'm just the cook, Pecola. I make food. Not decisions."
"You know more than you say."
"And I care more than you know." He turned then, leaning down. "Which is why... maybe I'm not the one who should tell you."
I didn't answer.
Instead, I stood, pushing the chair back so gently it didn't even scrape.
"Thanks for breakfast."
He didn't stop me.
But his voice followed as I walked toward the stairs.
"You're smart. But not careful. Please... just don't try to solve everything all at once. Secrets take time to digest. Like my chili."
I didn't smile. I didn't joke back.
I just kept walking.
Back upstairs, Ami was already in my room, folding clothes that didn't belong to her.
She turned when she heard me.
"Pecola," she said brightly. "You're right on time. Come. Let's get your hair done. We need you dressed for the photoshoot."
I sat on the stool without answering. Her fingers were gentle. Always were. She used the comb I liked — the wooden one, not the cold iron one that pulled too hard.
She tied my braid tight. I flinched.
"Did you apply for me?" I asked.
The comb slowed. A beat. Two.
"I... tried," she said. "But your mother—"
"You didn't send it."
"I wanted to," she said. "But it's not that easy. If she finds out—"
"I'm eighteen."
Her hands froze in my hair.
"I'm eighteen," I said again. "That's the age when girls go to school. Travel. Leave. Get lost. Mess up. Meet strangers."
"Pecola—"
"Not stay in the same house forever. Not eat the same jam. Not paint shadows and pretend they're enough."
Ami turned me gently to face her.
I could feel how tight her mouth was.
"You're right," she said. "But the truth isn't safe. Not yet."
"I don't want safety. I want answers."
"I know," she said, softer. "I know."
The bell rang downstairs.
"The carriage," Ami murmured. "They're early."
She helped me into the dress. Tucked the collar. Smoothed my sleeves. Dabbed something behind my ears that smelled like orange peels and distant flowers.
I didn't say thank you.
At the door, she hesitated.
"You're strong," she said.
"I don't feel strong," I replied.
She looked away. "That's what makes you dangerous."
Then she kissed my forehead and walked me down the stairs.
The driver stood beside the open door of the long black carriage, one gloved hand holding the handle, the other against his chest like a solemn promise.
I didn't speak as I got in.
Inside, Joy and Mother Mary waited.
The air smelled like powder and perfume. Like pretending.
Joy sniffed.
"Your makeup's smudged."
"I can't see it," I replied.
Joy snorted. "Good thing."
Mary cleared her throat. "Girls, please."
I leaned back in the seat and stared straight ahead.
The carriage wheels turned beneath us.
And no one said anything real.
The carriage ride smelled like pressed silk and hair tonic.
Mother's gloves clicked softly against her handbag as she scrolled through something in her lap. Joy stared out the window, her reflection a blur in the passing glass. I sat opposite them, hands folded, Floof's scent still clinging faintly to my dress from earlier that morning, a secret I kept pressed tight against my ribs.
Joy crossed her legs sharply. "Try not to trip this time," she said.
"I'll try not to," I answered simply.
"I wasn't joking."
"Neither was I."
Her scoff sounded like a cough dressed up in pearls.
"Ladies," Mary said sharply, but the word was smooth, a warning polished into grace. "Posture. We are being watched."
"No one can see us through the carriage," I murmured.
"They'll see you when we arrive."
"They always see me."
I could feel her look. It was heavy, bitter. But she didn't speak again. Not until we rounded the corner and the cobbled roads gave way to the shining brick of Misty Oaks' central plaza.
From the window, I could hear it before I could see it: the hum of voices, the clicks of cameras, the thin scrape of polished shoes against old stone.
A wall of photographers and finely dressed strangers stood clustered along the sidewalk.
Our driver stopped.
Mary smoothed her skirt. "Smile with your lips, not your teeth," she said. "Keep your head high."
"Like a horse," Joy muttered.
"Exactly. Like a racehorse. Bred for elegance. Poised. Beautiful."
The driver opened the door.
Mary exited first, hand on Joy's arm. I moved to follow, but the edge of my heel caught the step.
I fell forward, hard, hands scraping the stone.
The sound was loud — sharper than the camera clicks, sharper than Mary's gasp.
Blood bloomed at my chin and along the side of my cheek.
I could hear the shudder in Mary's breath as she turned around.
"Oh, for heaven's—"
"Disgraceful," Joy said under hers.
A pair of hands — not theirs — helped me up. The chauffeur.
"Steady now," he said, gently brushing a leaf from my shoulder.
Mary stepped aside quickly, holding Joy's arm tighter.
"We are being photographed," she hissed.
"I noticed," I said.
Joy hissed at me too. "There's dirt on your dress."
"There's blood on my face."
"We'll have it fixed," Mary said, already signaling someone from the building's steps.
I followed them inside.
The walls inside the Hall of Heritage were taller than I remembered — vaulting, hollow things built for people larger than life. Everything smelled like polished marble and lemon water.
A woman with a brush dabbed at my cheek, muttering.
Joy was silent, sitting stiffly in front of a tall mirror. Her hands stayed clasped tightly on her lap.
Her reflection didn't look pleased.
Mary stood behind us both, watching like a general surveying her troops.
A man came in with the list. "Miss Ennui. The camera is ready. You'll be up in three."
Joy stood without needing to be told. She moved like something pre-programmed — elegant, perfect, hollow.
I stayed seated.
I looked at my reflection, faint though it was. Not much there. Just the shape of my body. My glowing white eyes. My dress.
My blood.
Joy was being posed near a grand floral arrangement, her arms stiff at her sides. Someone adjusted her hair. Another person tightened the belt on her dress.
Her hands moved to cover her stomach.
"Leave it," someone said. "It ruins the silhouette."
I saw her flinch.
Mary turned her eyes toward me. "Fix your face," she said softly. "We can't afford a sour expression."
"I don't have one," I answered. "I'm blind."
She went still.
Then she smiled.
"Let's not forget, dear," she said sweetly, "that your blindness is what bought this camera in the first place."
I turned away.
My time came next.
I stood against a stone wall — unmoving, head slightly tilted, arms at my sides.
The photographer adjusted the light three times.
"Try looking a bit more... thoughtful?" he asked.
"I don't know what that means."
He hesitated. "Just... turn your head a little?"
I did.
"Perfect," he muttered.
Flash.
Again.
Flash.
Mary came up beside me during a break, adjusting my dress.
"You understand how important this is," she said, not looking me in the eye. "Your presence here proves we are a family of resilience. Of triumph."
"I'm not triumphant," I said. "I'm not even invited home."
She pressed a stray curl behind my ear, forcefully.
"You live separately because it's best for the brand."
"For your brand."
"For all of us. You don't understand the pressure of being watched."
"Because I can't see?"
Mary didn't answer.
Joy approached, her hands trembling faintly.
"You embarrassed us," she hissed. "You always do."
I looked at her hands. "You're shaking."
She curled them into fists.
I reached out. "Are you—"
She slapped my hand away.
And then...
Mary raised her hand.
I didn't move.
But Joy did.
She stepped between us.
And took the slap.
It landed with a sound like a dropped book.
Mary froze.
Joy's eyes stayed wide, unfocused, like she didn't believe it either.
Mary pulled her hand back slowly, shaking slightly.
"I didn't mean—"
"You never mean it," Joy whispered.
They stood there, three feet apart, nothing but silence between them.
Then Mary turned, breath shallow.
"The car will take you home," she told me. "We have a gala to prepare for."
I nodded once.
Joy didn't look back.
Neither did Mary.
In the carriage, it was just me.
The ride was silent.
When we reached the mansion gates, the chauffeur stopped.
He looked back.
"You really are a strong woman, Pecola," he said softly. "A face of flint."
He offered his hand.
I took it.When I stepped onto the gravel drive, I heard the horses whinny as the carriage pulled away.
I stared at the house.
No lights in the windows.
No music.
No life.
Just a hollow castle.
My imagination filled it with warmth — painted lights behind the curtains, laughter in the hallways, dinners that didn't end in silence.
For a moment, I imagined running inside and being greeted.
A warm hug.
A smile.
A shared joke.