37: Stories
Layla taught her daughter in stories.
Along with the classic Shakespearean works, Lucy's childhood had been filled to the brim with fairytales. Not the white laminate children's books of course, but those hidden away in dusty tombs, behind cracking leather covers. These were two parts grim mystique and one part warning. They spun tales of witches that resided in forests that lead nowhere, sirens that could place entire towns under thrall, glittering hoards guarded by zealous, ancient dragons. They taught about gods, and demons, and men. Lucy would sit on her mother's knees and listen, wide-eyed, over cookies and tea.
(Perhaps this wasn't the best idea though. Reality and fantasy are often blurred, and Lucy, precocious as she was, didn't come to the realization that most little girls did not, in fact, have magical, immortal, water-controlling aunt-figures until she was eight. The sudden awareness came with a kidnapping, and after the missive had been sent it took approximately five minutes for Aquarius to splash into the room from the meager water tray and bring a literal tsunami down on the unfortunate crooks.)
The tale that Layla recited most though, the one Lucy had been most enthralled by, goes like this:
Date first published: April 27, 2016