Page 103 of Adversary to the Villain

Trystan confirmed it when he said in horror:

“Massacre Manor.”

Chapter 50

Clare

When Clare awoke, she was surrounded by fog. No longer in Massacre Manor but somewhere else. Somewhere she knew well.

Her childhood home, though it looked different. Less worn, less cold. It appeared…lived in. A screeching sound came from the door, startling her backward. It was Trystan. But no. It was Trystan of the past, maybe six years old, she realized as the boy ran out to the garden.

“Hear ye, hear ye! As king of our club, I decree that from this day on, no one is allowed to steal peonies from Mrs. Lalula’s garden. I’m looking at you, Tatianna.”

Tatianna had followed Trystan outside, her little arms folded in indignation, her small face and round cheeks making her look like a doll, especially paired with the poofy pink monstrosity that appeared to be a dress.

“Hello?” Clare waved, trying to make herself known, to not scare them. Had Mo opening that book sent her back in time? Tatianna turned and smiled, running straight for Clare and then straight through. Clare’s middle disappeared in a smoky plume for a moment before it reappeared. If she’d had a stomach right then, it would’ve emptied.

“Clare!” Tatianna yelled, and her head spun so fast toward her name. She wasn’t prepared to see herself. Her smaller self. She was four, perhaps. All the days of her childhood usually blended, only marked by occasions instead of dates.

See this scar on my upper lip? It happened when I was trying to rescue a cat from a tree. This hole in the side of the house? It happened when we tried to make muffins with six different colors of sugar.

There was nothing remarkable to clarify this day. Trystan was there, and Alexander, Malcolm scurrying behind them, and Clare… Little Clare and little Tatianna were just ahead, leading them to some newly found play spot. A story to be acted out, a game they’d made up.

Gods, she missed this.

But it was gone. These moments wouldn’t come back to her. It was time to stop living for them.

“This was a lovely existence. But it’s not mine anymore,” Clare whispered.

And with the words, her body jerked. The house that was a fair distance away was warped until it was in front of her, the door open, an invisible force dragging her in.

“I’m certain he’s showing signs of it already, Amara. Isn’t this exciting?” Her father’s young face was there. Alive. Expressive. Full of joy. She missed him so much she couldn’t help but rush for him, but once again, he walked right through her. Clare wasn’t permitted to be a part of this memory a second time. Except she had not seen this…had she?

It wasn’thermemory.

“I’ve written to Benedict. He needs to know.” Amara was sullen, less sharp than Clare had always known her to be, her dark hair pulled tight in a bun that tugged at her features. Her black eyes were so like Clare’s and Trystan’s, except they weren’t kind. “I hardly think this is any cause for celebration, Arthur.”

Clare’s father frowned, rubbing at his long red beard. “Whyever not? Trystan having magic is a blessing.Allmagic is a blessing.”

Amara was grim when she turned away, folding her arms. Her mother looked younger, it was true, but there was a lack of youth in her even here, a lack of joy that Clare often wondered about after. Had it been lost by some great tragedy? Or had her mother simply been born without it? “Yes, well. We can’t all share your optimism.”

Arthur was indulgent, doting on her mother with practiced skill. “Amara, dear. If I am right, then Trystan will be revered. Don’t you want that for him? I know I do.”

“I still can’t understand why you’d be so bothered either way by his future. You’re not his father.”

Clare flinched in time with her father. Gods, had her mother always been this cruel? Yes. She had no memories of her being any other way.

Arthur took the rebuke as well as he’d taken everything. “No, I suppose I’m not. But that doesn’t change my affection for him.”

Amara rolled her eyes, pouring herself a large glass of red wine. “Yes, I know. You’re a paragon of virtue, giving love to children you did not even sire. How can anyone compete with such goodness.” The door creaked open, and Clare was surprised to see a young Alexander meandering in, appearing comfortable in the home, albeit careful. “Prince Alexander, may I help you with something?” Amara offered coolly.

“N-No thank you.” Alexander stuttered the words out, eyes darting for the kitchen. “Actually…may I have a cup of water?”

Amara’s smile didn’t appear at all friendly, but Alexander followed her into the kitchen anyway. Clare remained, watching her father’s face with such sharp pain, she had to cross her arms, grabbing hold of each shoulder, a latticework to keep every bit of her from spilling out.

It worsened when he stalked to the other side of the room and pulled a large book from the desk drawer. A book Clare knew.

Gasping, she followed her father, peering over his shoulder, surprised to realize she could smell the herbs coming from his skin, days spent finding medicines for the sick, solutions to pain. Her father had inspired Clare to work with magical plants, though it had become obvious to her over the years that she didn’t share his gift for easing pain. She seemed more adept at causing it.