Shattered bonds: Sisters in the shadows

Victoria stood frozen, her hands gripping the edge of the worn wooden chair, staring at Charlotte with wide, disbelieving eyes. Her mind raced, trying to grasp what the old woman had just told her.

"So you're telling me that my little sister, Emma, is a killer, a witch, and a tyrant that now goes by the name Daisy?" Victoria's voice trembled with a mixture of shock and disbelief. She struggled to make sense of the words coming from Charlotte's lips, her mind refusing to accept them as truth.

Charlotte, nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid it's true, m'lady. Emma is not the girl you remember."

Victoria's chest tightened as she stood up, an unrestrained laugh escaping her lips. It was a bitter sound, laced with incredulity. "That's impossible!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, trying to hold back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to drown her. "Do you know how stupid that sounds? Emma could never hurt a fly! Yes, she was probably the reason behind our parents' death, but it wasn't entirely her fault."

She turned away, her hands clasped tightly together, as if by doing so she could make the truth vanish into thin air. Her heart refused to believe Charlotte's words; they couldn't possibly be about her sister. The little girl who had grown up beside her, who had been her everything.

Victoria paced back and forth across the room, her thoughts a tangled mess. She tried to picture Emma as some sort of killer, a witch capable of causing pain, and found only confusion. It seemed so... impossible.

"The sister you knew no longer exists," Charlotte said gently, watching Victoria with a mix of pity and sadness. She had lived long enough to see many things, and this had not been the first time she'd seen someone struggle to accept such truths about loved ones. "She chose a dark path, Victoria. The things she's done, the way she's changed… there's no going back from that. And now she's Daisy, a name that instills fear in the hearts of many."

Victoria's breathing was shallow. The memories of Emma were still fresh in her mind—her gentle, bright smile, the laughter they'd shared as children, the little moments of protection she offered Victoria in their darkest days. That Emma couldn't possibly be the same as the one Charlotte described.

"This can't be true," Victoria whispered, staring blankly at the floor. Her voice shook, the words falling from her lips like fragments of a broken dream. "This is... impossible."

The thought of her younger sister—once so innocent, so kind—transformed into a dark and tyrannical force was like a cruel betrayal of everything they had once been. It was a weight too heavy to bear, and Victoria's mind spun with desperate questions.

"I understand this is difficult, but you must face the truth." Charlotte's voice softened as she stood, placing a hand on Victoria's shoulder. "Daisy... she is Emma, yes. But she is something else now. Something far more dangerous."

Victoria recoiled slightly, unsure whether she felt sick from the truth or from the flood of grief creeping in. She fought against the truth, tried to dislodge it from her mind, but it clung to her like ivy. Her heart shattered as memories of their childhood filled the spaces of her mind—the older sister comforting the younger, protecting her, keeping her safe from the evils of the world.

But those days were over. Emma was gone.

With a deep breath, Victoria steadied herself and finally faced Charlotte. The confusion was still there in her eyes, but something darker was now there too—resignation.

"If what you say is true," Victoria spoke slowly, her voice trembling but firm, "then I need to find her."

Charlotte, her expression one of pure shock, stared at her for a long moment. "That's not going to happen," she finally said, her voice sharp with authority. "The undercity is very dangerous. You could be harmed, Victoria. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

But Victoria merely chuckled, the sound laced with confidence. "Dangerous? Please, don't worry about me, Charlotte. I can handle a little danger." She took a step forward, her hand placed firmly on her hip as if challenging anyone to stop her.

Charlotte's face tightened, the undercity wasn't a place for someone so unprepared, so sheltered. "You have no idea what you're walking into," Charlotte warned, her voice steady, but Victoria's resolve was clear.

Victoria shrugged dismissively. "Whatever," she muttered, glancing out the window at the setting sun. The sky had turned a deep shade of orange, streaked with hues of purple and red—a beautiful yet ominous backdrop that only seemed to deepen her determination. "The sun's setting. I don't care. I'll leave tonight."

Charlotte sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. She could already see the stubbornness in Victoria's eyes, the unwavering spirit that ran deep in her blood. This was a girl who had always forged her own path, even if it was one fraught with danger. And there was no talking her out of this now.

"Fine," Charlotte said at last, her voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. "But I suggest you rest today, you can go tomorrow" Victoria glanced at her then nodded briefly.

"Sir Edward, your presence is needed downstairs," the butler called, his voice steady but firm as it echoed down the lit hallway. He knocked once, then again, louder this time. "Sir Edward!"

Finally, the doorknob turned, and the door opened to reveal Edward dressed impeccably in a midnight blue coat. His dark hair was swept back with precision, framing a face carved with cold, austere lines. His piercing eyes met the butler's, his expression unreadable.

"Anything else?" he asked, his voice low and clipped, carrying the weight of unspoken authority.

The butler shook his head, bowed briefly, and stepped aside.

Edward took a steadying breath, his gloved fingers brushing against the hand-carved banister as he made his way toward the grand staircase. Below, the house hummed with activity. Servants moved swiftly, lighting candelabras and setting fresh arrangements of crimson roses on polished tables.

As he descended the stairs, his sharp gaze took in every detail. At the bottom stood his younger cousin, Margaret, dressed in elegant black velvet with a diamond necklace that caught the light. Her dark eyes flicked up to meet Edward's.

"You took your time," she said, a look of impatience on her face.

Edward ignored the jab, glancing over her shoulder toward the drawing room. "Is Father here?"

"Yes" she replied. "He has been waiting for you." Edward sighed and headed toward the dining room, Margaret close behind. She didn't speak, but her presence lingered like a shadow, her sharp eyes watching his every move.

As they entered the grand dining hall, the conversations halted. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to Edward, the weight of their gazes palpable in the room. At the head of the long, polished table sat his father, Duke William Wiltshire, his imposing figure radiating authority even as he leaned back casually in his chair. His voice, deep and commanding, broke the silence.

"You're finally awake," The Duke remarked, his tone carrying a subtle edge of amusement. "Come, sit down."

Edward inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment and made his way to the seat beside his father. Margaret took her place a few chairs down, her gaze shifting to a distant window. Servants moved with practiced precision, setting plates and pouring wine. The air filled with the subtle aromas of roasted meats, spiced vegetables, and fresh-baked bread.

The room fell into an uncomfortable quiet as the family began to eat. Only the sounds of cutlery against fine china broke the stillness, a symphony of small clinks and scrapes.

"Edward," His aunt Anastasia began, her voice laced with artificial sweetness. "I'm sure you're excited about your meeting with Felicia today."

Her smile was innocuous enough to the untrained eye, but Edward knew her better. Behind her harmless expression lay the sharpened claws of curiosity and malice.

He glanced at her, his cold gray eyes briefly meeting hers before returning to the glass in his hand. "Excited isn't quite the word, Aunt," he said dismissively, his tone deliberately flat.

Undeterred, Anastasia's smile widened. "Oh? That's surprising. After all, Lady Felicia is quite the beauty. A fine match, wouldn't you say?" her jeweled fingers tracing patterns on the stem of her goblet.

Edward took a measured sip of his wine, the dark liquid glinting in the chandelier's light. His face remained unreadable, a perfect mask of indifference, as his eyes stayed firmly on the roasted pheasant before him. His fork moved gracefully, as though nothing in the world existed beyond his plate. Yet, the tension at the table was a living, breathing thing, thick enough to strangle the very air.

The Duke, ever the mediator, sighed heavily and broke the silence. "Edward, your aunt is speaking to you."

Edward paused, his hand hovering mid-air. Slowly, he placed his fork down and straightened his posture. His piercing gaze met his father's, and for a brief moment, an unspoken exchange passed between them. Then, his eyes slid over to Anastasia.

"My apologies, Aunt Anastasia," Edward said, his voice smooth as velvet, yet cold. "You seemed to be enjoying the sound of your own voice so much that I did not wish to interrupt."

A soft gasp from one of the lesser cousins seated further down the table did little to puncture the crackling tension. Anastasia's expression darkened for a fleeting second before she composed herself with an icy smile.

"Such wit," she replied,her tone like silk stretched too tight. "A fine quality for one who sits idly while decisions of great import are made."

Edward tilted his head slightly, an infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "One could argue that wisdom lies in waiting. It's better to move a piece with purpose than waste it in a game of petty theatrics."

The Duke's fork froze mid-motion. Anastasia's knuckles whitened around her glass, but she maintained her composure.

"Careful, Edward," Anastasia said, her voice low, almost a hiss. "Your tongue wields a blade sharper than you know. But be sure that even the sharpest blade can dull when bent too often."

Edward leaned forward, his calm demeanor intact but his steel resolve unmistakable. "And yet, Aunt, it is the dull blade that lingers unnoticed. That is, until it finds the softest spot to strike."

The Duke exhaled loudly, placing his hands flat on the table. "Enough," he commanded, his voice resonating through the hall. His eyes, filled with the weight of his position and authority, bore into both of them. "You both can stop speaking in riddles, Edward is going to get married to Felicia and that's settled" He paused then turned his gaze to Anastasia "You will accord Edward the respect he deserves as the future Duke ."

Anastasia tightened her grip on the silver fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to maintain composure. The tension in the dining hall was palpable, every click of cutlery against porcelain loud against the strained silence.

Before she could muster a response, her daughter Margaret's voice sliced through the quiet. "That doesn't give him the right to talk to Mama anyhow," Margaret snapped, her eyes glaring at the Duke, "She's still your sister."

The room seemed to freeze. Anastasia's sharp gaze darted to Margaret, her carefully masked frustration bubbling closer to the surface. Under the table, her hand reached out and pressed firmly against Margaret's trembling fingers, a silent order to stop.

Margaret ignoring her mother's subtle warning pushed back her chair with an angry scrape, the loud sound startling the room into silence. She stood, her small frame trembling with defiance. "It's clear to everyone that Edward is still in love with that dead girl," she said sharply, her voice carrying through the dining hall. "Mama was just trying to remind him of his priorities, yet she's the one being scolded!"

The weight of her words hung heavy, and for a moment, even Anastasia looked stunned. The Duke's stern eyes snapped to Margaret, a flicker of warning crossing his face. But before he could interject, something whistled through the air.

A glint of steel flashed.

The table knife flew past Margaret's cheek, so close it grazed her skin. She yelped in shock, a small bead of blood blooming where the blade had kissed her. The knife embedded itself in the wall behind her with a heavy thud.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but stunned silence. Then Margaret let out a sharp cry, clutching her face as she dropped to the floor in a dramatic heap.

"Margaret!" Anastasia gasped, springing to her feet. Her chair tipped back and toppled over as she rushed to her daughter. Margaret clutched her cheek, wide-eyed, her indignation now replaced by disbelief.

At the other end of the table, Edward calmly dabbed the corners of his lips with a napkin, completely unfazed. He stood with the grace of someone leaving a casual conversation, adjusted his cuffs, and turned toward the Duke.

"I will be waiting for you outside, Father," Edward said smoothly, his tone devoid of remorse or urgency. Without sparing a glance at Margaret or the others, he strode out of the dining room as if nothing had happened.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

The Duke sat unmoving, his jaw set tight, his hands gripping the edges of the table. Anastasia, kneeling beside Margaret, glared toward the door Edward had disappeared through. "This has gone too far," she hissed "Oh, Margaret," Anastasia cried, her voice sharp and trembling. "Look at what he's done to you! William!" She turned, her piercing glare shooting at the Duke, who still sat impassively at the head of the table. "Look what your insufferable son has done to my daughter!"

Margaret whimpered softly, both from the sting of the wound and the weight of her mother's dramatics. Anastasia's voice rose again, shrill enough to pierce through the murmurs of the lingering family members.

"Maids!" she yelled, her voice echoing through the grand hall. "Get help immediately! I will not have my daughter sit here bleeding while that boy walks free!"

Across the room, the Duke sighed, his large frame shifting tiredly as he rose from his seat. He looked at Margaret's face for only a brief moment, then fixed his stern eyes on Anastasia.

"Enough," he said flatly. "A scratch is hardly cause for theatrics. You would do well to address your daughter's insolence rather than place blame elsewhere."

Anastasia's eyes flared with anger, her mouth opening for another retort, but the Duke had already turned away. Without a word, he strode toward the doorway, his heavy footsteps echoing as he left the room. His departure, as always, signaled the end of whatever chaos had unfolded.

The other members of the household began to rise quietly, gathering their napkins and finishing their drinks. Some exchanged wary glances, while others avoided looking at Margaret altogether. Soon, they drifted out one by one, leaving the dining hall eerily silent.

Margaret, still on the floor, stared at her mother, her lips quivering. "Mama… am I going to die?"

Anastasia scoffed, though her voice softened as she cupped her daughter's face. "Of course not, darling. It's a scratch, nothing more. But what Edward did was unacceptable. He must pay for this."

Margaret hesitated, a small sob escaping her lips. "He hates me. He always has."

"Hate is too weak a word for Edward," Anastasia murmured, brushing her fingers lightly over the cut as a maid finally arrived with a bowl of water and clean cloths.

The young maid knelt beside them, working silently to clean Margaret's cheek while Anastasia stood and composed herself. She straightened her back, casting a final glance toward the doorway where Edward had disappeared.

"I will not let this go unanswered," she said to herself, her tone firm, icy determination glinting in her eyes. Margaret watched her mother, unsure whether to feel comforted or more afraid.