The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Peppermint

At noon sharp, the blonde assistant, with her hair pulled back into a sleek bun clicked across the marble floor. Instead of announcing it, she strolls smoothly towards me and offers a quick nod.
Flanked by Iqra and Adrina, we make our way through countless corridors, up a lift, until we reach and imposing white doors.

Before the assistant walks off, I read her subtle name tag: Gabriel.

"Thank you, Gabriel." I can tell she's surprised to hear that I noticed her name, remembered  her name, but she does a fairly good job at hiding it.
Instead, she nods and allows a faint smile to grace her lips.

I open the door and walk into the large office, then take a seat in front of the mahogany desk. Iqra and Adrina also find seats and perch in them anxiously.
The man sitting on the other side of the desk has an old, wizened face. His bright blue eyes sparkle in contrast to his white hair, black and grey suit, and the crisp atmosphere.

"Miss Hawthorne." His voice is British, with a ring of the Swiss-German that comes inevitably from living and working here for well over twenty years. His voice is comforting and slightly guttural, like granddad's is. Was. "I'm sorry for your loss." His bright blue eyes stare into mine and for a split second, something flashes across them, something that tells me this might end up all ok after all.

"Thank you," I reply courteously, before adding ", I'm sorry too. He was your friend." I focus myself with the pens on his desk, scared for his reaction, swallowing a lump on my throat.

"Thank you Trinity." His voice softens. "Yes, your grandfather was a great friend of mine, and my first client." He chuckles a bit under his breath, I look up and see him shaking his head with a small, tired smile.

He clears his throat. "You look a lot like him."

His eyes look through the black wig, the green contacts, the layers of contour. He sees past the things people usually mention, like our noses, or the shape of our jawline. Those brilliant blue eyes burn through all of that, seeing the traces of his friend even deeper than a jawline or nose. And it hurts. It hurts me to feel that, to be compared with a man who would have always, always been there. With a man who is now gone.

I can tell it hurts him too. To find out your friend has died, to attend the funeral and feel his presence hanging over like a dark heavy cloud. Then, a little over a month later, having his granddaughter show up. He knew I was coming, but he wasn't ready for me. I supposed I might not have been ready either.

The last time I saw him was at the funeral. I wore a black dress that wasn't too short but wasn't too long, and a simple black hat with a heavy, waist length veil. If my brothers weren't grieving, and if the media wasn't so horror-struck about his passing, they both would have given me sht about it.

But I felt it was the only way to properly pay him tribute. This man had given me life and something like that wasn't so easily dismissed. The heavy, traditional veil was the only way to fully respect him the way he deserved.

There were a lot of people at the funeral. Too many. Nosey reporters and distant business associates. But somehow I found his Swiss banker. I'd gone to Switzerland countless times with granddad, and he'd always meet up with "Mr. Sallow". I remember being terribly afraid of him - until he gave me peppermint sticks. Then, I couldn't wait until we went to see "Uncle Arthur".

The funeral was different. The air felt thick for a cold autumn day. Uncle Athur was there, dressed in all black, but I didn't see him until after the service, back at the house. He looked at me and a single tear rolled down his cheek, causing me to mirror his actions.

We didn't speak a word. We didn't need to.
He gave me a peppermint, but not a stick. A small, red and white round. It just reminded me of how different everything was now.