I poked at the small, dead bird in my teacup with my spoon, spilling tea all over the tablecloth.
"Lucy! Stop that at once!"
Mother snatched the tea from my hands and marched over to the edge of the forest that served as the border of our property.
Mother was a tall, slender woman, with an elegant aura seeming to surround her when she moved. Contradictory to her appearance, she was an easily angered person, and could diminish you to a speck of dust with a single glare.
She emptied the cup and spun around. "You are on the brink of becoming a young lady, but young ladies," she began, narrowing her eyes, "don't play with their tea like a child!" She dropped her voice to a deadly whisper. "What you did was disgusting! Explain yourself immediately!"
Ever since Father died, Mother had taken her fury out on me, even if I had nothing to do with whatever it was that bothered her. Which was why I couldn't for the life of me find a decent, convincing response to her statement, despite knowing what I should say.
Earlier, Mother had set up a table outside for the afternoon on the sweet summer grass, so we could drink our tea, soak up some sun, and listen to the birds sing their beautiful songs.
One bird in particular had intrigued me. Instead of whistling a tune of love, hope and joy, it was just sitting on a branch above me, ruffling its dark feathers and staring at me with its beady, black eyes.
And then it sung.
Nine mournful notes, heavy with the kind of sorrow I thought I'd never experience – I had only recently turned fourteen, after all.
The song paused abruptly.
When I looked up, it stared at me again. Then it leaned forward and twirled gracefully off the edge, as if it was so tired it couldn't bear to stand up there any longer.
I had watched in sick fascination as it plopped into my cup, morphing from a unique, divine creature, to a black clump in my tea.
I poked and prodded at it with my spoon, then stirred, trying to determine whether it was still alive. Even in death, the bird tugged at my curiosity.
But I couldn't tell Mother that. She might think me insane.
"I-It just... well... the bird fell out of the tree." I gestured to the branch overhead.
Mother narrowed her eyes at me and stepped forward. Her palm connected with my cheek hard, as if it were made of rock. Once, twice, three times. My cheek throbbed.
She sighed. "Do you think me a fool?! Why would you ruin such a lovely afternoon?! You should be ashamed of yourself, talking about birds and nonsense when your poor mother is now forced to clean up your mess!" Mother gestured to the tablecloth, my spilt tea soaking the checkered material. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
A few beats later, her mouth morphed from a hard line to a phony smile.
"Why don't you just go over and give Mrs. Trent the leftover biscuits while I clean up?" she said. "I would do it myself, but I need to get a new cloth for the table." In a matter of minutes, her voice had gone from wrathful to sickly sweet.
She started to pile up the dishes angrily, despite her calm demeanor.
I jolted at the violent cacophony coming from Mother's hands and stood.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, before turning to leave.
She didn't even glance in my direction.
