Seven Witches

six

The room she had been sharing with her sister for half of her life had become a strange place. Her bed was stripped, the one closet that contained her few clothes was now empty. Hera sat at her own bed, watching the maids carefully handle her very little belongings. Cythera pressed her lips together, desperately memorising the place. "I hate goodbyes," she blurted out because the words were on the tip of her tongue the entire time.

Hera stopped swinging her legs, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Well, good thing this is not a goodbye."

She wanted to believe it was not a goodbye, but it didn't matter, it felt very much like one. She went to her sister, kissing her forehead and running her fingers into her hair. "I will miss you,"

They embraced hard enough for their heartbeats to synchronise, their warmth to spread to one another. She was very aware of the bones on her hip against her sister, of how hot her breath was on Cythera's neck.

Hera pulled out a small, milk white pebble, ragged lines of black covering it. She put it in her sister's palm, closing her fingers silently. "It is said to drive evil away," she stated, brown eyes interested in her bare toes. "I don't believe in that honey pouring but, I think it's an especially beautiful stone."

Cythera nodded, placing the stone in the pockets of her skirt. She could feel Hera's pulse through her wrists as she let go of her, following the servant outside. Looking back, she saw her sister's shoulders slump and her eyes which had gone glassy.

She hated the Tsar for tearing her away from her sister, hated the ball and the money she was getting and Paul. Gods above, she hated Paul, for being able to see her sister everyday to talk and laugh. Cythera wouldn't laugh but she could try, if it meant that Hera would stop loving Paul.

Tetka Helen was watching the girls holding the gowns and a few of her soaps. She had a hand to her mouth, each of the pearls on her throat bigger than an eyeball. "My dear!" she exclaimed as Cythera passed by her. "W-Where are they taking you?"

Explaining briefly what the Tsar had offered, she watched Helen's face pale at the knowledge that her White Raven was leaving. Of course she was mortified to know that the Tsar had taken away her best investment. It was amusing to see her so regretful.

The taste of it all was bittersweet. Sweet to see Tetka finally realise Cythera's worth, how generous she was to stay with her. Bitter to not be able to hear her sister's voice everyday before bed, to wake up to the sound of her breathing. She was going to miss the smell of bread and flour that never seemed to leave her no matter how much she showered.

Tetka held Cythera's wrists as firmly as she could, which wasn't too firm because she had fragile fingers. "Do not, under any circumstances, make friends of nobles." Tetka's blood red mouth quivered with age. "They do not make friends either. And, oh my dear, beware of the maids. They are the ears and eyes and hands of the nobles, paid to do their filthy work."

It was an advice coming from a woman who had bad encounters with nobles, encounters she wishes to erase from her memory. She felt a shrill run down her body at the pure hatred in Helen's face, of the kind gesture. She nodded, bidding her Tetka goodbye before vanishing to her new home.

Her sleeping chambers were much larger than her previous ones, and much brighter. The bed was twice the size of her old, velvet red sheets above its polished wooden frame. She had three small windows, all of them covered in brown short curtains, a table placed under the first window with a vase filled with a bouquet of flowers atop it.

It was broad and high, so spacious—far too spacious. Cythera could feel Hera's absence in this room, feel the utter quiet that engulfed it, the warmth. She missed the noise coming through the window from the rustling tree branches, missed the way she used to burn wood in the fireplace and still shiver at night in the harsh weather.