Mira had avoided everyone’s gaze — everyone but Robin’s.
He had been the one she had more directly betrayed under the influence, yet he was also the one she felt closest to, both during childhood, when she could make decisions for herself, and during the Cursed years. Oh, she felt so terrible for having betrayed him, even if there was a rational part in her telling her that it wasn’t her fault, she hadn’t been herself when it happened.
But it was her fault, in a way. All of it had started because of her, because of her vision. If it hadn’t given her father ideas, he wouldn’t have cursed her, or any of her siblings. They could have all lived normal lives.
And then it was where her resentment came. As guilty as Mira felt, as much as she blamed her mere presence for all this, she also felt resentment for her siblings, for them getting to live more of their lives than she had. One moment she was eight and the next thirty-nine, a spinster with a wheelchair waiting for her in one corner of her room at all times.
She’d broken the wheelchair in a fit of rage more customary to Philip. She hated that damned wheelchair, the theatricality of it, as if it wasn’t enough that she’d missed out on Hogwarts and the Season and having a family of her own, she’d had to play that stupid role of an invalid.
Robin’s question was a rhetorical one, still Mira felt like all eyes of her siblings were on her, accusatory. He had already asked that question, and she believed they all knew the answer.
“We all know why, Robin,” Mira replied softly, though her voice had a bit of the know-it-all edge to it that hadn’t been heard since childhood. “We disappointed him.”
He had been the one she had more directly betrayed under the influence, yet he was also the one she felt closest to, both during childhood, when she could make decisions for herself, and during the Cursed years. Oh, she felt so terrible for having betrayed him, even if there was a rational part in her telling her that it wasn’t her fault, she hadn’t been herself when it happened.
But it was her fault, in a way. All of it had started because of her, because of her vision. If it hadn’t given her father ideas, he wouldn’t have cursed her, or any of her siblings. They could have all lived normal lives.
And then it was where her resentment came. As guilty as Mira felt, as much as she blamed her mere presence for all this, she also felt resentment for her siblings, for them getting to live more of their lives than she had. One moment she was eight and the next thirty-nine, a spinster with a wheelchair waiting for her in one corner of her room at all times.
She’d broken the wheelchair in a fit of rage more customary to Philip. She hated that damned wheelchair, the theatricality of it, as if it wasn’t enough that she’d missed out on Hogwarts and the Season and having a family of her own, she’d had to play that stupid role of an invalid.
Robin’s question was a rhetorical one, still Mira felt like all eyes of her siblings were on her, accusatory. He had already asked that question, and she believed they all knew the answer.
“We all know why, Robin,” Mira replied softly, though her voice had a bit of the know-it-all edge to it that hadn’t been heard since childhood. “We disappointed him.”
“I have a very childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness.”
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