Golden Box Book Publishing One Picture: Thousands of Words | Page 39

“I was making soup in the castle kitchen when the attack came.” I
let my bitterness and anger leach into the words. I stepped closer to
Ang’Liamnar as though to add impact.
“My twin sister was ill with a cough that made her bark like a
walrus and being so closely linked that we were, her affliction grated
on me. I wanted her to get well. She was getting married in less than
a week. I worried how she might say her vows without a voice? I
worried where she might fit the obscene number of crumbled tissues
in a dress that was virtually nothing but lace to begin with.”
Ang’Liamnar forgotten, I swallowed hard emotions. With a stab to
the heart, my memories bloomed.
“She couldn’t wait to be married. I wanted her day to be perfect
and so I was making soup – the next best thing I could think of after
magic, but she’d declined my offer of healing. See, she had none of
my Affinity; no Talent; so she ‘made do’ – still, it was obvious to me
that I should help, but she was always the stubborn one. I could have
forced her, but that was not my style so I went to help her in the
regular way - I was often in the cellar kitchen anyway, so none of the
staff battered an eyelid when I came to make my non-magic potions
and lotions. Like any other day, Cook greeted me with an affectionate
but respectful, “M’grace Etruia, well met today. Will you require any
help?”
I paused. Fond memories wilting. “I loved Cook. She made no
fuss when I declined. My sister’s reluctance to embrace my help had
annoyed me but I was soon lulled back into an affable mood by the
casual background noise of the kitchen alive with people and activity.
I remember pondering whether to add garlic and deciding for it; I
remember the fat clove smashing under my palm when I broke it
against the wooden board, and then-”