Chapter One
I was three years old when my mother died. As improbable as it sounds, I remember that day and the days following it clearly. I do not have a great memory, and probably never will, but there are those instances that remain imprinted in one's mind.
My mother was the most important person in my young life, and my favorite. When she became ill, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to play the mother while she was the child, and I tried to care for her like she would if I was sick. Our cook and nurse for family sicknesses did not know what she had and called for the doctor. By then I had realized that mother was worse than I had originally thought. Our cook was as good as any doctor, sometimes even better, and had a pride so large it could smother any stranger walking by him. He would not willingly call the doctor unless it was serious to the extreme.
The doctor took one look at my mother and announced that there was nothing to be done. Her one sparkling blue eyes were faded and dim, her luxurious red-brown hair was brittle and plastered to her thin face. Her face was sallow, her shoulders and fingers frail. I had hidden behind the curtains in her room because the adults would not let me in; the musty smell lingering in my nose as I tried to see past the doctor, nurse, cook, and father. I saw my mother give a last little sigh, and heard my father cry out in anguish. No one had realized I was there until they saw me on top of my mother, shaking her through sobs and cries and yelling at her to wake up to smile and tell me it was a joke.
My mother was gone and my father had suddenly aged ten years. He had new lines around his face made from worry and despair, and his shoulders slumped with an unknown burden. He walked as if forcing himself through a strong wind, slowly and with a lot of effort.
On the day of her burial, I was forced to wear black. I had kicked up a storm, shouting that mother hated black and would not have liked to see me wear it. Mother always told me that bright colors were worn during the day to reflect the beauty of the sun and dark colors at night to reflect the loneliness of the night. It wasn't until years after her death that I realized why I the servants insisted that I wear black.
Mother was dressed in her wedding gown, her red hair brushed to perfection and placed in a halo around her head. She was lying on a mahogany coffin that had fairies carved around it. Father sobbed and said she looked like the day she married, beautiful, young, and alive. She was buried in the family plot. Years later, my father was buried next to her.
After my mother's death, out large house became unnaturally quiet. My father no longer laughed, no longer smiled, and was no longer warm. I gave up trying to snuggle into his lap when I got lonelier than usual, choosing instead to watch the workers in the kitchen move about.
A season after the death of my mother, in early fall, my father came home with a wife. He was not expected for he was away on business, and his arrival caused a stir. I had the righteous rage of a child, choosing not to speak to my father or my new stepmother. After our cook, Eddy, took me in his arms and told me it was better to grow up with a sort of mother than none, I resigned to accepting her as a mother figure. She was the same age as my father, but her appearance suggested she was younger. She had blue eyes, long red hair, a kind, oval face and wore no make-up. She was slender and tall, almost taller than my father. Once I decided to accept her, I realized that I liked her very much. My father also liked her, and for a time, he was happier.
Months passed. When I was almost four years old, my stepmother Arina gave birth to twins. My half-sisters were beautiful and my complete opposites. Ana and Dana had father's blond hair; I had mother's red-brown hair. While theirs became soft and wavy, mine became a curly mess that was impossible to brush. They had stepmother's warm blue eyes while my eyes shifted from brown to green, sometimes staying a murky color. I was of average height and slender. Dana and Ana became tall and statuesque. Ana, short for Analie, was the oldest by three and a half minutes, and Dana, short for Danala, was three and a half inches shorter than Ana. I loved them both the second I saw them from my vantage point behind the curtains, hidden from view but able to see them emerge bloody and small. I was disgusted of course, but I was filled more with love for my two younger siblings.
We grew to be quite a family. My stepmother treated me with the same kindness and love she gave to her daughters, and I learned to love her. I still kept a place in my heart for my real mother, and my stepmother understood that. She never removed any of Mother's portraits, though she had every right to, which made me appreciate her more.
Unfortunately, our happy family did not last long. My father became ill and had no strength to survive the sickness. He died, and we were left with no male head in our house. I was twelve and the girls were eight. Mother (I dropped the "step" when I was six) thought it would be best if my father was buried next to his first wife. I did not object and was relieved that I had such an understanding step-mother. I was depressed at losing two parents, especially after spending so much more time with my father. After his second marriage, he taught me to read and together we would pore over thick and dusty books or thin happy fairytale books. We would lose ourselves in stories about knights and princesses, adventure and romance. Though I disagreed with the concept of damsels in distress, I loved to read the stories anyway. Suddenly he was gone and we had nothing. My father was a lord, but a merchant foremost. He had left enough money to pay our servants and mother's expenses, but that was it. We tried to think of a solution to our money problems, which is how I decided to be a tutor for the high class children. I did not think that I would eventually tutor the royal children themselves, but I guess life's nutty that way.