Page 11 of Her True Alpha
“Phee, I can’t have you locked up in a dark room when the king comes. What will he think of me? This sulking is your choice, and a ridiculous exertion of emotion, I must say. We will have to open the entire house. The kitchens must be turned out, and the hall needs new tile. They will be staying here. Here, Phee.”
As she walked in circles around the room, Phee could feel Mother’s ideas getting bigger and bigger. “I need the back garden fixed. It’s gone to seed and ruin without you, dear. You were so good with the garden, so good at telling the drones what to do, and it needs your hand. I’ve sent the drones out to do something with it, but they are hopeless. They simply do not know how to keep it tidy. I must say, it looks terrible. You are so good in the garden, Phee. You have a gift for it, I’ve always said.”
“No.” Phee said.
“What?”
“No, that is not what you said. You said I should leave the dirt to the drones and stay out of the garden. You said that the flowers draw too many pests, like bees and butterflies floating about, all of them nuisances. You said I should quit mucking in your garden and get my own. That is what you said.”
“Oh, Phee, I don’t remember you being so dramatic. What I know is that I need you to go and fix the garden. You are not busy right now.” Mother did not say anything else. She snapped her fingers, the familiar sound loud in Phee’s room. She then led the way out, as if she and Oncca were going someplace important instead of to the kitchen.
Mother acted as if Phee had agreed to fix the garden.
What time was it, anyway? What day was it? Phee’s body hurt from doing nothing. Did that woman really expect her to go outside, and with a snap of her fingers restore years of overgrowth? Although the house drones used the garden and occasionally pulled a weed, no one here cared for the beauty of the space. The lavender and mint ran riot with the basil. The rosemary bush badly needed to be taken back. Every time she visited this house, she had to avoid that garden out of plain disgust at its disorder.
She could make it better, if she wanted. Digging up the basil would be a start.
The smell of food rose from the tray, a thin vegetable soup she knew smelled better than it tasted. Naya’s absence in the house was noticeable. Although Mother had nagged Naya about her need to play with dishes and utensils, Naya’s hand in preparing meals had improved them. Now that she was gone, the food suffered.
Her sister had enjoyed the garden quite a bit also, but did not have the knack for nurturing the plants the way Phee did.
Did it matter so much if she ever left this room? No one really cared. Mother would be in her sitting room with her embroidery and Oncca. Phee’s brothers had their day school. Father would be in his own rooms. Mother sent Oncca with trays, but no one else acted as if they knew Phee was in the house. If Phee went outside, no one would see that either. They’d leave her alone, afraid of being told to grab a trowel and get to work.
Mother wanted normal. She wanted something and someone to show her friends. But that would be pregnant Naya now and not Phee.
She rubbed her hands over her empty belly. She was a purposeless void. There was no child—would be no child. She had become her namesake, Aunt Phee. An omega inexplicability without a mate or children, no one spoke of it. Now elderly, they called her a maiden, though she wasn’t. Floating from calm and rational to wild and intense, the woman balanced on an edge of insane. She had been endless fun when they were children, when Phee still thought her mood swings and antics were games tailored to make her laugh.
Now Phee recognized a woman constantly on the edge of emotional splintering.
Would Phee be like her aunt? Singing lullabies, building crooked nests, and herding her sisters’ children into them for naps and cuddles in the middle of the afternoon?
She’d never tip her head down to smell the downy curls of her own child.
Phee stood.
She’d go take care of the garden after all. The scent of lavender on her hands would help erase the phantom scents in her head of things she would never know.
Chapter Five
Outside, breathing deep, ignoring the other homes studding the back alley, Phee began cleaning out the weeds. Bent over on her hands and knees, she fell into the mindless routine of stabbing the pointed blade of her hand shovel into the base of an unwanted plant and yanking the thing out. She was making a mess, but the ritual satisfied her. The trowel cut roots and scored rocks with a scratching noise, quenching Phee’s thirst for hurting and maiming. Her face was hot, sweat gathered between her breasts, and dirt crusted black under her nails. In the middle of one of the garden beds, she lost track of time. She’d found rhythm in the dirty work, one that echoed her circle of thoughts of feelings.
Menollie appeared in the corner of Phee’s vision. She wore one of Mother’s house uniforms, a colorless smock with light pants. The bland, natural wave against the red brick of the patio caught Phee’s attention. She thought Mother had sent Oncca to spy, but her shoes were wrong. These were a brown leather with thick, hand-stitched soles—well-made, but old. The toe on one sported a ridiculous painted daisy.
“Menollie,” Phee said, sitting back on her haunches.
“Miss.” She set down the round, braided-handled basket she carried next to the flower bed.
Phee suddenly felt cold. The ice started at the back of her neck and crawled around to her chest, up her throat to her cheeks. Without checking, Phee knew what was in the basket.
The news had been out for weeks, now. She should have expected it.
Food, herbal teas, creams, flower seeds—these were the most insulting, wrapped in ribbons and velvet bags. Items thought to enhance fertility. Candles and oils for romance.
The entire world knew that Phee was barren and without an alpha.
Mother once sent a solicitous gift basket to a rival years ago, although that basket had a “stain removal” theme. That girl had gone to a party and spilled wine down her white dress. Perhaps someone had bumped her, helping her do it. Phee could easily imagine it, since she’d seen it happen before.
There was such justice in the polite, but decisive cut of basket sending. Phee had sent baskets too. They all had. Laughing as she’d tied the ribbons around the gifts, it had felt good to know the insult would cut so deep she would never have to talk to that rival again. Basketmaking was a tastefully mean insult Phee excelled at.
