A/n: I do not own the Gemma Doyle Trilogy… But the rest of this story and the new characters I made up belong to me. Mine, all MINE! (muhahahaha)

I hope you enjoy this chapter! Feel free to comment...

Daughter of Hope

Prologue

She is born a month early, kicking and thrashing as if the world can no longer wait to be without her. Outside my house I hear a crowd of people gathered to welcome the New Year. It is soon midnight, soon the next day, and the creature inside of me is restless, desperate to escape the comfort and cell of my womb before the day passes; trying to grab hold of the day's ankle before it slips away. She has made her choice and nothing is going to stop her, for she has spent far too much time alone, and now – when the time has finally come – she is eager to finish it as soon as possible. And so am I.

I desperately want to push back, to shrink against my covers and fall into oblivion, but I know there is no going back – only forward. So with all my might, I push.

I grip the sides of the bed and clench my jaw, trying hard to muffle the scream that is posed in my throat. And when suddenly she is out, diving head first into the last of today and towards the beginning of tomorrow, my screams finally escape the tomb of my mouth and mingle with hers, until one can no longer decipher between them.

_/_/_/

Hours later, I stroke her scalp whilst the first rays of dawn enter my window and give her small, pinched, face an eerie glow. On her head is a small stubble of black hair. The midwife – my neighbor – a kind faced lady with a round waist, leaves me with a few instructions and promises to return later today to check on me. I am grateful for her help but even more grateful for her eyes, which hold questions but do not judge, only offer guidance.

I am suddenly frightened by how alone I am, only me in this big, vast, unknown country. The weightless angle in my arms, now finally –finally – asleep, feels like a heavy burden I cannot carry, her small body weighing me down to the ground. But then she makes the tiniest sound, more like a duckling than a newborn girl, and her green eyes open and I swear I see a hint of a smile on those small lips. It is the smallest gesture, and her eyes close once again, but it is enough to fill my heart with hope. She holds part of my past, and she is my future.

I cradle her in my arms. I think of mother, of father who just a month ago crossed the river to rejoin her. I was there, helping him cross, and he kissed my forehead and told me he was proud of me.

Tears sting my eyes and one falls on her nose, making her flinch. She is so delicate but yet, I realize, she holds so much. She holds the memory of all those who I've lost. She is my connection to my past which will never come back. But she is also a new light, a new hope, and I smile despite the painful memories. The tears are pouring freely now, and through there haze I see the sun's blinding rays that signal the start of a new day. And suddenly, I know what I shall call her. I crane my neck and lift her towards the window, so the sun could hit her with its full warmth, and she opens her bright eyes and stares unblinkingly at the world which welcomes her as though it's been waiting just for her. For it is morning; morning has come, and there is so much for her to see.

_/_/_/

A large banner with the words WELCONE, 1900 drawn with bold letters hangs from one of the tall buildings. New York is painted in lavish colors and the night is ablaze with shadows and lights. I walk with her through the crowd, her hand in mine. She insists on walking on her own, though it is late and she is only three, and lets me lift her on my shoulders only to see above the crowd. I am marveled at her determination to stay awake, for surely the dawn of a new millennium is of little interest to a three year old girl. Still, she insisted, so I had taken her out to hear the music and see the lights.

"How long, Mama?" she asks in her small voice.

"Soon," I say.

But soon is like decades in the child's mind, and her eyes flutter as she struggles to keep them open. I smile at her sweet, stubborn attempts to stay awake. She has made a choice, and nothing is going to stop her, even a long overdue bedtime.

The clock on the tower shows a minute till Midnight. I lift her up to see the clock. I am reminded of a night like this, three years ago, when she had made her entrance on the border of a new year. Now she is in my arms, waiting to welcome the new millennium.

"Ten, nine…" A few people in the crowd count the seconds down. Meanwhile the bells chime continuously, and she clutches my arm.

"...Eight, seven, six…" I give her a little shake, but she is wide awake and she stares not into the crowd but at the vast sky, as if waiting for something to fall out of it.

"…five, four, three…" She turns her head to me.

"Two, one..." It is at this moment that she smiles at me, her eyes shining and her black curls astray. This is the moment she is savoring, the moment before; the one in between that belongs to both sides, yet not to any. It is like the dawn, signaling the start of a new day that isn't really quite here yet, not yet shining with its full force.

And then above the crowd's clangor the great striking bell booms twelve o'clock. The people cheer, shake hands and exchange mutual good wishes, and I plant a kiss on her cheek.

"Happy new year, love" I whisper in her ear, but she is already asleep.

_/_/_/

It is her sixth birthday and she is playing among her friends. Her sleek black ringlets are piled above her head and her light golden skin, darker than my pale white, makes her green eyes look unusually bright. A friend tags her and she falls to the ground, sinking into the snow until she is almost invisible. I worry for a moment, but then she pokes her head out and laughs, high and cheerful. Is such a beautiful sound that the children can do nothing but join her laughter.

She emerges from the pile of the snow, her cloths wet and her hair clamped to her face, a dazzling smile on her face. She is such a charming sight and a wonder if it is possible not to love her. The children take turns now jumping into the snow, all immerging as wet as her. Dear god, I think, what am I going to tell their mothers? But I smile despite myself.

"Mama! Come jump in the snow with us." She urges me, and for a moment I am tempted by that sweet face.

"No, love, I think I'll just watch. But be careful, you don't want to get sick just before the end of the holiday." I push a snowflake off her nose. She sneezes. Oh, well.

The kids let out a yelp, and a ball of snow hits her face. She turns around and charges towards them, hailing snowballs at whomever is near.

She is everyone's friend. I am surprised again at how she fits in, an English girl among the rest. Already, I notice, her English has taken an American toll. She is part of everything, mingling with the rest of the children with ease. Only if one looks closely they can see that she is different, her dark hair against the kids' yellows and browns, her eyes carrying a different gleam. The kids do not notice her difference, do not care for her golden skin or of the lack of a father; they love her anyways. It is the adults who question, who disapprove, their judging eyes baring into mine and their muffled conversations trailing behind me.

If only we were all children.

The sun is out for a glorious moment, washing their faces with a new blaze. They tire of their game and sit down, letting the rare moment of sun dry the drenched cloths. I think it's an appropriate time to give her the birthday present.

"I have a gift for you." I announce and pull a small pink bicycle out of its hiding place. Her eyes grow wide, and for a moment her expression reminds me of something past, and a bittersweet joy fills me.

Once, I saw him in her everywhere. Every gesture, every movement reminded me of lost times; the way she pulled her hand through her curls, her sheepish grin, her gait. But lately I've been seeing less and less of him, more of her. She is becoming a person of her own, with a personality and actions and thoughts that belong only to her, a person I love so dearly. Maybe one day she'll do something great, maybe she'll change the world, maybe only herself. I look at her beautiful awed face, her curls bouncing up and down as she does. Maybe she'll even be a heartbreaker. She is so beautiful, so small and delicate with her light golden skin, her thick black curls and those long eyelashes framing her big green eyes. Those eyes, those bright green eyes, are the only part of her that belongs to me. The rest of her belongs to him.

She embraces me in a tight hug, making my skirt damp. "Thank you, mama! Thank you." She inhales excitedly, and I take her to a place where the snow is cleared and she can ride. I wonder if the ground is too slippery for the bicycle, I am afraid she will fall. She is so small, so delicate, that sometimes I wonder if she is a dream, an illusion; always about to shimmer out of view. Sometimes she is here but not here, her mind elsewhere, dreaming.

She rises on the bicycle, wobbles, and then falls. She is up quickly, determination sharpening her features. The magic tingles inside me, and I work hard not to help her with it. Instead, I hold her bicycle and steady it as she peddles for a while. She is a fast learner, and soon she breaks free of my hold and rides wobbly down the rode, her friends cheering behind her as she peddles out of my reach, like a fleeting dream. Her skirts fly above her knees, and I smile, thinking that next time I shall buy her a pair of trousers.

I remember the time, not so long ago but light years away, when I first rode a bicycle. I was a decade older than her, and I used my magic to do it. There are many differences between us, but this is the biggest one. She doesn't need magic; she has a power of her own.

_/_/_/

She is ten, and she is old enough to understand that people stare, whisper and sometimes even comment, but not quite old enough to understand why. She is accustomed to snide comments as we walk hand in hand on the streets; our green eyes the only thing, apart from a knowledge and a secret, which we share. I know what they think of me, of her. I don't want her to know.

I take her to see the statue of liberty for her birthday present. It is the best I could give her now, I know. We live in the same small house I lived in since I discovered I was pregnant and left the university, my Indian food store down the corner the only thing keeping me paying the house bills. But still, she loves it. We walk along the frozen shore until we find a place where we could see the looming statue through the fog. The statue stares at us from across the shore, its hand raised high as in a wave, and I have a vision of a different person standing there, as beautiful as a roman sculpture, a crown of curls surrounding his hair. I swallow hard.

"It's beautiful," She says.

"It is," I sigh.

We stand there for a while, both in a dream, lost to our own thoughts. Then she takes my hand in her small one.

"Are you thinking of him now?"

"Yes." I don't lie, for I know those smart eyes; they see through the truth.

"Do you think of him a lot?" she asks.

"Yes," that is all I offer, and she pushes no more.

She raises our hands, smiling. "Look," she says, nodding towards our intertwined fingers, one golden, one white; gold, white. "It's like a zebra." She says this with such a child's innocence that I am forced to smile.

We walk on the shore for a while to pass the time until our train comes. We pass a group of black women. They are huddled together, whispering, taking comfort in each other. People spit towards them as they pass by. One of the woman's hair is braided in long, thin dreadlocks. They remind me a bit of Gorgon. Before I can stop her, she goes over to the woman.

"Can you braid my hair like that too, please?" She asks.

The woman looks from her to me uncertainly, and I shrug.

"For your birthday," I say.

The woman starts to work on my daughter's hair, her hands moving in breathtaking speed. Another woman joins in, working on the other half of her hair. Within minutes, they are finished. She jumps excitedly, her new braids jumping with her, and the women smiles, white teeth gleaming against the dark skin.

"Thank you," I say and take the woman's hand, placing a coin in it. She looks at me uncertainly, as though at any moment I am about to arrest her. I smile and close her hand against the coin.

I let the magic loose a bit. There is hope, I think, and watch as it fills the woman's eyes with a new spark.

"Why are people so mean to them like that?" she asks when we are at a fair distance from them, jingling her braids.

I am taken back by her question, and it takes me a moment to answer. "Because it's hard for them to look past their differences; all they see is their dark skin."

She nods, and I know she is trying to understand, but doesn't.

"Sometimes people are mean to me too, on the street. But I'm not as dark as them." She says.

A pang of sadness hits my heart and I want to hug my daughter, to protect her from any harm. "They're just jealous of you," I say, "because you're so beautiful."

"And because I have the best mother in the world," she adds with a sheepish grin. I wrap my arms around her and we enter the train. She leans her head against my shoulder as we sit.

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

She turns her big green eyes towards me. "How doesn't the zebra get confused, with those two different colors in her?"

I don't know what to say. "She is colorblind, so she doesn't notice the difference." I say at last. I know the answer doesn't make sense, but she is a child, and it satisfies her.

"I wish I were colorblind, too," she says.

_/_/_/

I watch her as she runs, her hands lifting her skirt. Her hair flies about her face like a lion's main. For a second I see a flash of someone else running, someone long gone, but then she is back, running with all her grace.

She is fifteen today, and I know what I shall give her. I think back of the day she was born and wonder if I've seen then, in her eyes, the person she is today. She is still always in a hurry, running from place to place, trying to grab hold of the time before it slips away. She is still determined and doesn't give up. She has such a charm to her that I never had, and could never have.

She is growing so quickly. No longer does she play as carelessly as she had with the boys her age. Some of her friends have turned their backs on her as they got older, their mothers' comments and disapproving glares finally sinking in. She feels their decent; she is old enough to understand, and I see how it fills her with sadness. She is filled with so much love and charm, and she holds on to the friends she still has dearly. And those friends love her back, for it is impossible – once you looked past the differences – not to love such a sunshine like her.

She has grown taller the past year, though she is still very small for her age, and she is no longer stick straight. I have seen her study her reflection in the mirror, watching the changes grow in her body. Now I see what I have seen years ago. She is truly beautiful, not in a conventional way but in an exotic one. Her long, dark lashes frame her large green eyes. Her nose is small and slightly upturned, making her look younger than she is. Her big, black curls she refuses to cut hand loosely down to her back. Her waist is small, and she is so delicate I'm afraid she would break. I am continuously tying to fatten her up with food. She has golden skin, darker than mine but lighter than his; a compromise.

But she doesn't care for her beauty. She is so busy running, jumping, exploring, learning. Those green eyes are always thirsty for more information, for new knowledge.

I watch as she runs back towards me, bringing the recipe I asked her to bring with her. She tumbles into the store, her face flushed and her eyes shinning.

"Here, Mother."

"Thank you, love."

We start to work, preparing big amounts of little Indian cakes for a large family's order. I set aside one cake for her.

I cannot believe she is fifteen. I was only a few years older than her when I had her, and I shudder to think about all I have gone through by then. I want to protect her from all the troubles the world has in stash, but I know I cannot.

She finishes decorating the cake first and starts on another, always a step before me. Sometimes I am afraid she'll run ahead of me until I can't reach her, leaving me alone.

When we return home I take out the cake I set aside for her. We are to go over to our neighbor to celebrate her birthday, but first I want to give her the gift.

"Happy birthday," I say and I lift the pendent of my neck and hand it to her. My neck feels different without the weight of it, my heart lighter.

Her eyes widen. "No, I can't—"

"Shh," I say. "I do not need it anymore. It is time for you to have it."

She traces the shape of the eye with her finger and then puts the pendant around her neck. It rests there, below the hollow of her neck, at though it has always belonged there.

"Thank you, Mother," she says. She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug.

"It is only a preparation – for the gift you'll receive next year." I say.

"Next year," she repeats.

Those two words hang in the room like stalking vultures. Have I made the right choice? Perhaps it would've been best to move on and forget about my past, to leave her out of it. Would it have been better for her to live in oblivion for all her life than to face what awaits her next year? I don't want her to live through what I have; I want to keep her safe. But there are no safe choices, I remember. Each action has its consequences, and this is what I choose to do. What does next year have to bring?

I'll just have to wait and see.

_/_/_/

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you have any thoughts, corrections, whatev -- just feel free to reply :)