Isabella Foster

remember the first time we went to Granny’s house, after the funeral. We walked around that house and everything was still set the same as if she she had never left us, as if she would walk through that door any moment. Everywhere were objects she had collected throughout her years. Old items that go so far back in Foster family, in her own as well. She used to bustle about the kitchen despite the servants. She said only she made the best lemonade, she couldn't trust the chef to do it right. All of us agreed. She used to boss everyone around, always telling her opinion, even if it wasn't needed.

But then, the house had been so quiet. There was still her books on the shelves, still her plants in the garden, still her pen siting out on her desk. I remember finding it. My head and my shoulders went first before the rest of body followed. I didn't cry, I did not cry. We do not cry as Fosters, we do not weep. It is so unbecoming, but I could not stand anymore, could not stand where she used to. I grabbed her blanket, wrapped it around myself. Goddess, I could still smell her.

My mother found me.

She told me to act normal. Because I was. Because I could. Breathe. Sit up.

I did what she asked, there was no other choice, not as a Foster.

We walked back out towards the main room, before she stopped me, her face was so close to mine, as if testing to see if I would break. ‘Dont cause distress, don’t remind everyone of the loss. Do you understand, Isabella? Silence is the only protection we have over pain.’

I understood. And I started erasing her from conversation. I behaved like she never existed. The rest of my family did the same. We kept our smiles wide.

“Ugh!” I say muttered under my breath as someone crashes into me. My papers, ink, quill, all of it goes tumbling down. “You have got to be…” I start to say before I close my teeth (though it does little to stop the way I seethe behind my clenched jaw.) I compose myself, those steel eyes look down at the mess that had been created. I gather up my maps, the little ink that is left, and the undamaged quill. My rolls of maps are bent, I would have to redraw them, but at least nothing is damaged beyond repair.

I finally turn those storm grey eyes to my assailant. He looks rugged and worn, where I am shiny and spotless, like every night I am a slate wiped clean, and he wears the marks of life on his shoulders, on his face, as I study him closer. He is dusty books in a library, a sword hanging behind the door of a retired blacksmith. And I am a book never opened, a spine never cracked, silver chains dangling that are told to be beautiful, but ugly in the way they strip you of your freedom.

We could not be more different from one another.

“I offer my own apologies,” I say with more than just practiced politeness. It is said in such a way that it sounds almost natural, as if everyone in the world spoke the way we Fosters do. I don't smile, but my face appears friendly enough, despite the way it sits there with a chill. “Are you in a hurry?” I ask him. “Any ink land on you?” I say, my eyes looking down at his young chest and growing shoulders. He is young, my age about. I knew what I was doing in these strange back alleyways, but what was he doing here? “As a measure of good faith, why don't I offer you my name,” she says, extending her words like a handshake. “I’m Bella Foster.”