She trails her hand over the polished bannister as she comes down the stairs. It’s early, and quiet, but the air around her buzzes with a kind of growing excitement. It is a kind of excitement she knows all too well, an excitement that fills the house from top to bottom and makes the air all warm and fuzzy. It’s the kind of excitement that magic clings to, the kind that house-elves feed on, the kind that oozes out of young children when it is their special day. And it is coming from the very place she is headed: the dining room.
And, sure enough, she sees the source of it as she opens the door. Her second-born is already up and ready and at the breakfast table, his dark head bent eagerly over his plate. He looks up at her entering the room with a guilty flash of wide eyes and gives her a little wave as he tries to square his shoulders and empty his mouth. He swallows. And again. Finally, he clears it, and allows himself to speak.
‘Good morning! Kreacher’s made breakfast!’ he says, and though he tries to compose himself, the thrill of today is obvious in his voice.
Something softens in her chest at the way his small face shines with such innocent anticipation, so unlike the guarded, stubborn mask Sirius always wears.
‘I can see that,’ she murmurs as she moves to the chair opposite him and redirects her attention to the full table set with all the foods her son loves best. Yes, the house-elf has outdone himself yet again.
She arranges her robes neatly before sitting. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I was far too excited about today.’
She allows a small smile to creep upon her lips at this confession. ‘I was the same when I turned seven,’ she admits. ‘All night I lay awake.’
He frowns, as though trying to picture her small and restless, with the same birthday nerves. She stops him gently, before he dwells on the matter for far too long and starts asking questions she does not want to answer.
‘Go on, finish your breakfast,’ she says. ‘Your brother will be up soon and then the peace and quiet will be gone.’
It’s enough to get him to stop thinking. Of course it is. Obedient as ever, he bends over his plate and sets to eating with renewed determination. She watches him, half-pleased, half-uneasy at how much he wants to please her, and she can’t help but note how much he reminds her of herself at his age.
That she sees herself in his eagerness and his willingness to please is nothing new. She has always seen her young self in the way he does what is right because she told him to. But she sees her young self in his excitement and in his lying awake now as well, and it weighs heavy on her heart.
Indeed, she, too, once lay awake with such excitement that she couldn’t sleep even when it usually came to her so easily. Sleep always carried her away in seconds, whisking her off to foreign lands and beautiful lives she would never lead.
But not that night. Not the night before her seventh birthday. That night she hadn’t been to foreign lands, that night she stayed put and imagined only the life of herself as a seven-year-old.
Had she known what would happen that day, she would not have smiled. She would have run and got far away from her family. She should have. But she hadn’t known, and so she hadn’t, and she’d smiled, because she was seven, and seven was magical. Seven was strong. Seven was powerful. Seven was the age all witches in her stories were, and they all discovered great magic on their birthdays, and amazing spells. Would she discover some hidden magic in herself? Would she feel it in new ways? Those were the questions that kept her up that night, the ones she so desperately wanted answers to. Because whatever it would be like, she knew that seven was not six, and she was certain there would be no going back once she reached that age.
Yes, she had smiled into the dark then, certain seven would change everything.
And she had been right. It had. From that day forward, she was no longer herself.
It all started normal enough, at least, if not a little early. Despite barely sleeping, she sprang out of bed the moment the great grandfather clock in the hallway chimed six. She dressed herself before Kreacher could help, tugging the green robes he had laid out for her over her head and fastening the pearl buttons with steady fingers. She brushed her hair twice on each side, then tied it back with a bow so neat even Grandfather Cygnus would not be able to find fault. And when Kreacher finally shuffled in, she was already perched on the stool before her looking glass, chin lifted as though she were queen of Grimmauld Place.
Because today, she was.
‘You are to keep Alphard from touching the cakes this morning,’ Kreacher told her as he picked up her nightclothes. ‘Mistress said so. Mistress said little master always has sticky fingers.’
She huffed. ‘I will keep him away from the cakes, because he ruins everything.’
Kreacher gave her an odd look but said nothing.
She nodded to her reflection in a very grown-up manner and stood, hurrying to the nursery to get started on her task. Keeping Alphard away from the food was easiest if she kept him upstairs, so that was what she was going to do.
She entered the room and walked over to the cot. Alphard was standing in it, his fat fingers gripping the bars.
‘Wally!’ he shouted, as he always did, bouncing so hard the cot rattled. He was two-and-a-half, and in her eyes, he was the stupidest, dumbest, most annoying little thing in the whole world.
‘It’s Walburga,’ she corrected him, though she knew he would never use her full name. She lifted him out of his cot and he immediately smeared his snotty face against her shoulder. She wrinkled her nose but still half-carried, half-dragged him to the window, where they both peered down at the quiet Muggle street.
‘Now, today is my birthday,’ she told him. ‘Not yours. Mine. You mustn’t go and spoil it like last year. Do you understand?’
Alphard ignored her, tugging at the ribbon in her hair instead. He always had to pick the worst moments to act stupid and not do as told, but the whole family seemed to think it was adorable and let him ruin everything because of his young age. It was despicable. He was just as capable of behaving as any other.
She set him down as she heard footsteps come up the stairs. Her mother swept in, wand in hand. Walburga straightened at once.
‘My beautiful girl,’ Mother drawled, kissing her on the forehead. ‘Happy birthday, dear. Now remember, you must behave splendidly, for the whole family is coming to see you. Ah, Alphard – no, not the – Oh, Kreacher! Kreacher – take him at once!’
Kreacher reappeared, tugging away the toddler with a grunt. Alphard stuck out his tongue, but Walburga barely noticed. Her heart was beating fast with the words: the whole family is coming.
She had known that they’d have visitors today, of course, for her birthday, but the whole family? That was quite something. Some she hadn’t seen in years. And they were all coming to see her.
She tried her best not to make any mistake in how she held herself as she followed her mother downstairs and into the dining room, where the long table was already set with their fancy plates and goblets. But most glorious of all was the towering birthday cake that stood in the centre, protected by a glass dome.
The sight was almost too much to bear. And to know that it was hers and hers alone just made it more unbearable. She wanted to cry out in triumph, stamp her foot, declare the whole house hers on this beautiful, beautiful day. Her birthday. Her cake. But to do so would be childish, and she was seven now, and seven was nearly grown. So she clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms, swallowed the feeling and sat very straight on the high-backed chair nearest to the head of the table.
And she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And the clock in the hall struck seven, eight, nine …
Just as she started to wish she had remained upstairs, keeping Alphard away from the cakes instead of letting Kreacher handle it, the doorbell rang, breaking the silence of the morning and announcing the start of the birthday party. Walburga leapt to her feet and hurried down to the hall. Kreacher, who was still holding onto Alphard, had already opened the door – and in came Cassiopeia. Behind her came Dorea and their parents, and she smoothed out her robes at once; her grandfather was not to be played around with.
Her heart pounded in her throat and she made sure to stand very still as he approached her, because she knew how these things mattered to him.
‘Well,’ he said, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder, weighing her down as he studied her. ‘Seven. They call it the age of reason. Time to show us what kind of Black you are. Do not squander it.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I won’t, Grandfather.’
He grunted and moved on, taking off his cloak and dropping it on top of Kreacher. It fell – Kreacher failed to catch it – and Walburga looked away at once, locking her eyes on first the floor, then the ceiling, before resting on the door. But it was impossible to ignore the sound of a cane breaking flesh. Kreacher’s thin cry echoed in the hall, and there came more blows, and more, and more, until the elf could do little more than whimper.
Her stomach twisted, and she had to tell herself over and over again that Kreacher deserved this. He brought it upon himself. He should have known better than to drop the cloak. He should have pleased Grandfather, because that was his purpose.
(And at least it wasn’t her flesh under that cane …)
Only when the blows stopped did she risk a glance. Kreacher lay on the floor, trembling, curled in on himself and clutching his chest. Grandfather Cygnus barely looked at him as he strode past and entered the dining room, leaving a teary-eyed Alphard all alone.
She could not bear it and turned away from the scene again, only to lock eyes with her grandmother across the hall. She hadn’t meant to look at her, but it was too late to back away now. All she could do was resist the urge to shrink as she approached her.
‘He’s in a mood today,’ Grandmother whispered, bending low and kissing the air near her cheek. ‘Best be on your finest behaviour.’
Walburga nodded once. She had gathered as much, but still appreciated the warning.
Grandmother Violetta straightened and added, for all to hear, ‘Happy birthday.’
And then they were gone, leaving her to greet the rest of the guests, and they came in waves. First the Burkes. Then her granduncle Arcturus and his wife Lysandra and their daughters. Callidora hurried off to Alphard straight away – she had a thing for little children, and all the adults always commented on how this would make her such a great mother – unlike herself, obviously. Walburga felt nothing for little children or even baby dolls. The only dolls she liked were the ones in her dollhouse upstairs, that she could make do whatever she wanted. There was never anyone to tell her she was doing it wrong, aside from Lucretia, who played with her at times, but Lucretia never did. Lucretia was her best friend in the whole wide world and the stories they came up with together were always the best ones.
It wasn’t a secret that Lucretia was the one she was looking forward to seeing the most. Lucretia no doubt felt the same, and the wait for her was almost unbearable, but she still struggled through, and not without reward; there she was, entering the house at her mother’s side, wrapped in a burgundy cloak, cheeks pink from the cold and her auburn hair tied back with a bow neat enough to rival her own. Her eyes swept the hall until they landed on her. At once, her face lit, and Walburga forgot herself, forgot the proper greetings, forgot about everything she had ever learnt, and ran towards her, catching Lucretia’s hands.
‘You came!’
‘Of course I came, it’s your birthday!’
Lucretia twirled her once before Mother cleared her throat, and both girls froze. But the excitement still oozed from them, and they knew it wouldn’t be long before they could let themselves go wild, before they were alone together and could do as their hearts desired. They whispered about it as they were ushered into the dining room for cakes and sandwiches, whilst the voices of the elder Blacks rose in stern discussion behind them.
Walburga took her seat near the head of the long table again, spine straight, watching with satisfaction as platters of sugared plums, honey cakes, and neat little finger sandwiches appeared.
Alphard sat two places down, and, naturally, was already covered in jam. Orion, beside him, and his best friend, was no better. Kreacher hovered near with a damp cloth, but Walburga thought that was rather pointless, as the toddlers would just manage to get themselves filthy again. It was a never-ending battle with those two.
She looked away and vowed to herself not to let their behaviour ruin the day for her. She had to focus on herself and her birthday, and so she set to eating. It turned out to be easy enough to forget the rest whilst eating the delicious little cakes and finger sandwiches, especially since she had Lucretia next to her for conversation. She was just starting to think she could get used to being seven when Father’s voice cut across the chatter – ‘And now, let us see the girl!’ – and everyone turned to look at her.
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she rose to stand, her back stiff and her chin lifted, just as she had practised a thousand times or more before her looking glass.
‘Seven years old this day,’ Father went on to say. ‘May she bear the name of Black as proudly as those before her!’
A murmur of approval moved through the room. Walburga bowed her head slightly, beaming, allowing the warm feeling of appreciation to fill her entire body.
Then she looked at Lucretia, whose eyes sparkled with admiration and wonder.
Yes. This was how it was meant to be. Her in the centre, with nothing but loving words spoken about her, and nothing but admiring stares. That was what being seven was all about.
She couldn’t hold back a smile, so she covered her face with her hands and sat down, just as Kreacher came scuttling in with the first parcel: a narrow, velvet-wrapped box. It was Grandfather Cygnus’, as was proper, and inside lay a slender, silver hair comb, set with three onyx stones.
‘For when you are ready to wear your hair as a lady,’ Grandfather said.
She tugged at the ribbon in her hair, wanting to replace it immediately, but Mother stopped her.
‘Not now. You’ve more presents to unwrap,’ she said, and Walburga shrunk back, apologising for her haste.
She then turned to Grandmother Violetta, who gave her a set of embroidered handkerchiefs bearing the Black family crest. Because ‘a proper lady is never without one’, and that was what she was now: a proper lady. All grown and wise and pretty.
And the gifts just kept coming: a book on pure-blood genealogies, a golden brooch, sugared plums, ink bottles, perfumes, more hair ribbons, a leather notebook, a top hat, some new robes, puzzles, poetry, and even a set of small glass snakes that coiled around her fingers.
She accepted each with grace, as was expected of her, but the only gift that stole her heart was Lucretia’s: a porcelain doll with blonde hair tied back in a bun, dressed in beautiful dark red robes.
‘She can live in the dollhouse,’ said Lucretia, explaining the gift when she truly didn’t need to. Walburga was already smitten.
She hugged the doll tight to her chest and whispered, ‘She’s perfect.’
And everyone agreed. For once, everyone agreed.
When all the gifts were given, it was time for cake. With a swish of her father’s wand, the glass dome disappeared and upon the cake stood seven tall candles, burning brightly.
‘Make your wish,’ Mother instructed.
She closed her eyes and thought with all her might: May everyone see me. May they always see me.
Then she opened them again, and she blew as hard as she could, and the flames died out in a sweep of smoke. Applause filled the room and Walburga sat straighter, her chest swelling – but it didn’t last; Alphard made a sound, and all attention turned to him. He wriggled freely in Mother’s lap, clapping his sticky hands along, reaching for the sugared fruit like some common babe.
Mother laughed softly. ‘Not yet, Alphard, darling.’
Walburga’s smile disappeared and her nails dug new, deep crescents into her palms. It’s my day, she thought furiously. My cake. My wish. Mine.
Lucretia touched her hand beneath the table. ‘Don’t mind him,’ she said. ‘He’s just a baby.’
But he wasn’t. He’d outgrown the baby stage years ago. He was nothing more than a stupid, sticky toddler who was allowed to ruin everything.
Then the cake was cut and served. Walburga ate, but her legs twitched under the table and jealousy was still building inside her; the adults were all ignoring her, busy with their own conversations or with Alphard and Orion’s ‘cute’ antics, and it made her chest burn brighter than the sun.
When she finished her plate, she could bear it no longer.
She turned to Lucretia and snapped, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Go?’
‘Do you want to play or not? Come on!’
Lucretia’s eyes lit up as she realised what she meant, and she sprang up from her chair, all manners forgotten. Walburga grabbed her hand and held her new doll under her other arm, and together they slipped through the dining room door.
The moment it clicked shut behind them, they broke into wide, unrestrained grins.
Walburga let go of Lucretia and, without warning, they both raced for the stairs. They clutched the bannister as they ran up the steps two at a time, the skirts of their robes swishing and billowing behind them as they reached the landing, giggles bubbling to the surface and filling the air around them. It felt delicious, and slightly dangerous, and overall thrilling, to race the stairs and not have anyone calling after them, reprimanding them, demanding they behave.
The house was theirs now. And they knew exactly where to go.
The playroom was large and toys lay scattered across it. Pale winter light came in through the window, its glass blurred with frost. And yet, it was not cold in here; a fire burnt in the hearth. Against the wall opposite stood the dollhouse they had waited for for so long. It was nearly as tall as the girls themselves and made of the finest wood. Father had commissioned it from a craftsman in Diagon Alley two Christmases ago, and Kreacher kept it spotless. He even dusted off the tiny portraits that moved and talked just like real ones.
Walburga’s heart seemed to slow down as she approached the dollhouse – no, the entire world seemed to still, not just her heart, and the murmur from downstairs disappeared, as did all her doubts and insecurities and the awful feelings from before. Yes, this, right here, was where she belonged, with her dollhouse and her best friend and a world to shape and control, not sitting downstairs all stiff and grown-up, having to compete for attention with toddlers and adults.
‘We’ll start in the drawing room,’ she said firmly, removing the front panel and opening the dollhouse for them to play with. The drawing room was a fine start. Yes, she’d show everyone just the kind of Black she was: the kind that knew how to host a proper party.
Lucretia smiled enthusiastically and reached for her favourite doll, a lady with black curls and beautiful emerald green robes.
‘No,’ said Walburga, snatching the doll away before Lucretia could grab it. ‘I want to play with her. Here, you can have the new one.’
‘I thought you liked her,’ said Lucretia. ‘Don’t you like her?’
‘I do like her, but I want to play with this one now. Look, we even dressed the same today,’ she said, holding the doll by her side to show off the similarities.
Lucretia nodded and picked up the new doll, which Walburga had discarded on the floor.
‘All right,’ she said, placing her at the doorway. ‘Then she’s just arrived, and she needs somewhere to sit.’
‘She may have the green chair,’ Walburga decided. She settled her own doll onto the sofa. ‘But only because she’s new. Next time, she’ll have to wait her turn just like everyone else.’
Lucretia accepted this without complaint. ‘Of course. She’s very polite – Oh, she’ll bring gifts!’
‘What kind of gifts?’
‘Hmm … A vase of flowers.’ Lucretia plucked a bouquet from the box of dollhouse trinkets. She tucked it under her doll’s arm. ‘For the lady of the house.’
Walburga gave a satisfied nod. ‘Then she may stay for tea, but she mustn’t talk too loudly.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Lucretia said quickly. She lowered her doll’s head, as though it were bowing meekly. ‘She’s a very proper lady.’
‘Good,’ Walburga replied. ‘We like proper ladies in this house. And we hold teas on Thursdays and grand dinners on Sundays. And no-one is ever late, and no-one ever cries.’
‘Except babies,’ said Lucretia. ‘Babies cry.’
Walburga gave her a look. ‘No, babies don’t cry either. They’re far too well-behaved for that.’
Lucretia hesitated, then nodded, smoothing down her doll’s gown. ‘My doll isn’t a baby anyway. So she doesn’t cry. She’s all grown up. And she’s married.’
‘Oh? Who’s she married to?’
‘To … to a man with a huge house. And a library, with many thick books.’
‘A library is good,’ she said, nodding. Libraries were really important. All important men had them. ‘He must be a man like Father.’
Lucretia nodded solemnly. ‘He is a very great man.’
‘Good,’ said Walburga, ‘we shall begin. Lady Black will have her guest.’
Lucretia moved the blonde doll into the drawing room. ‘Thank you ever so much for having me, Mrs Black,’ she said.
‘You are most welcome, er –’ Walburga stopped, looking to Lucretia.
‘Her name is Mary,’ Lucretia announced proudly.
‘You can’t name her that!’ she hissed.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not proper! It’s not a Black name.’
‘Well, what if she isn’t a Black? She’s … a Macmillan! Mary Macmillan.’
Walburga let out an exasperated sigh, but couldn’t argue with that. ‘Fine. Well, sit down, Miss Macmillan. We were just … discussing the weather.’
‘Oh, it is such fine weather for December,’ Lucretia said, beaming. ‘But the journey was long and the roads ever so dreadful. But your home is so, so beautiful, Mrs Black. And what a lovely carpet. I have never seen one so soft.’
‘Thank you, my dear. It was imported from India. The very best sort. It was brought in by … by air. It can fly,’ she added, for it sounded more magical and grand.
They both giggled, and Lucretia stuck out her doll’s arms, offering the flowers. ‘These are for the mistress of the house. To thank her for her kindness.’
‘How thoughtful,’ Walburga said, and she called upon the invisible house-elf (her own free hand) to put them away and serve the tea.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Please.’
Walburga set out the teacups and held up the miniature silver spoons so they gleamed in the firelight. ‘And do admire the cutlery,’ she said. ‘Real silver, of course. None of that steel nonsense.’
‘Oh yes. I can tell. It simply looks and feels divine.’
They giggled again, feeling so grown-up with their conversations, which touched all the things adults talked about over tea: the weather, the cutlery, the carpet, but also house-elves, husbands and children …
‘Oh!’ Lucretia exclaimed suddenly. ‘Mary has news!’
‘What kind of news?’
‘She is with child!’
Walburga blinked. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not proper to talk about such things at tea. And besides, she hasn’t got a husband.’
Lucretia giggled again. ‘But she has! She’s married to a great man. We just said so.’
Something was stirring inside of Walburga. Yes. It was true, they had said ‘Mary’ was married – but she didn’t want there to be a baby, and this was her world. She got to decide, not Lucretia. It was her birthday!
‘Well, you still can’t just decide that she’s to have a baby,’ she said. ‘Lady Black was going to have a dinner party next.’
‘She could announce it at the dinner party,’ Lucretia said brightly.
‘No! We’ll start over. She’s not having a baby, and there is no husband. The dinner party will go on as planned.’
‘But I like her story,’ Lucretia whispered.
‘If you want to play it, fine. But then I quit.’
‘Fine,’ spat Lucretia. ‘Quit. I’ll play by myself then.’
‘But it’s my dollhouse!’ said Walburga.
‘Oh, oh, I can feel the baby!’ Lucretia whimpered, pressing her doll’s arms to her belly. ‘Oh, there’s a baby in my tummy!’
Walburga glared, wishing she could stop her with just her eyes, the way her father could always make her stop with just a look. But it didn’t work. Lucretia just played on with that infuriating look on her face, as if she hadn’t done anything wrong at all. She wanted to smash that face to pieces.
But she couldn’t. She was seven years old today, and seven was nearly grown. She was supposed to be mature about this. So she was; when Lucretia wasn’t looking, she snatched the tiny cradle from the nursery, and hid it from sight.
There, she thought. That’ll keep her from having a baby – the baby’ll have nowhere to sleep!
Then she let out a heavy sigh.
‘Stop that,’ she said at last.
But Lucretia ignored her, continuing in a dreamy, sing-song voice, ‘Oh, how he kicks! Such a strong little baby boy –’
‘Stop it!’ Walburga snapped. ‘There’s no baby!’
‘Oh but there is,’ said Lucretia stubbornly. ‘And everyone will come to see it at the dinner party. And she’ll stay here until the baby comes and Mrs Black will give her the biggest room, and –’
‘She will not!’ Walburga shouted, snatching up her own doll. ‘Lady Black does not allow unmarried women with babies to live in her house!’
‘But she is married!’ Lucretia said. ‘You said she could be!’
‘I changed my mind!’
Lucretia gasped, then glared, and put her doll in the nursery, whilst looking Walburga straight in the eye. ‘Too late,’ she said slowly. ‘The baby’s already coming.’
Walburga’s hands balled into fists. Anger was building inside of her and she tried desperately to bite it back, push it down, get rid of it, but all she could think if was that this wasn’t how it was supposed to go! And seven or not, she couldn’t have that.
‘You’re ruining it!’ she hissed. ‘You’re ruining everything!’
‘I’m not,’ Lucretia said hotly. ‘You just want to decide everything yourself! It’s boring when you always decide!’
‘It’s my birthday and my dollhouse!’ Walburga countered. ‘I get to decide because it’s mine!’
Lucretia’s eyes glittered with angry tears. For a moment they both just glared at one another. Then Lucretia turned away.
‘I need the cradle,’ she muttered coldly. ‘We had it when we started. I saw it, and I know you did, too.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Lucretia, taking the box of dollhouse trinkets and shifting through them. ‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Lucretia looked up from the box, then turned it upside down, frantically searching through it all. ‘It’s gone! You –’
‘I what?’ Walburga dared.
‘You lost it!’
‘I did not.’
‘Where is it then?’
‘It was next to you, but then you moved. So you lost it!’
‘Lies!’ Lucretia shouted, her face turning pink. ‘You took it! You did, I know you did –’
‘Don’t you dare call me a liar!’
‘Then show me your hands!’ Lucretia cried. ‘Show me!’
Walburga glared, then raised her hands slowly, palms out. ‘See? Nothing!’
But when she lowered them again, something small slipped from her sleeve and hit the floor with a soft thud.
‘I was only keeping it safe,’ she said quickly, almost tripping over her words. ‘You were being careless, you would have lost it for real if I hadn’t –’
‘You’re mean,’ said Lucretia, interrupting her. ‘And you always take everything, because you can’t stand to share.’
‘No, I take it because it’s mine! Everything here is mine!’
‘You lied and you stole it –’
‘DON’T CALL ME A THIEF!’ Walburga thundered, and the dollhouse shook. The little doors rattled on their hinges and the tiny chandeliers swayed, the tiny chairs toppling over. But Walburga paid it no mind.
‘HOW DARE YOU!?’ she continued, screeching now. ‘IN MY OWN HOUSE!? WITH MY OWN TOYS?!’
Lucretia was backing into a corner of the room, arms raised as a shield. ‘I didn’t mean –’
‘But you DID! You think you’re better than me, don’t you? You think because your father is important and your mother fusses over you that you can just come here and order everything about –’
‘No! No I –’
‘– well, you can’t! Not today! I’m the important one! It’s my birthday! And that’s my doll, and this is my dollhouse, and my playroom, it’s all mine. MINE, you hear me? MINE!’
‘You’re being horrid,’ whispered Lucretia. ‘I’ll tell Mummy you’re being horrid!’
‘I’m not horrid! You’re horrid! You come into my house, you touch my things, and then you call me names and – and – well it’s you who ruins everything!’
‘That’s not true –’
‘It is! You know it is!’
‘Stop yelling at me!’
‘If you don’t like it, go home!’ she spat. ‘I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!’
‘Fine!’ Lucretia shouted back. ‘You’re horrible, anyway, and I’ll never, ever, play with you ever again!’
Lucretia bolted for the door, her sobs echoing down the hall.
Walburga stood trembling, fists balled at her sides, chest heaving as if she’d run a mile. She tried desperately to calm down, come to her senses – she could hear Lucretia run down the stairs, she could hear her run to the dining room. She was going to tell. Yes, she could hear the door opening. Voices. Footsteps. Hurried footsteps. So many footsteps, all up the stairs. Up, up, up. Her heart was thundering in her ears and she looked around the room for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere to go.
And then the doorway filled, and Walburga’s heart stopped. For the face that greeted her was that of her grandfather, and Grandmother Violetta’s warning came back to her clear as day.
He’s in a mood today. Best be on your finest behaviour.
And she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been. She’d yelled and angered her cousin and her dollhouse – it was in such a poor state – she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she took a few steps away from Grandfather Cygnus on instinct, her whole body trembling as she backed herself into a corner with nowhere else to go. She closed her eyes, bracing herself –
A sharp and sudden and unexpected sound startles her, tearing her away from the memories in her mind. She is back in the dining room, facing her blurry son. No, her eyes are blurry, not her son. She blinks the tears away and steadies her breath. Regulus doesn’t notice. He isn’t looking at her, thankfully. He’s still bent over his plate. Crumbs trickle down his chin, his fingers sticky with honey and jam. And he’s beaming, struggling to contain his excitement. Yes, he’s happy, so happy, to be the centre of attention today. So certain he will love every second of it.
Something tightens in her chest at the sight. She presses her lips together, her face blank. He is too open, too trusting, too much like she once was. Too ready to let himself be hurt like she was hurt, destroyed like she was destroyed.
She cannot bear it.
She inhales deeply and picks up the fork she let fall in all her distress. Yes, it’s best her sons learn early that affection has to be earnt and that joy is dangerous. They must learn to control themselves in ways she never could.
Only then can they be safe in ways she never was.