A Life Well Lived
It’s raining—unusual for this time of year but somehow fitting for my grandmother’s funeral. The day is dark and dreary. I pull on my cloak and head to the stable, where a servant brings my horse around.
“Thank you, Charlie,” I say, offering a faint smile despite the occasion.
“Of course, Miss Thorn. Please take care—waters will rise soon.”
I nod quickly and set off. The funeral is lavish, with rows of people gathered to honor my grandmother. She was a wonderful, thoughtful, and caring woman. Though she lived in wealth, she refused to take part in the fairy trade, believing it cruel to own one. Instead, the Thorns hire humans in need of work to tend the castle. The castle is mine now. Traveling by horse is no easy task, but as the last of the Thorns, I must honor her and our history.
Guilt swells in me. I should never have gone away for school. She wanted me to stay—and now she’s gone. I wasn’t here for her.
The funeral is calm, peaceful, and beautiful, even in the rain. I mount my horse again and ride to the river’s edge on the outskirts of Rosewood Hollow. Dropping to my knees, I ignore the wet ground soaking my dress. Tears blur my vision—and then I see someone across the river, cloaked in black.
“H-hello?” I call.
I stand, wiping my eyes, and climb back onto my horse, my heart racing. Even in the upper-class towns, danger lingers. Bandits roam freely. I turn toward civilization, glancing back to see the figure retreat into the tall grass.
My pulse quickens, but I shake it off and ride on. The castle looms ahead, eerie and quiet, lit only by candles in the halls. The servants have all retired to their rooms. I’m alone—but it feels like eyes are on me. I’ve never liked the dark. Never know what’s lurking in the night.
I go to my grandmother’s room, curling up in her bed like I used to when I was a child. My portrait hangs above her bedroom fireplace; I still remember posing for hours while the man painted me for her. I complained the whole time, yet it became her favorite painting.
The castle walls are covered in paintings of horses that have come and gone, part of the Thorn family’s business of training them. But this portrait was always her favorite—she said I was the spitting image of my mother. I wouldn’t know; both my parents passed when I was just a toddler. Being raised by my grandmother was wonderful, though. It was us against the world, as she had been widowed long ago. We spent so much time together until I left for school.
All in all, I like to think she lived her life well—the way Grandmother Alice wanted to.
I pick up a small bear from her nightstand, one I gave her when I was very small, and cuddle it for comfort. I lie there until my eyes grow heavy.
I wake to a thud in the hall. Grabbing the oil lantern next to my bed, I slowly open the bedroom door to investigate.
I tiptoe down the hallway, trying not to alert anyone. Reaching the staircase, I peer over the balcony. The soft glow of the sitting room fireplace lights the space below. A large shadow moves past quickly.
I let out a squeak and dash back down the hall, closing and locking the door behind me. My breathing is heavy. I leave the lamp on and climb under the comforter, covering my head, still shaking from the adrenaline.
“What was that?” I think aloud.
I close my eyes tightly and eventually drift off to sleep.
