In the mirror, my mother's daughter stares back at me, but she feels like a stranger.
Long, honey-blond hair falls around my shoulders, thick and gleaming, the kind of hair people marvel at. A rare, impossible shade, almost golden. My mother's pride. My inheritance. I run my fingers through it, feeling the weight of each strand, heavy with years of her care, her insistence. She has always loved my hair, and though she'd never say it, I know why. It is a mark of something—someone—else. A whisper of my father's past, a legacy that clings to me as tightly as her love does.
But now… now I'm beginning to wonder.
The last time I saw her, she combed my hair as if tending to a prized possession, her fingers lingering over each strand, her voice a silken command: You'll go as yourself. No hiding.
My mother loves me. I have always believed that. But tonight, I feel something tight and uncertain in my chest, a question that won't go away. Does she love me, or does she love the image she's crafted, the version she's built piece by piece, strand by strand?
My fingers brush over the vial of potion that tints my eyes—a delicate spell to change their color, something only my mother would think of. She has crafted every part of me to fit her design. And with each step, each touch, each command, I feel the lines of who I am blurring, bending under her hands.
Iza enters the room, quiet as a shadow, her hands clasped in front of her. I turn, meeting her eyes, and she seems to understand immediately. I don't need to say a word.
"Bring me the scissors," I say, my voice low but steady.
Her eyes widen, just a fraction, a flicker of surprise, but she nods, disappearing into the hallway. Moments later, she returns with the scissors, laying them in my hand as if they're made of glass.
The hour of departure arrives, and I find my mother waiting in the foyer, her back straight, hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her face is a mask of calm, but as her eyes settle on me, I see it—the flicker of shock, the tightening around her mouth, the faint, almost imperceptible widening of her eyes.
She says nothing about the hair, but I can feel the disapproval, the anger simmering beneath her gaze. Her silence is colder than any reprimand.
"Rosé," she says finally, her voice low, controlled. "You look… different."
"Yes," I reply, smiling innocently and giving my newly cropped hair a playful pat. "I know you love my hair. I thought it best to keep it safe… in case it got damaged."
Her eyes narrow, but only slightly. She leans in, reaching up as if to touch the jagged edge of my hair, her fingers hovering just above it before she lets her hand fall. Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I see a glint of something dark in her gaze—something like anger, or betrayal. But she smooths it away in an instant, her expression cooling to polite indifference.
"That's... clever," she says, her voice flatter than usual.
Iza, standing discreetly to the side, suppresses a smirk. She's already commented me that I look like one of the "fragile whore-boy models" in Ash's paintings. Her approval, though quiet, tastes like a small victory.
I step forward, closing the distance between us, and wrap my arms around Mother. She stiffens, just for a moment, and then her hands come to rest lightly on my back, as if uncertain what to do with the embrace.
Her scent fills my lungs—lavender and a faint touch of rosemary, the same scent that lingered on her dressing gowns when I was a child, the scent I clung to in every uncertain moment. I close my eyes, drink it in, and let it fill me because I know that when I leave, this is what I will miss most despite everything.
"I'll be back before you know it," I murmur, my voice muffled against her shoulder. "Just like every summer."
Her arms tighten around me, just barely, and for a moment I imagine she feels it too—the tenderness, the fragility of this moment. But when she speaks, her voice is as smooth and cold as glass.
"Yes," she replies, her tone measured, distant. "But remember who you are, Rosé. You are my daughter. And nothing—" Her voice drops, quiet, almost a whisper, but the words cut deep. "Nothing changes that."
I nod. "Of course, Mother."
*******
The train is loud and jarring, and I sit sandwiched between Christina and Iza, while Jeremy sits across from us, silent as a shadow. It's strange, this final moment with my friends, all of us crowded together in the narrow compartment, each lost in our own thoughts.
Christina breaks the silence, turning to me with a glare. "I still can't believe I let you do this alone, Rosé. I swear, that mother of yours…" She trails off, pulling a cigar from her pocket and lighting it, her eyes glinting with rebellion as she takes a deep drag.
"You know you brought this on yourself, Lady Chris," I say, smiling faintly.
She rolls her eyes, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Yes, yes. My suitor has apparently loved me all his life—never mind he couldn't manage to say it until the very moment I planned to leave Highspire."
"Some timing," Iza mutters, smirking.
Christina snorts, then gives me a look that's both fierce and fond. "Listen, Rosé. I know you're planning to lie low, but I'll come find you from time to time. Even if it's a risk. Someone has to make sure you're still breathing."
"You don't have to worry about me," I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. "Jeremy can bring you news. He'll tell you all the details."
She scoffs, waving a hand at him. "Oh, Jeremy's news. Such a delight." She narrows her eyes at him, but Jeremy doesn't flinch. He's used to Christina's temper, as steady and silent as ever.
She turns to me, softer now, and reaches out to squeeze my hand. "Read novels when you're stressed," she says, her voice gentle. "And don't… don't be like your brother, Rosé. If you're in trouble, you tell me. Don't you dare disappear."
I feel the burn of tears behind my eyes, but I blink them back. "I won't," I whisper, hugging her tightly as the train begins to slow. Christina steps off at her station, turning to wave just before she's swallowed by the crowd. Her face, fierce and tear-streaked, is the last thing I see as the train pulls away.
I watch her disappear into the distance, feeling a hollowness settle in my chest.
Iza reaches for my hand, holding it tightly, a farewell and she gets down.
The weight of what lies ahead presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting. My heart hammers in my chest, and I glance at Jeremy, trying to calm the panic that rises like a tide.
"...Fucking hell," I mutter, my voice barely a breath.
Jeremy gives me a faint smile, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I knew it, " he murmurs, settling back in his seat as the train chugs forward.
After three hours, the train shudders to a halt, and the hiss of steam mingles with the metallic groan of the brakes.
I gather my bag and step into the aisle, pressing through the crowd of worn-looking travelers, each of them burdened with parcels, children, or simply the weary weight of their lives. Gloam's fourth Station is a far cry from the polished marble platforms of Highspire; here, the air is thick with smoke and oil, the tiled floor cracked and worn, and the light dim from sooty gas lamps.
I step onto the platform, the train's rumbling finally a memory, but my stomach is still flipping from the endless hours of jolting.
I almost taste the rainbow—apparently, I'm not as good at "roughing it" as I thought.