The room was deathly still when she arrived. It was a sharp contrast to the ballroom she had been in moments before: colors blurring as the women spun their dresses, bright light from torches emanating on the crowd of hundreds, enraptured in dance and conversation as the night of celebration went on.
Here, as the heavy door thudded shut behind her, Merla was greeted with no sights or sounds like the ballroom provided, but rather the darkness and silence of the small bedroom she was now in. Moonlight decorated the dark floorboards, illuminating her slow walk over to the bed in the corner. Dying embers in the stone fireplace reflected off of her ornate skirt as she arrived, the chair, unused to a visitor, creaking beneath her weight as she sat by the bedside.
Merla looked around the room. It was not what she could see that took her attention, but rather what she could remember: watching a young girl take her first steps on the mahogany floors, years of gentle scolding for the etched drawings of dragons now faded on the stone walls, tucking her in after days full of trips and meetings. Her gaze landed back on the bed, and she was at a loss for what could be considered happy memories. There seemed to be none since her daughter became bedridden.
“I would have brought you something if I knew I was visiting.”
She always put frost lilies in her daughter’s hands, the white quilt decorated with amulets and stones from trips gone by, keeping company. Merla had nothing to give tonight.
“Everyone is doing fine,” she whispered, scared as if she would disrupt her daughter, “Lord Draivell visits you quite often. He cares about your well-being very much, Valeria.”
Merla bowed her head before she spoke again, “He’s a good man.”
It was he who told her to visit.
A quiet admission, “I could’ve done better. For him. For you. He refuses my hand in public, and I know it will continue after the war ends, despite what he says.” Only silence answered her, “I feel as if I have done something so wrong, and no one is telling me. If he’s so ashamed to be seen with me, I could learn to understand.” A tired laugh, Merla attempted a smile, “I only wish he would tell me.”
Her gaze, searching the dark for something, anything to push her to continue, landed on the mirror in the corner of her daughter’s room.
It was the first time Merla saw herself since the start of the night. Dressed for such a lavish occasion, wearing such a luxurious red that even the dark couldn’t hide its vibrancy. Her hair pulled away, revealing a face wearing a deep frown. Gaunt features, one eye covered with the patch she had adapted to years ago, the other staring tiredly back at her. Moonlight reflected the wetness of her cheeks. Merla found comfort in seeing how tired she was. A shell of a woman, dressed for a ball she wouldn’t return to, sitting at the bedside of her daughter that would, if she could, poke fun at her choice of wear. She was disgusted with herself. Valeria, her perfect Valeria, would tell her mother that she looked beautiful. There would be no jokes but rather an embrace, her daughter held close as a wordless thank you for her kindness. As much as she missed it, Merla hadn’t known how Valeria grew to be so kind. She would never take credit for it.
Merla broke the silence, “Is this punishment?” Her gaze returned to the bed, “That I failed so miserably as a mother, as a person, I can’t love the man I care for openly? So terrible that he forces me to mourn my dead daughter alone?”
Curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze from the snowfall outside. Flickers of embers now dissipated as the hearth behind went completely dark.
“You’re gone, Valeria. He needs to realize that, too.” Merla didn’t need to wipe her eyes. “He insists on finding a cure. One I know does not exist. I will not allow his madness to continue.”
Merla knew it twisted around his mind, and it was finding a cure for his ailment that brought her to him years ago. All of their time together spent navigating his grief, even when it grew into something more, still left her questioning: how could time possibly remedy the loss of oneself?
“I don’t want to blame myself. I don’t want to blame you.”
Merla’s gaze turned cold, “But who here is at fault? Why must he continue deluding himself, Valeria?”
She spat, “Delusion you force into his mind. I don’t understand how he thinks you’re living after all this time.”
There was a part of Merla that wished the corpse could answer and reassure her. Countless days spent at the piano bench, in the park, places that eased Merla’s racing mind.
A splitting image of her youth would tell her mother that she got it all wrong; all will be well.
“It distracts him away from what is here, what is living. Who is living.”
Her daughter’s gentle smile now made her blood boil. She forgot about the days in the park. Nights spent running throughout the palace halls, paintings done by the now-dead fireplace behind her. Trips to the market, storytimes with happy endings.
“He won’t be distracted any longer.”
Merla rose abruptly. She thought about saying goodnight to the corpse. What good would a goodnight do on deaf ears?
Merla left the room without a second glance. Valeria’s smile faded.
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