A bed feeling had woken up Mira that morning. Something was going to happen, and not even the Curse could mellow down the foreboding she felt. By the time she’d finished her breakfast, she’d had the Vision.
Her father; laying in bed. Herself; crying (this was odd, she never cried). Another vision, of herself and her siblings gathered together in a room.
And just like that, it was gone.
Mira had felt a strong urge to leave whatever it was she was doing and go to her father to tell him what she had seen. Nothing could stand in her way of her telling her father. The Vision had involved both him and her siblings, the two topics she knew she couldn’t delay telling her father about, unless he was at work.
When she reached for his study’s door, she suddenly felt, for lack of a more historically accurate metaphor, like she’d removed a pair of noise cancelling headphones.
Suddenly, all of her nerves were getting too much information from her surroundings — the corridor was too bright, the cotton of her dress too coarse against her skin, and too sticky due to the humidity. A tightening feeling to her chest at the prospect of going to her father’s study, just like she’d felt all those years ago, that Christmas Day of 1862.
It wasn’t the sight of her father on the floor that had Mira dropping on the floor, unable to contain her sobbing. It was the return of three decades worth of painful memories coming to the surface, like a radio switching between stations, out of control.
The rest had happened too quickly: her companion had found her and had sent word immediately for a healer, while sending Mira to her room to rest. She’d taken her reaction for a normal shock to seeing one’s father after he’d suffered a stroke.
The house had quieted down, that is, until Robin came and he started calling for her.
Not caring about her wheelchair, Mira made her way downstairs.
“Shhh, Robin,” Mira made, her voice carrying something of the bossiness she’d had during their games in childhood, when they would hide from Philip. “The healer is still upstairs, we can’t talk here.” And so she dragged him to a sitting room that was never used during the summer.
Only once they were there, she allowed herself to say: “I know.”
What, exactly, she didn’t know.
Her father; laying in bed. Herself; crying (this was odd, she never cried). Another vision, of herself and her siblings gathered together in a room.
And just like that, it was gone.
Mira had felt a strong urge to leave whatever it was she was doing and go to her father to tell him what she had seen. Nothing could stand in her way of her telling her father. The Vision had involved both him and her siblings, the two topics she knew she couldn’t delay telling her father about, unless he was at work.
When she reached for his study’s door, she suddenly felt, for lack of a more historically accurate metaphor, like she’d removed a pair of noise cancelling headphones.
Suddenly, all of her nerves were getting too much information from her surroundings — the corridor was too bright, the cotton of her dress too coarse against her skin, and too sticky due to the humidity. A tightening feeling to her chest at the prospect of going to her father’s study, just like she’d felt all those years ago, that Christmas Day of 1862.
It wasn’t the sight of her father on the floor that had Mira dropping on the floor, unable to contain her sobbing. It was the return of three decades worth of painful memories coming to the surface, like a radio switching between stations, out of control.
The rest had happened too quickly: her companion had found her and had sent word immediately for a healer, while sending Mira to her room to rest. She’d taken her reaction for a normal shock to seeing one’s father after he’d suffered a stroke.
The house had quieted down, that is, until Robin came and he started calling for her.
Not caring about her wheelchair, Mira made her way downstairs.
“Shhh, Robin,” Mira made, her voice carrying something of the bossiness she’d had during their games in childhood, when they would hide from Philip. “The healer is still upstairs, we can’t talk here.” And so she dragged him to a sitting room that was never used during the summer.
Only once they were there, she allowed herself to say: “I know.”
What, exactly, she didn’t know.
“I have a very childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness.”
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