Emily
The days that follow bleed into one another, a repetitive landscape of chores and silent meals in the kitchen, a harsh contrast to the rich, flavorful dinners I can smell floating gently from the dining room. But something has changed. It's not in the routine, which remains as punishing as ever, but in the air, in the way Victoria watches me.
I often see her from a distance, a still, grand figure in her high-backed chair in the parlor. She will be reading a book or doing some embroidery, the picture of calm domesticity. But I can feel her eyes on me. If I am dusting the hall, I will catch her gaze in the reflection of a polished picture frame. If I am outside, her face will be a pale oval in the window, her calm posture a mask for the building up hatred that seems to emit from her whenever I am near. I am the ghost at her feast, a constant, living reminder that she was not my father's first choice, that another woman once held the title of lady of this manor. I am the living proof of her husband's first love, Eliana.
Lately, however, her observation has shifted. The simple, burning hatred has been replaced by something else, something more frightening. It is a cold, calculating stillness. She no longer treats me like an annoyance that should be pushed aside, but as a problem to be solved, or perhaps, an object to be examined. Her gaze hangs around, sharp and focused, and it often settles on my eyes.
My eyes have always been a source of whispers and stares. They are mismatched. One is a deep forest green, the exact shade of my father's. It's the eye that marks me as his daughter. The other is a strange, glowing silver, a delicate color that seems to shift and catch the light like polished moonlight on water. It is the elven eye, a mark of the magic that my stepmother, a human, can never understand. It marks me as a half-breed, an impurity in her perfectly ordinary world. In this small, human town, it's an oddity, a mark of being 'other'. For most of my life, it has been a source of shame, something I try to hide by keeping my gaze lowered.
Victoria, however, seems fascinated by them now. The disgust in her gaze has sharpened into a cold, appraising spark. It's the look a jeweler gives a strange, uncut stone, trying to determine its worth, or a butcher gives a piece of meat, deciding how best to carve it up. It fills me with a new and unfamiliar fear, a deep dread that stings at the back of my neck. Hatred, I understand. Cruelty, I can endure. But this cold, logical calculation is something new, something that feels far more dangerous.
One evening, I am tasked with serving tea in the parlor. My stepsisters are entertaining a guest, an overdressed young nobleman named Lord Harrington, whose chin is so weak it seems to be in a constant state of retreat. Flora and Primrose are fluttering around him like moths to a particularly dim flame, laughing too loudly at his pathetic jokes.
"And so I told the stable boy," Lord Harrington yelled, "if the horse won't jump, then you must simply jump the horse!"
Flora and Primrose burst into loud, high-pitched, fake laughter. "Oh, my lord, you are wicked!" Flora exclaimed.
I move silently through the room, refilling cups, my eyes downcast. My goal is to be invisible, a ghost in a servant's apron. As I reach for Victoria's cup, her hand shoots out and grips my wrist. Her fingers are surprisingly strong, her nails digging into my skin.
"Stay a moment, Emily," she says, her voice smooth as silk. The laughter in the room dies. Three pairs of eyes turn to me.
I freeze, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs. "Yes, ma'am?"
She doesn't look at me. She continues to smile at Lord Harrington. "My lord, have you ever seen such a peculiar thing?" She drags my arm forward, forcing me into the center of the room, into the full light of the chandelier. "Look at her eyes."
Lord Harrington leans forward, squinting. "Good heavens, they're not the same! One is green, and the other... is it gray? Or silver?"
"A flaw in the breeding, one might say," Victoria says, her voice light, but her grip on my wrist is like iron. "A little mongrel. What does it remind you of, my lord? One of those curiosities one might find at a traveling fair?"
I can feel the blood draining from my face. I am on display, an animal in a cage being poked for the amusement of onlookers. Flora and Primrose are smirking, enjoying my humiliation.
"Indeed," Lord Harrington says, chuckling. "You could probably sell her to a collector. There are men who pay a pretty penny for... unique specimens."
Victoria's smile widens, and a look of deep understanding passes between her and the young lord. It's a chilling moment of connection, a silent agreement that I am not a person, but a commodity. It is in that moment that I understand. Her scheme, whatever it is, is not just about hurting me or getting rid of me. It is about profiting from me. The cold, appraising flash in her eye finally makes sense. She is not looking at a stepdaughter, she is looking at a purse of gold.
She finally releases my wrist, pushing me slightly. "That will be all, Emily. You may go."
I stumble back, whispering an apology, and flee the room, my heart pounding with a terror so intense it makes me feel sick. The fear is no longer unfamiliar. It has a name now. It is the fear of being sold, the fear of being erased. The gilded cage has always been a prison, but I realize now that the door was never locked to keep me in. It was locked to keep others out, until she could find the right buyer for the strange little bird with the mismatched eyes.