Page 11 of Queen of Madness

“I’d hate to kill something so pretty.”

“Buoyancy and density are not the same thing. Related but not identical.”

For the seventh time, I repeat the words of my latest science tutor. Unlike math—the class I cherish the most because of my future place in the family business—science is difficult. With math, things are easy. There're formulas that don’t change, algorithms with concrete steps, cut and dry answers, as my dad likes to say. But science? It’s all vocabulary. It’s memorizing terms that all seem like they mean the same thing but have a single word that makes them completely different. And for a ten-year-old, I’malreadya walking dictionary for my dialect. I don’t have much more room for scientific terms I’ll probably never use again when I’m done with school.

My only saving grace is that by being two grade levels ahead, I only have a couple more years of basic science until I’m introduced to anatomy. I’ve watched plenty of videos about the fun dissections I’ll get to do on frogs and have already started to get a head start on the human skeletal system. Now that’s when things will get interesting.

Dad even said he’ll sit in on some of my classes and give me tidbits about the muscular and nervous system. He claims there're things I’ll need to know that my teachers and martial arts instructors won’t tell me. Above their paygrade, he says.

But until then, though…

Buoyancy and density are not—

Ouch!

A sharp pinch on my thumb forces me to jerk my hand away from the bush I was pruning, watching a bright strip of red blood fall onto a white rose.

Stupid freaking flower. Ugh. If I knew mother wouldn’t be furious, I’d kill all her pretty roses. I’d cut them off at the base and spill some of Father’s acid straight into the roots for good measure.

I’ve been pricked a few good times since we’ve been out here pruning the dang things, but a fat thorn just sliced through my thumb and the burning in my hand brings tears to my eyes.

“Who could love a flower that rewards all the hard work by cutting your finger open?” I nurse my stinging thumb, staring daggers into the offending thorn’s petals stained with my blood.

My mother’s smile is soft as she wipes a stray curl from her face, standing from her crouched spot. Her warm brown skin glows under the midday sun, and a light seems to radiate around her. “So because it’s hard to take care of, you detest it?”

Her voice is mellow and free from judgment. She’s asking for a genuine response, and I don’t bother lying. “Yes.”

She nods, stripping off her gloves and resting them next to the basket we bring out when tending to the garden. After plucking out two bottles of water, she pulls out a small first aid kit. “Come, let me have a look.”

I do as I’m told and give her my hand. She turns it to either side, quiet in her inspection, before nodding and grabbing one of the bottles of water. “I want you to think in the perspective of the rose, Onyx.”

My eyes begin to roll, but as if on cue, she pours a bit of the cold water over my tender thumb, forcing a hiss as I suck in a breath. “Fine.”

My mother rubs the small cut with a miniature cloth from the first aid kit before washing it again. She doesn’t take her gaze off my wound when she speaks. “Though it’s merely an opinion, the rose is arguably one of the most sought-after flowers in the world. It takes lots of care and patience to grow something so beautiful.”

She tears the top off a single-use ointment and squeezes the smallest amount over my thumb. The cool jelly soothes the burning and my frustration ebbs with the receding pain. “As you know, once a flower is taken from its bush, death is imminent. Imagine if the flower didn’t have those thorns to protect it. Do you think there would be many roses left?”

I shake my head, trying to understand the underlying lesson my mother always seems to weave into her logic. “No, ma’am.”

A fresh bandage is wrapped around my finger before she kisses her own index and touches it against the sealed wound. “All people see is a pretty flower they want to cut away from its natural place and put on display until it withers and dies. After it’s no use to them anymore, they toss it in the trash. I think it’s only fitting that such a beautiful and delicate flower has a way to deter anyone from cutting its life short.”

“Just like you, baby love.” My father appears from behind one of the bushes. His suit jacket is missing, but he looks dapper nonetheless—his long sleeves rolled up, the bottom still tucked into his slacks. He runs a hand through his dark messy hair before kissing my mother and leaning over to take my hand. “You not only have us to protect you, but your skills in combat will help you should you ever be in a bad situation.”

He gingerly rotates my wrist, inspecting my mom’s nursing abilities. Once satisfied, he kisses me on the forehead and picks up our discarded basket of pruned branches. “My love. A word?”

Ugh. I hate when they do that.

Depending on what it is, they spoon-feed me things in tiny bite-sized pieces as if too much at once may break my brain. It’s as though I don’t have the best homeschool teachers money can buy and they’re pushing me way harder academically than I think my parents realize. It’s time I use all the skills I’m learning and show him I can handle it and need to start being included more.

Decision made; I turn toward my father.

“I’d like to know too.” I straighten my spine, pushing away the slight waver in my voice. Daughter of the don doesn’t mean I’m exempt from fear. My father is intimidating through and through, but I try my best not to show it. He taught me that a long time ago.

His eyebrows pinch together, the skin between them creating a deep crease. My nerves begin to shake the longer he retains my gaze and I have to hold my breath to keep from showing how quickly I’d be breathing otherwise.

Finally, his gaze flashes to my mother, who I see nod slightly in my periphery. He sets down the basket and folds his big arms across his chest. “Alright, Onyx. I have a slight problem.”

I swallow behind the ball of unease suddenly lodged in my throat. “Okay.”

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