Victoria
The silence in this house is a lie. It pretends to be peace, but it is the hollow, ringing silence of a tomb. And I am its caretaker, its warden, but never its queen. Hector, my husband, the master of this grand manor, moves through these halls like a ghost. But he is not the one who haunts this place. The true ghost, the one who occupies every empty chair and fills every quiet moment, is Eliana. His first wife. The elf-blooded princess who captured his heart so completely that her death left no room for anyone else.
I have done everything a wife is supposed to do. I rescued him from his lonely grief. I brought life back into this silent house, filled it with the chatter of my own daughters, Flora and Primrose. I manage his accounts, I oversee his staff, I present a respectable face to the world. I have given him order, comfort, and companionship. In return, he gives me his presence, but not his heart that was buried with Eliana. I see it every time he looks at me. His eyes are vacant, seeing a past I am not a part of.
Just last night at dinner, the lie of our family was on full display. I had the cook prepare a roast, Hector's favorite. My daughters, bless their simple hearts, were chattering about a new ribbon seller in the market. I tried to draw Hector into the conversation, asking his opinion on a matter with the lumber yard. He just grunted, his eyes fixed on his plate. Then, Emily, who eats with us in the kitchen but serves us in the dining hall, came in to refill his wine glass. She moved silently, her head down. But as she leaned over, a stray lock of her dark hair fell aside, and the light from the chandelier caught her left eye. The silver one.
I saw Hector flinch. It was a tiny movement, one that anyone else would have missed. His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His face went slack, and that familiar, haunted look came over him. He wasn't in the room with us anymore. He was on some forgotten hillside with Eliana, lost in a memory. He didn't say another word for the rest of the meal. The ghost had joined us for dinner again, and she had sat in my chair.
And then there is the girl. Emily.
She is the ghost made flesh. She is the daily, walking, breathing reminder that I am the second choice, the consolation prize. Every time I look at her, I see Eliana's legacy staring back at me. It's in her quiet, graceful movements that are so unlike my own wild daughters. It's in the way she will sometimes stand by the window and look out at the world with a deep sadness that feels ancient, inherited.
But mostly, it's in her eyes. That cursed, mismatched pair. One is green, Hector's eye, a mark of the man I possess in name only. But the other… the other is a sparkling, delicate silver. It is the mark of Eliana's magic, her 'special' bloodline, the very thing that made her so captivating, so unforgettable. It is a constant, silent allegation that I am merely human, merely ordinary, and that I will never be enough to erase the memory of the woman who came before me.
For years, I treated the girl with the hatred she deserved. She is the living symbol of my failure to truly win my husband's heart. But lately, my hatred has been curdling into a more practical, more desperate emotion which is fear.
Hector's lumber business has been failing. A bad winter and new competition from the north have left us almost out of money. The fine dresses my daughters wear, the lavish meals I serve, the very stability of our position is built on a foundation of crumbling credit. Last week, the wine merchant, a man who used to bow to me in the street, had the nerve to ask when he could expect payment for the last three shipments. His tone was polite, but the message was clear. Our time is running out.
Late at night, when the house is finally still, I sit in Hector's study with the account books spread before me. The numbers swim in the candlelight, a sea of red ink. The debts are a monster, growing larger every month. I see the bills for Flora's dancing lessons and Primrose's silk fabrics, and a cold panic seizes me. What will become of my girls if this all falls apart? Will they be forced to marry lowly merchants? To become servants themselves? The thought is a physical pain, a sharp knife in my chest. I am a mother, and I will do whatever it takes to protect my own.
The idea came to me yesterday, in the market. It's a place of commerce and opportunity, if you know where to look. I was haggling for potatoes, trying to save a few pennies, when I drifted near the pub. I overheard two wealthy merchants speaking in low voices, their heads close together over mugs of ale. They were talking about a man they called "The Collector."
A strange man, they said, who pays fortunes for strange or unusual things. Living curiosities, unique specimens to be added to the private collections of bored, wealthy nobles who have everything else.
"He bought a boy from the southern isles," one merchant whispered, his eyes wide. "Skin like a lizard, they say. Paid a thousand gold crowns."
The other merchant scoffed. "That's nothing. I heard from a man in the capital that he's looking for the truly rare things. Things of myth." He leaned in closer, and his voice dropped. "He told a friend of mine, 'Find me a girl with moon-silver eyes, and I could retire to the coast.'"
The words struck me like a bolt of lightning. I froze right there, my hand still in the potato sack. The noise of the market faded away. All I could hear was that phrase, echoing in my mind. Moon silver eyes.
I stumbled home in a daze, the idea taking root in my mind like a stubborn weed. Suddenly, the object of my bitterness became the key to my salvation. Emily was not just an insult to my marriage; she was an asset. A valuable one. The thought at first was terrible, a monstrous notion that made my stomach stir. A part of me, the part that still remembered what it was like to be a decent person, recoiled in horror.
But then I walked into the house and saw Flora and Primrose laughing as they tried on a new hat. Their faces were so full of life, so blissfully unaware of the financial cliff we were about to fall off. My resolve hardened. This wasn't about me. It was for them. What life did Emily truly have here, anyway? A silent father who flinched when he looked at her. A stepmother who despised her. Stepsisters who mocked her. Was I not, in a way, freeing her from a life of misery? I could tell myself that. I could make it true.
Getting rid of her would not just bring the gold we so desperately needed to save our family. It would be like performing an exorcism. By removing the living ghost of Eliana, I could finally cleanse this house. Perhaps then Hector, with the constant, painful reminder gone, could finally see me. The wife who stood by him, the wife who saved his house from ruin. Perhaps then, this house could finally be mine.
It is a necessary cruelty. I am not a monster, I am a practical person, a survivor. I am a mother, securing the future for my own daughters. I am a wife, attempting to retrieve a marriage from the ashes of a dead romance. This is not a crime, it's a solution.
So now, when I look at the girl, I see something different. The disgust has not vanished, but it has sharpened into a cold, appraising flash. This morning, I watched her weeding the garden. Her movements were efficient, her back strong despite her thin frame. She looked healthy. That was good. Buyers prefer healthy stock. I watched her, no longer as a nuisance, but as a commodity. I studied her, not as a stepdaughter, but as a purse of gold coins that can solve all my problems.
I am no longer just scheming to hurt her. I am planning a business transaction. One that will finally rid me of the unquiet ghost that haunts my house.