Page 4 of Six Burning Candles

It didn’t take a fool to notice Melrose’s mother wasn’t in the picture but was in every portrait. The Late mother of my Melrose was in every painting I found behind the closed doors of the cathedral. Our Lady Avaris apparently took Affinia St. Augustine seven years ago on the winter solstice. Lung rot, an affliction she fought with since she was a young child. Saved by none other than Leonardo when he was but an acolyte. I imagined being a 14-year-old girl stuck in a moldy well for a few days when a random 16-year-old clericjust happenedto go to get water and find her…it doesn’t matter how much magic there is in the world. Some things can’t be fixed. Even with the Hierophant as her husband, the late Affinia passed on in the middle of the night.

Everyone talked of her like she was a saint—endlessly kind, caring, generous, and funny.

It hadn’t escaped my notice that Melrose always acted extra extravagant during the winter solstice. And as her gaze moved away from Avaris, to question my silence, I found myself without a witty quip or informational sermon to give her.For what could I even say?A child who knew their parents their whole life only to have them ripped from their fingers was a far crueler fate than mine.

At least I never knew mine.

“I think those who preach that everything Avaris does is for a reason forget to mention that we can never understand her design. As it’s not a design one can see with their mortal eyes. And to try and glean something from tragedy is only a study in pain…and suffering for yourself.”

Melrose gave me a half-hearted, damp laugh as she dabbed away tears from her eyes. “Are you saying I’m no goddess?”

I chuckled, “If I did, it’d be heresy and you know that.”

“Boo,” she giggled, giving me a nudge with her shoulder as she turned away from the garden of the gods. “You’re no fun.”

“I can be fun,” I snorted, following after her.

“Oh yeah?” She scrunched her nose in my direction before finishing off her skewer. I could tell she was trying to squash the wound that bled all over her pretty sleeves. And thus, the reason I didn’t fight going out with her every Wintersdark. As much as it tormented me to be by the one woman I wanted with all of my soul but could never have…I couldn’t leave her alone with that grief. Not till she was finally ready to put it safely in Avaris’ hands and let herself move on. So, every year, I let her drag me all over the kingdom, my resolve growing ever weaker with each passing year, simply to ensure she smiled.And maybe that’s why her father always insists.Melrose tossed her skewer into one of the magical pouches that allowed for recycling wood, then clapped her hands clean of her snack. “Prove it.”

“Prove that I’m fun?” I scoffed.

“Prove that you’re fun and I’ll grant you a wish.” Melrose planted her hands on her hips, her right eyebrow arching in challenge.

“What are you? A fairy godmother?” I scoffed with a roll of my eyes.Ha, ha, I’m a fae, real funny.I’d never heardthatone before.

“I’m the daughter of the Hierophant, so basically, yeah! I’myourfairy godmother.” She shimmied her shoulders a little with flair. “But if you think you can’t prove you’re fun…”

“Fine!” I huffed, snatching her hand. I tried not to think about how warm her palm was or how easily her fingers wove in mine.But if I’m being honest…the only thing I want to wish for, Melrose St. Augustine, is the taste of your lips on mine.

Which is exactly why I pray.Avaris preserve me. Vien give me strength. Davros keep me sane.This woman is going to kill me.

Chapter Three:

~Melrose~

Troublewasmymiddlename.

“Oh yeah? Big man, so scary! You’re just a weak scum-sucking cock who’s never been put in his place before!”

Maybe getting into a fight with the first handsy person at the festival grounds wasn’t the best idea.

“Wench, you and what fucking army?” The tall, brutish man made of muscles and a beer-stained goatee, loomed over me.

“Don’t need an army, you spineless—” He grabbed me by the neck. Everything that followed happened in quick succession.Yeah, getting into a fight with the first handsy person at the festival grounds wasn’t a great idea.Keidahadtried to peacefully pull me away. Father instilled in me that it was better to avoid confrontation than to seek it. Too bad I never learned that lesson.This was a bad idea.

Keida dropped the wiggling fool back onto his feet with a snarled warning. My heart skipped a beat and cheeks flushed.Oh no.

She swung with her right fist.Crunch!

No! No, definitely a bad idea.

I gasped, hands flinging to cover my face as Keida broke the man’s nose. Her gloves drove him down into the dirt. I swallowed a shiver to hear all the little bones in his face crack. He fell to the ground, crying out and cupping his face. Keida shook off her hands, red in the face with slits for eyes on him. Her growl echoed in the empty halls of my ears, “And next time, when I tell you to keep your hands to yourself? Listen.”

This is what papa means that sometimes my mouth scribes spells my hands can’t cast.I have a problem.Had a problem.

Approximately an hour ago, Keida led us from the gardens to the festival grounds. It was amazing. We rode horses through their little jumping tournament, we played a rousing game of snowballs until I shivered, then Keida took us to the stands to warm up where we sipped apple cider. I tasted its tangy sweetness on my tongue still. Then I heard the band strike up music and rushed Keida out into the courtyard where a crowd formed. I was about to tell her she won, she couldin facthave fun for a grumpy cleric, when a man twice my size slithered up behind me. Keida saw him first, but Ifelthim grind his dirty trousers against me.

While I don’t mind men, and every once in a while I get a hankering for a bad idea…they’re not my preference. Besides, I was at that festival with Keida. The only person I wanted to press up against me tried to tug me away from him.So maybe I got a little mouthy.I whipped around with the audacity of the daughter of a powerful man and told the handsy ruffian exactly where he could shove it.