Isabella Foster

he Foster family is beautiful. Where no one is a criminal, no one is a failure, no one is needy, and no one is wrong. We are old money, back to the beginning of Terrastella when the first Foster pressed ink to parchment. We are old money with wide smiles, beautiful faces, and perfect teeth. Even then though, I cannot find an ounce of Foster in my smile. The Fosters are there in the hold of my shoulders, they are there in the directness of my gaze, they are even there in the grace of my steps, but I look at my smile, I only see a stranger residing in the muted curve of my cheeks. 

Grandfather’s only failure in life, he says, was that he never had a son, but everything else, Foster through and through. Perfection. Really, it was no matter. All three of his daughters were tall, staggeringly beautiful, and blessed. They were cashmere cardigans, fine champagne, and grand parties. Lawrence was the first born grandson, and liable to inherit everything, sure, we all have our trust funds, which are to be obtained on our seventh birthday, but Lawrence would gain the house, the beach house, the library along with other distant Foster cousins. I am the youngest girl, I should be grateful if I inherit a copper coin after Grandfather finds himself six feet under. 

I am a Foster. I often tell myself in times of doubt. I don’t entirely know what it means or understand it, but I think it is supposed to bring me a certain amount of comfort. I pretend that it does. 

“Good Isabella, hold it steady, now let it go!” My archery teacher calls as I release my arrow. It flies straight across and hits just left of the bullseye. I narrow my brow, and the tiniest of scowls cross my lips, but it is enough for my instructor to notice. “Don’t give me that look, it was a good shot,’ she says and comes close to me, she moves to give me some sort of comfort, but the coldness of my eyes, like storm clouds passing over, stops her, she retreats. I think that best. 

I could love my archery instructor, you know. Like really love, not like my cartography tutor whom I simply adore and admire enough that it becomes the type of love from a pupil to and elder. But my archery instructor, she is young, maybe close to Bennett’s age, and dreadfully attractive, and maybe I would even have a crush, maybe my spine would shiver whenever she comes close to me to help draw the string of my bow and assist in taking aim. As it is, she is far too close to my family, far, far too close. I see enough of them, hear enough about them, I do not need someone to look at me and instantly think of my mother, my grandfather. If someone wants to hold me, I want them to do it without any recognition. Too often I have been spurned by those too close to the Fosters. 

So when she smiles at me, she receives nothing but an exhaustingly polite simper in return. “Good work today,” she says, handing me my arrows to put into my quiver. It is slung over my shoulder as I dip my head in goodbye. “I’ll be practicing before the next time you see me,” I say. She only laughs like she has never had life weigh her down. I don't wander too far onto the idea of it, I am too busy thinking maybe I can con Bennett into letting me shoot an apple off the top of his head. 

My family believes my archery lessons to be longer than they really are, afterwards I like to go to this pond just outside the city and feed the ducks the bread from our kitchen before wandering back home. One of the servants, who looks young, maybe my age, hands some to me. I pull the bread apart into tiny pieces and I start to feed them, watching as they each approach and grab the piece before the other ones do, before looking at me expectantly, to toss them more. I have hardly the option to not oblige them. Pull. Toss. Grab. Look. And the pattern repeats itself like madness on a loop.