Having Jacquetta turn and to see that her smirk was in tow made Katerina' not only cringe but pale and judging by the satisfied chuckle she gave her, she was fully aware of how she'd gone from her Court chambers to her home garden simply by closing her eyes. "I cannot say it is much of a surprise having you here, Katerina." She said, her voice was not just a haunting memory of the mother she'd killed but now, fully palpable.
"Elaborate, Mother." Although Katerina may have snapped, her voice shook as she tried to appear forceful.
"'Tis but a dream, my dear, you need not worry."
"A dream?" She echoed uselessly.
"Yes, a dream, a yearning of the soul, a window to another reality, need I go on?"
In truth, Katerina had never truly dreamt much before, perhaps the occasional dream but those were often irrelevant and never clear, this one had her long dead mother in it and she fully understood what was going forward, only she didn't understand why she could possibly be dreaming of her mother when she'd only ever given her a fourth of a thought after her death. Katerina didn't know what to say, what could she say?
Her silence didn't seem to bother her mother and no sooner than when she'd been rendered silent did she continue to tend to the garden. Katerina thought it only fitting to follow suit and do the only thing that bonded them together, their garden accomplice, the vessel in which they used to capture the youth of the vulnerable and harbor it into themselves.
There weren't many flowers that needed to be tended in this corner of the garden and as Jacquetta brushed a vine from the dirt, she caught sight of a weed and began to extract it from the soil with great force, as she did so she could not help but remark, "You are upset".
What use was there lying to her mother when she knew that she would claim fault in her lie and insist she tell her what aled her? Even if she did not, Katerina was too upset not to rage on about what aled her. "The sodden-witted imbecile decided it would be alright to play around with some harlot of a woman in the middle of the corridor! After he impregnated me and exchanged rings, no less!" Without hesitating, she ripped the chain off her neck, threw it into the dirt and spat on it with a scowl.
This was enough to scandalize Jacquetta, which pleased Katerina, she'd brought her into this dream, the least she could do was render her into shock. What did not please her, however, was the lashing of words Jacquetta had prepared for her. "Katerina! I did not raise you to behave like some madwoman and if that is the way you carried yourself in Court, I do not blame the lad for choosing another woman."
"A pox on you, Mother! For a week, I have carried myself as if a Queen! I have not lashed out since the night after your death and if I cannot lash out in my own dreams where, pray, may I lash out?"
"No where, ladies do not lash out!"
This made Katerina burst into a shrill screech of frustration. "Ladies do not eat little children either but you've been doing that for eighteen years without hesitancy."
Jacquetta opened her mouth, then closed it and this made Katerina cross her arms around her chest triumphantly. Her mother repeated this sequence thrice before asking, rather solemnly, "Do you love him?" It was Jacquetta's turn to wind her arms around her chest in triumph.
Even in this dream, the concept of love baffled Katerina. She'd mistook lust and the desire for wanting better than a secluded cottage for love. When he'd arrived and payed such interest in her, it hadn't been love she'd felt but the desire to give him something so that he could take her away and give her more. How could she have been so dense as to mistake this for love for so long? She had the answer to that almost instantly, because he'd grown on her. More times than none, she'd been glad to see him, to see his smile and listen to his guffaw, to have him pay her visits and question her health. She hadn't to grown love him but she'd found herself growing fond of him. "Not at first." She admitted.
YOU ARE READING
Come Little Children: Book I
Historical FictionWho is to say that there are stories left to go untold? On the outside of a village with a name long forgotten, there is a garden. It is a labyrinth of flowers of all sorts, some are poison and do not squeal in fright at the slightest bristle of win...