Page 69 of Malicent
Chapter 19
Millicent
II. Vexation
“Entity begins to torment the selected host. Abuse includes physical and mental. Body is not yet possessed.”
-The Wretched Sacrament
ARCADIA TAPS MY HEAD WITH the back of her brush, scolding me for moving too much as she works through my hair.
“You pull too hard!” I whine, resisting the urge to free my poor hair from her ruthless grip.
“You’re the biggest baby I know, Millie. Suck it up! Beauty hurts.” She’s rolling her eyes at me; I just know it.
“I’m tender-headed! Maybe I don’t need braids. I’m a hair-down girl anyway. They might not even look good on my face.”
Another sharp whack to my head. I whip around and grab the handle, fighting to rip that damned brush from her grasp.
“You’re a baby, and that’s a lame ass excuse! You’re hot in everything! So at least come up with a better lie if you want me to stop, you conniving witch.” She grunts as we wrestle for control. We’re both sitting on our bottoms locked in the heat of battle. I stick my foot out against her stomach, pushing hard for leverage. The brush rips free.
“HAH!” I shout victoriously, holding it high.
My triumph is short-lived. Arcadia lunges, tackling me to the floor. I shriek, my laughter garbled as she grabs for the brush. I stretch my arm out, keeping it just out of her reach.
Arcadia freezes mid-grapple, her body tensing against mine. A split second later, she slips off me, shifting to her knees with her head bowed low.
“Elanora,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
My stomach drops; I hadn’t noticed Nora enter the room. The shift occurs almost immediately. The laughter that once filled the space is strangled into silence, suffocated by the weight of her presence. The fire still crackles in the hearth to our left, its warmth now a distant thing, swallowed by the creeping cold that follows our elder like a second shadow. The red tapestries adorning the wall seem darker now, the worn fabric wrinkling beneath the sheer gravity of her scrutiny.
I drop my gaze to the floor and follow Arcadia’s lead, lowering myself to my knees. I bow my head as a show of respect, though I feel the faint tremor in my fingers.
Nora steps forward, her heels tapping against the oak flooring.
“Arcadia,” she says, her tone sharp enough to slice through the air, “what are you wearing?”
The air thickens with tension. I watch from the corner of my eye as Arcadia’s hand curls into a small fist against the floor. “A gown, Nora.” She keeps her head bowed and her voice steady.
Nora clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Not one of the gowns specifically tailored for you,” she corrects coldly. “You are one of the few witches given custom attire. Do not be so ungrateful.”
Arcadia straightens, she manages to keep her voice measured. “I just wanted to cover up today, is all. It’s chilly.” She explains quickly, as if hoping that it might soften Nora’s retort.
I glance at her gown—similar to mine in its plain black corset top and flowing ankle-length panels. Unlike mine, the problem lay in the neckline. Too modest.
Arcadia’s custom gowns are not meant to conceal. They are cut deep, plunging all the way to her navel, designed to bare the golden witch marks curling over her chest. A display of power, of lineage. A requirement. Nora tolerates no deviation. To cover one’s marks is to hide strength. To hide strength is to be weak.
A sin.
“You will bear the cold.” Her tone is flat, absolute. “If you cannot withstand a mere breeze, you will not survive beyond these walls. Far colder things await you in the world, child.” The wordchildlands with the sharpness of a blade. “Change. Now,” she commands.
Arcadia’s jaw tightens, but she does not argue. She merely bows her head, rising swiftly to her feet. Without another word, she turns on her heel, striding toward the door. She does not slam it behind her. She does not look back. And then, it is just us.
The dull thud of Nora’s heels against the wooden floor is the only sound as she approaches.
“Millicent, you’ve been excelling in your lessons,” she says smoothly. “Today, it is time for another.” She extends a hand.
I hesitate—only for a breath—before I place my hand in hers, allowing her to pull me to my feet. Her grip is firm, cool.
