The first 250 words of the prologue.
I hope you all like it!
I remember the day my mother died like a distant painting. The outlines, the colors, the solid facts are visible, but the details are obscured by the smoky haze of grief.
I remember her pale cheeks and the way her blue eyes appeared to have clouds covering their crystal skies. Occasionally they would suddenly fix themselves upon me and her parched lips would form my name, “Arella.”
Then just as swiftly, her mind seemed to travel to a different place, tearing her gaze away from my face. It was during these episodes that she would begin to mumble about the little fairies from the stories she used to tell me. I heard the maids whisper together about their mistress’s madness, but my Father and I just held her hands, nodded our heads, and hung onto every word, knowing that they would most likely be her last.
The rest is a blur. I think at some point in that long, cold night I fell asleep because I remember the warmth of my father’s arms around me and his gentle voice whispering words of comfort. But after that, I lived in a bubble with only my father as an occasional companion. People came and went, but their words fell on deaf ears. I knew they meant well, so I managed small smiles and warm thank yous. Eventually, the steady flow of sympathizers ceased and daily life began a new normal for my merchant father and I.