The Burning of the White Wisteria

CHAPTER 8: THE ANNUAL CHRISTMAS BALL

Abraxas' spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl was the only sound at the dinner table. Nobody dared disturbed the silence that we had wordlessly created, eating the delicious food that somehow always felt bland and tough. The manor was freezing, ice creeping up the walls and biting at the tips of my fingers.

I was grateful for the white fur that covered my upper half, concealing my bare shoulders from the winter weather and my mother's scornful gaze. The black dress I had decided to wear was less than appropriate in her eyes though it was significantly more modest than a dress that most girls my age would wear.

I felt bad for Foon, our adorable little house-elf, he was wearing such thin rags that barely covered his torso. Anyone would be able to tell he was cold. He was shaking and trembling as he stood. He noticed me staring at him and I gave him a friendly wave to which he smiled shyly. He was the only friendly face I had to come home to.

Mother and Father didn't seem to have changed at all since Abraxas and I had left-- not that I expected them to.

Mother's long black hair had been pulled into a proper bun for the meal, pinned back with a rather extravagant green hairpin and emeralds. She was donned in an expensive green dress that worked hard to show off her ageing figure. Mother always had an affinity for green.

Father called her his jade at once but those memories were scarce and fleeting.

Father wore a deep oceanic blue suit and, unsurprisingly, carried his black cane with him. Father's platinum locks had grown a bit longer, struggling to meet just above his shoulders and slicked back tightly to his head. It only broadcasted the wickedness of his face more, specifically his large and crooked nose. His face seemed to have more wrinkles than ever before, especially around his forehead and mouth.

He didn't have smile lines.

We sat like we normally did at family dinners; Father at the head, Mother to his right, Abraxas sitting on his left, and me sitting next to Abraxas— the lowest status at the table.

It's amazing how he never tried to hide his distaste for me. Never. Not once. Even when I was a little girl I knew that my father hated me. Why?

Because I was a girl.

And because of it, I would never have the chance of inheriting the manor, the heirlooms, not even the fucking spoon I was eating my soup with. The only thing I would get from my father would be a singular ring-- a ring he was giving to me to screw over his only brother, Abraxas I.

There was a time when I used to fight him about it.

"Father, times are changing!"

"I don't care what the times are doing. You will not inherit this house, Alexa. Not as long as your brother's still breathing."

We'd had that argument millions of times. I was surprised that he let me get away with it for as long as I did, maybe that's why the punishment was as severe as it was.

I could still hear the sound of his cane cracking my wrist. The pain as the bone split in half, the feeling of blood vessels bursting.

I could feel the old injury ache a bit when I thought about it.

I reached down to soothe it, trying to bury the memory.

He's staring again, isn't he?

Tom's dark eyes met mine. He'd noticed me holding my wrist, a twinkle of amusement blooming in his irises.

Scrape.

For once, I was grateful for my brother's abysmal manners. The sound was reason enough for Tom to look away, his eyebrows furrowing slightly with annoyance though he tried to conceal it.