Hidden Mirrors

Chapter 2: An Accident

Ronni felt like a prisoner being led to the gallows as the footmen led her down one twisting hallway after another. 

"How far away is mothers apartment?" she hissed at him. 

"Just a few more halls, miss," the footmen said calmly, leading Ronnie down yet another hallway, stopping her in front of an old Oak door with a brass knocker, "here we are, miss."  The footman bowed and retreated. 

Nervously, Ronni raised her arm and tapped the knocker once, twice, three times. A plump woman appeared at the door soon enough, a woman Ronni recognized as Ms. Landon, one of her childhood caretakers. 

"Quick, your Mother's just through here, you have have to wait a bit," Ms. Landon led Ronni through the chamber, her thick Welsh accent obscuring her words. They stopped outside a veranda, upon which Ronni's mother sat on a couch, posing with a painting in front of a throng of photographers. Ronni wrinkled her nose in disgust. Ever since she had been born, Ronni had been locked up in the northernmost tower of the house. On the few times she had been out, though, her mother was always hanging off the arm of a different man. Ronni didn't know her birth father, she supposed she was probably an accident, a bitter secret to be kept quiet, as she had none of her mother's artist ability. Ronni didnt even look like her mother. Rieva Stante was tall, with wavy blonde hair and shocking blue eyes. Ronni seemed to be her contrast, though within an inch of her mother's height, Ronni's natural hair was a straight, sleek black, and her eyes were a bright yellow-green. Where her mother liked to keep her hair long, Ronni had chopped hers off above the shoulders, and just to make a statement, dyed the ends electric blue. Her mother hated Ronni's distinct punk-rock look, and that was just how Ronni wanted it. 

As the clicking of the camera's subsided, Rieva gracefully stood, her green sun dress floating over her curves. Ronni watched with narrowed eyes as the photographers practically drooled. Rieva swung open the French doors and entered the room, the photographers chattering behind her. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed them, and turned to Ronni with a radiant smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Ronni crossed her arms and puffed out her flat chest, making sure her mother could plainly see the rips, tears and chains accenting her baggy, black clothes. Her mother's face took on a stuffy quality, as though she was tasting something sour. Ronni smirked, this was exactly the reaction she had been hoping for.

"Sit down, Veronika," her mother gestured at one of the expensive wicker chairs by the French doors to the veranda. Ronni threw herself down into the loveseat, kicking her feet up and resting her grungy combat boots on the armrest. Her mother sat down primly across from her, giving Ronni's loveseat a look of deepest disdain. Ronni turned her head and looked at her mother. 

"You sent for me, mother?" Ronnie drawled.

"Yes, I did. I understand I haven't laid down the rules of the atrium, a room you will be granted rights too in a few weeks, on your seventeenth birthday." Rieva said quietly, and upon seeing Ronnie's raised eyebrows, elaborated, "the atrium is the room where they, the art curators, store my paintings that are not fit to be in a museum due the their... ah, exceptional qualities." Ronnie sat up straighter in her seat, visibly interested. 

 "What do you mean?" Ronnie's voice lost the crass, stingy quality it held before. She realized she had never actually had a real conversation with her mother that hadn't ended with Wentworth (the burly head footman) 'escorting' her out of her mother's suite. This had to be some kind of record.

"I mean, that when I first started painting, Veronika, my paintings were masterpieces, unlike any ever seen before. People heralded me as the 'artist of true realism,' for my paintings didn't just depict something, you could step inside and live it. They once were the size of doorways, but were pulled from museums when a young man by the name of... Samuel Watson I think it was, disappeared into one of my paintings and was never seen again. Now my paintings are too small for any more accidents like that to occur. I shelter all of the 'dangerous' ones in the south wing, in a room called the atrium. The curators at the Smithsonian demanded the paintings be stowed away when I refused to consider destroying them." Rieva sighed and looked at Ronnie, "But when I had you, reporters flocked to the manor to see whether you had my talent. I admit, I expected you to. But you grew older, and by your tenth birthday, it was clear my hope was in vain. I had Ms. Landon look after you in the north tower, and I continued painting." After Rieva finished, Ronnie stood up, her blood boiling. She should have known her mother wouldn't apologize for neglecting her, but it still hurt to hear the superficial reasons she had been locked away for. Staring daggers at her mother, Ronnie hissed, "I was an accident, wasn't I? What was it? aone night stand? Did you go screw a reporter when you were drunk? Was it after an art show? ANSWER ME!" Ronnie screamed at her mother, who winced horribly. In barely a whisper, Rieva began to explain.

"It was a rich man, Baron Fortescue Montenegro. He took me home after one of my shows in Italy. He was such a gentleman. But yes, you were an accident. I never told him, but if he ever finds me again, he'll know. You're his spitting image. I'm sorry, Veronika, I should have told you sooner, but I didn't have the courage to accept you." Rieva's face looked five years older as she looked at her daughter. Furious tears blurred Ronnie's visioni as she rushed towards the door, her mother shouting after her, "Veronika! Please! I need you to take this!" and holding a jewelry box of some type. Sillhouetted in the doorway, Ronnie whipped around and faced her mother.

"I NEVER WANT ANYTHING FROM YOU AGAIN!" Ronnie screamed, "I'M NEVER COMING BACK! I WON'T EVEN BE AT YOUR FUNERAL!!" Ronnie slammed the door with an almighty crash, and took off, sprinting towards the bay window at the end of the hallway. She turned left, right, left, left again, until she lost count and found herself in the backyard. Sprinting away from the forest, Ronnie hopped down the rocks to the ocean. Sitting under an outcropping, Ronnie hugged her legs to her chest and cried, listening to the gulls and the waves strike the Bay of Biscay coastline. A while later, someone sat down next to her and put a thick arm around her. Ronnie looked up to see Luca, or Lucky, one of the stable hands. Ronnie always had a suspicion that Lucky had been smitten with her, but she never knew how to let him know she just wanted to be friends. 

"I heard the shouting from the stables, your voice really carries, Ronnie," Lucky laughed and ruffled her hair. Ronnie gave him a half hearted smile. Gently taking her in his arms, Lucky layed her down on his lap and wiped off her tears with his thumb. 

"I was an accident too, you know," he said quietly in French. Lucky's English was good enough, but ever since Ronnie was a kid Lucky had been talking to her in French, same as some of the other servants talked to her in Spanish or (in Wentworth's case) Gaelic. Ronnie like speaking French rather more than she liked English, but maybe that was just because of Lucky.

"What do you mean? I'm the illegitimate daughter of a famous artist and an Italian Baron, does it get any worse?" Ronnie sniffed, feeling pathetic.

"Yes, it does. When you're a prostitutes daughter and you don't even know who your father is." Lucky deadpanned. Ronnie looked up at him, "Lucky, I had no idea. I guess, we're kind of in the same boat now, huh?" 

"Oui, I guess so," Lucky sighed.