An Unwanted Return

Belle

For the next several days, our house holds no warmth, no light.

Whenever I attempt to start a fire, Izzie snatches the firewood from my hands and clucks her tongue.

“We can’t.” She insists. “No one can know we’re here.”

Too angry to ask why, I’ve spent most of my time in the basement, using Gabriel’s bloom as a light so I can read.

Somehow, it can sense when I need it to glow brighter and when I don’t need its help at all. And today, I discovered that it can hear and understand me.

When I said, “I wish Father had taken you to sell instead of my locket,” it sunk its thorns deep into my palm, drawing blood until I apologized. And when I said, “I’m sorry,” it pressed a petal against my skin to clot the drops.

After reading one more chapter, I thank it for the light and return it to the jar.

I walk upstairs and mark a new “X” on our wall to keep track of Father’s trip. Then I suck up my pride and look over at Izzie.

Slumped on the chaise, her eyes are glued to the pages of an old book.

How many times can she possibly read Snow White?

“Father should’ve returned by now, don’t you think?” I ask.

“Not necessarily.” She flips a page. “It’s only been four days.”

“It’s been six, Izzie.”

“What?” She shuts the book. “Are you sure?”

I nod, pointing at the wall. “Tomorrow will make seven. I’ll check the tavern in a few.”

“No, no, no. There’s no need for you to do that.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t need to go there at all.” She presses a hand against her chest, and her face pales as white as a ghost.

“Um…Do you think we should go search for him, then?”

She jumps off the chaise without answering my question.

Hastily pulling open her chest of drawers, she tosses clothes onto the floor like a madwoman.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” She mutters to herself, rummaging through box after box.

“Pick up all my things and stuff them into my largest satchel, Belle,” she demands. “Then you need to prepare two lunch pails for me.”

“Izzie, what exactly are you—”

“Now.” She turns around, glaring at me. “Save whatever sarcastic remark you’re tempted to say and do it now.”

“Fine.” I oblige and smear butter atop two sweet loaves before tucking them inside a pail with fruit. Even though she’s behaving like an utter bitch, I make a third pail and add cheese for good measure.

She undresses and redresses, tying and retying her favorite cerulean ribbon around her ponytail, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

When I’m done packing all her things, she’s full-on bawling.

“Why me?” She cries. “Why?”

A small part of me wants to console her, but I’ve played nice enough this week. Hopefully, she’ll stop soon so that I can read the rest of my book in peace.