Page 10 of Heritage of Fire

But despite all that, excitement is running through me, because today we’re going to the city. New York is two hours away, and I’ve only been there a couple of times when I was younger. Keeping my sister and I hidden away on the estate was my father’s way of keeping us from Antonio’s restaurants and his dealings.

If I can make quick work of trying on dresses, then after lunch I have plans to visit the largest bookstore in the city.

I choose a simple floral knee-length dress and a bright yellow cardigan, and decide to leave my hair down. I stare at myself in the bedroom mirror. The light in my eyes is dull. Not reflective of my outfit at all.

Just get through today, I tell myself before running back into the bathroom to grab my book and marching down the hallway to my sister’s room. I knock, but there’s no answer.

“Bella,” I call out, “Mom wants us downstairs.”

Still nothing.

I open the door to peek inside.

Isabella’s room is starkly different from mine. It looks like Lisa Frank threw up in here. The walls are light pink, and clothes are flung all over the floor. Her bed is one of those large canopy beds, the duvet a soft yellow with pink and orange throw pillows. Two nightstands flank each side, both with lamps, but only the left side is lit.

I sigh and turn, figuring she must be downstairs already, but a noise stops me in my tracks. Retching sounds, followed by some coughing, come from her ensuite bathroom. I take a few steps into the room, stopping when I hear her again. A concerned pang in my chest has me moving faster toward the door.

I knock. “Bella?” I whisper. “You all right?”

There’s no answer, but the toilet flushes, and the sink turns on. More coughing prompts me to open the door, and I gasp.

Bella is leaning against the vanity counter, half laying over the running sink. Thick mascara bleeds down under her bloodshot eyes, painting the bluish skin around them black, and tears run through smudged makeup. Her bustier pushes her breasts up; I follow it down to her pierced belly button and the tight leather leggings hugging her teenage curves. One foot is still in a red stiletto, the other bare and dirty.

“Don’t judge me, Luna,” my sister’s voice croaks, disrupting my perusal of her disheveled state. I lean closer, noticing the smell of alcohol-laced vomit mixed with a note of something earthy and herbal.

“Damn it, Bella, have you been smoking again?”

She winces and grabs her head. “Not so loud, Lu,” she says. The use of my nickname softens my anger. She hasn’t called me that in forever. Of all the days.

“Where did you go last night, Bella? You’re only seventeen. You can’t be doing this again.” Fear grips my insides. If our father finds out?—

I know from firsthand experience that anyone he deems a bad influence will be eliminated. But more than that, this is not how I want my sister to be living. She’s young, with a full life ahead of her. She should be focusing on school and uplifting friendships, notthis.

“I went out with some friends and a few men we were introduced to last week. Honestly, Luna, it wasn’t a big deal. I just had a bit too much.”

Already the attitude is falling into place and her nose is figuratively rising into the air. We haven’t been close in years, but it still breaks my heart to see the beautiful girl I used to know, who would light up over butterflies and giggle during church mass, have nights like these.

“Okay,” I say, my voice hushed. “Mom is waiting for us downstairs.”

Turning off the sink, I grab a washcloth from the cabinet. I offer it with a soft smile while her eyes glare at me. I sigh and turn to the door.

A hand grips my elbow, pulling at me. Bella’s face has gone pale, and her hard eyes have become pleading.

“Don’t tell Dad,” she begs. “Please.”

I place a hand on hers, giving it a small squeeze in silent communication.

My mother is waiting at the bottom of the staircase, tapping her foot with impatience. She’s wearing a cream jumpsuit with nude pumps, giving her petite frame some height. Her face is perfect, makeup done with precision. It’s early in the morning—the early rise is needed if we are going to spend a full day in the city. My mother always enjoys getting out, so hopefully her demeanor will change for the better.

“Where is your sister?” she asks, her tone clipped and irritated.

“She’s coming.”

I peek at her. Her gaze is pinned on my floral dress. This isn’t something she would pick, and in the sea of neutrals in my closet, this was the one dress that allowed me to rebel—in my own way.

Ten minutes later, my sister bounds down the stairs in a beautiful black dress and kitten heels. Her once tangled hair, snarled around her face and caught in her hoop earrings, has now been pulled back into a slick bun. Her earrings have been replaced with pearl studs. My mother looks over her outfit and smiles. “Very good, let’s go. These dresses won’t try on themselves.”

The revolving door to the wedding dress boutique slams to a halt right before I make it all the way through. I push and pull, garnishing attention from both sides of the door. People look as they pass on the sidewalk and my family all stare back at me like I’m a monkey in a zoo. Finally, the door begins to move again, and for a moment I’m relieved to be inside. That is, until I remember where I am.

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