Mirror, Mirror

1.06 Daughter

"Good evening, Father," Starla said, shutting the door to his office behind her. She'd had a hunch he'd be here. He seemed to spend more and more time here these days.

The King looked up, bloodshot eyes focusing on her. Worry creased his features, despite his attempt at a smile. He put down his pen.

"Good evening, Starla," her father said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I brought you dinner," she said.

"Oh, that's very kind. Thank you," he said. She placed the food on his desk. He looked up at her expectantly.

"You weren't at family dinner tonight," she said, getting straight to the point.

"Oh shoot, that was tonight wasn't it. I'm so sorry. Something came up— a freak snowstorm in the city's southside that completely blew out the power. I had to take care of it," the King said, looking guilty. "How was dinner, anyhow? The food smells great."

"Another freak snowstorm," Starla repeated, ignoring his question.

"It was really important," the King insisted. "You understand." Starla didn't.

"Hmm," she responded.

"I haven't seen you in a while, how have you been?" he asked.

"You haven't seen me in a while because I was on a trip, remember?" Starla said. "I've been fine."

"Right. Right! I remember. Good. How is your training?" the King asked, looking uncomfortable and reeking of guilt. Good. Let him feel guilty.

"Excellent as usual," Starla said. "I beat my last record for scaling Mount Michel. And I haven't lost a hand-to-hand sparring match in months. And I got top marks on my latest literature essay on modern feminism." She paused. Her father's eyes had drifted for just a split second, but she noticed. He'd glanced at the map on his desk, which was covered in cramped notes. He noticed she'd stopped speaking and focused his attention back on her.

"That's great," he said blandly.

"And I'm making progress on my magic too," she added, naively hoping for even a hint of pride. "I got really really close this time. Master Cristofir said he felt the room get just a bit colder last time."

"Mm, that's great," he said again. Starla scrambled for something else to say. Her eyes fell on his guitar in the corner of the room, which was collecting dust. He used to play it all the time. He'd seemed happier then.

"Have you played your guitar at all recently?" Starla asked.

"Hm? Oh, no. I haven't had the chance. I'll get around to it though," he said. He looked like he wanted to get back to work without trying to be obvious about it. His eyes kept flicking to a spot behind Starla, where she knew a clock was on the wall.

"Well, I should let you get back to work," she said, backing toward the door.

"Wait," the King said, and Starla paused, looking back hopefully.

"Starla," he said hesitantly. "Have you thought about what you would do if your magic doesn't come in?"

"What do you mean?" Starla said coldly. "My magic will come in."

"Of course," the King said quickly. "I didn't mean to doubt you. I'm sure you do have magic. What I mean to say is, it's ok if it doesn't reach the same levels as Fros— your mother. I want you to know I'm proud of you either way."

Starla stared at him, dumbfounded. How dare he? She heard it all the time, whispered behind her back, about how her magic was defective, how she wouldn't ever amount to anything in the shadow of her mother's legacy and power.