Chapter 1
My hand grips the quill tightly as I hasten to write these final words.
I reach for the inkwell, but my fingers catch the rim, and the jar topples. Ink spills across the parchment, swallowing the page whole.
“Shit,” I sigh.
Maybe this is a sign. A warning. Or a blessing.
Hard to tell these days. My Aunt never dares to speak about my parents, nor my Uncle. Feelings are irrelevant in this household. What matters is our image–and that image is absolute perfection. And the scandal that ensued within this cursed family all those years ago still haunts us. It’s something they’ve been trying to bury in the past, deep beneath their empty grave.
My parents’ bodies were never found, so we had an empty casket funeral. It’s been almost eight years.
I have not visited their so-called grave since that day. I refuse to mourn ghosts–because they’re not dead. I will save the grieving once their bodies have been found and identified. Or a confession from the wizards who did this to me.
My memory traces every detail, remembering that night like the jagged raised divot of my scarred hand.
Just like we did every night, mother brushed my hair while softly singing her lullaby. It worked wonders to help me fall asleep, soothing me until I’m greeted by those routinely nightmares which made it more bearable. There was no spell that existed to take away the horrors that haunt me in my sleep. I found it odd that I never remembered a single dream when I woke. Mother told me she went through the same thing when she was around my age, but grandmother went about it in a more… aggressive approach. A curse to make her sleep–a forbidden curse–she used on my mother every night until the sun rose. She only told me this because she believed that by sharing the past you could learn from it. She also told me every woman in her lineage experienced the same thing and that it eventually faded when they grew older, forgetting it happened entirely.
I guess they were wrong, because since then I have not remembered a single dream from the past seven years, still waking up every single night in a cold, shaking sweat.
There was only one dream I remember–one exception. This cruel punishment my mind will never let me forget.
There was something heavier in the air that night, as if I could feel the storm outside taunting me, warning me to stay awake.Do not sleep.
Father was in his study, who had just returned from a month’s business trip. I was in my room, eyes heavy enough that sleep was lingering close by. Mother tucked me into bed, leaving me to go and see father.
I was paralyzed in my sleep. A smoke of shadows with long dark claws, indistinguishable if they were my own hands or a demon’s latching itself onto me like a leech–needing a vessel to feed on. Fractured mirrors reflect my signature Orsanna pale moon eyes. Fear heightens ten fold when I blink and they turn pitch black, ink stretching over my irises into the whites of my eyes. A large serpent slithers up my spine, feeling the invasion on my small body and the crushing weight as it wrapped itself up around my neck. I found myself gasping and clawing for breath. I was choking–dying–turning into the very thing that I have been running from in my sleep. Let me go. Let me go. Let me go. I begged and begged, unable to move my feet or wiggle my fingers far too aware, far too awake.
All of a sudden, the wind was whipping through the open windows, bolting me awake and I felt a wave of relief when I took my first real deep breath. I was still alive. It was just a dream.
The trees were scratching and screaming against the needles of rain, so I reached for my wand, and flicked the doors shut with one swift motion.
Fear took hold of me and I sprinted to my parents bedroom, desperate for another lullaby and the warmth of their bodies holding me into a tight embrace.
But their bed was still made, cold and empty without a trace that they ever even made it to their bedroom. I didn’t even get the chance to see my father after so long. The last words he said to me was that he’ll be with me soon. It was a lie.
But I need to know the truth.
I don’t care about our name, or our bloodline, or the weight of our fortune the way my aunt and uncle do.
I attempt to clean up the mess as best I can, but the letter is completely ruined. There’s only one portion at the bottom of the page that doesn’t get smeared with ink and is faintly legible.
Forgive me, for I have become the burden that you never asked for. But in my absence, I will find the truth you so desperately kept from me.
Yours, Ophelia
I spray it once over with the glass bottle of my scented perfume–a delicate blend of Jasmine and rich vanilla.
I spin my head toward the clock—ten to midnight. There’s no time to rewrite the letter, no time to confess how I truly feel—resentment, gratitude, detachment, betrayal, and this unidentifiable desire that burns inside me. Is it revenge? Justice? Or simply answers.
I flick my wand and the armoire creaks open. My clothes float out and fold themselves mid-air.
Willow leaps up on her hind legs, batting at them as if they are a threat. She loses interest quickly as they softly land into my suitcase. Then she pounces onto my bed, her sleek black fur blending into the dark sheets in such a way it appears she’s found a Cloak of Invisibility—only her rare sapphire eyes remain visible. I walk over to her, and she allows me to pet her gently as she begins to purr.
Any moment now, my uncle will burst through my chamber doors to send me away for who knows how long. Will I be able to return after I graduate? What about Christmas? Will there even be a home to return to? My thoughts race at the inevitability of my departure.
My Aunt and Uncle are fleeing Orsanna Manor too. They know it is too dangerous to remain in the public eye.
Our family owns multiple safe houses, all off the grid. But for some reason, they decided that the safest place for me isn’t a house—but a castle.
Our Manor is located on the outskirts of England, deep in the countryside where no muggle would find us. But in this case, they must go to a place where no wizard would find them–which was amongst the muggles. And my uncle absolutely despised it.
I smile at the thought of his discomfort.
I look around my room, perhaps for the last time. This was my peace. My salvation. At least until I stepped out those doors each day to study rigorously for hours on end. Perfection isn’t encouraged in this household—it’s demanded.We are Orsannas, after all.
That’s probably why my uncle rarely sees his own son. He believes associating with Muggles would tarnish his reputation—an insult to the Orsanna name.Personally, I think he’s a narcissistic, ignorant fool for thinking in such an outdated fashion.
I take it all in, memorizing each and every detail. Everything here is rich and decidant—polished mahogany, brass-trimmed shelves, forest-green tapestries embroidered with the family crest, decorated with ivy. The chandelier cascades from the high vaulted ceilings, swaying in the breeze from the cracked window.
The golden-framed portraits of my parents smile down at me, their eyes tracking my movements like they know I’m leaving. Sometimes, when the nights are particularly long, I sit beneath them and pretend they are still here.
I see our similarities. I look more like my father. Same hair color–black like raven feathers which shine blue when caught in the light. Moon-bright skin–clear of any blemish or freckle due to being treated like a porcelain doll, too fragile to let out of its case. But there is one place on my body where I am reminded of a time before being a caged bird.
I remove the black lace gloves and lightly graze the faded scar that stretches along the palm of my hand with my finger.
I got it right before my parents disappeared. They took me to Central London because they had a meeting and decided to bring me along for some fresh air. They took me to a park with other children around and wanted me to play while they met with some wizards in a shop right across the street.
I was excited and tried my best to fit in with the others. But, the muggle children didn’t see me as a friend. I was a freak. A large boy shoved me to the ground, “What’s wrong with your eyes? I’ve never seen that color before. They look weird.” I felt the sting of something sharp cut into my palm when I braced for the fall. More children appeared, surrounding me like I was a spectacle in a circus. They all began pointing and laughing, “One second they’re glowing white, and now they’re black! It’s a demon!” They all shrieked in fear, and took a few steps back from the circus freak. The tears began to swell so I shoved them all aside and bolted straight for my parents.
I was eight.
That’s when I realized I would never belong–especially in the muggle world. I never held a grudge amongst muggles, they were only afraid because they didn’t understand. But that’s the day I learned what it felt like to be an outcast. And that I would never escape prejudices no matter where I went.
I told my parents I fell. They never questioned it, and I never told them what really happened so they wouldn’t worry. A month went by, and then they disappeared.
I tour my treasured library one last time. The thought of departing with it stung. I could cast a bottomless spell to fit all of my books in my suitcase, but then I would have nowhere to put them. I don’t think my future roommates would appreciate their room becoming a storage place for my books.
So, I decide to grab a few of my favorites off of the shelf and place them in my bag.
Some of them are just basic spell casting and history books to brush up on that I figured wouldn’t hurt to bring.
Some others, though, were gifts from my cousin, who works in Muggle Relations at the Ministry. He tells me this selection is wildly popular among that crowd, some romance novels that I’ve re-read so many times that I’ve lost count and others about going on adventures to escape rigid worlds full of rules and societal pressures and high expectations. Those, I feel on a deeper level–and at times make reading them a bit too real.
So I tend to turn to romance or non-fiction, especially history.
Although, reading those novels sometimes make me yearn to find my own Mr. Darcy.
The doors burst open, and there stands my Uncle Sylas who dominates the room with Aunt Lenora standing close beside him.“The carriage is waiting for you outside, Ophelia,” he commands.My aunt glances over at the Grandfather clock as the hand lands at midnight, chiming, and she perks up from her typical solemn state, “And happy birthday, my dear.”
