Page 5 of A Princess, Stolen
Awkwardly, I fished something out of his fingers. It was a smooth heart carved from the driftwood in the swamp. “It’s beautiful,” I replied softly, feeling my own heart pounding wildly. “Thank you.”
“It shines when you hold it up to the sun.”
I smiled and suddenly wanted nothing more than for him to pull me back to him by my braids and kiss me, but the hedge was between us.
“See you tomorrow, Will,” I heard him utter before his footfalls moved away.
I stared at the shimmering heart in my hand and a strange happiness glowed deep inside me. A nameless, silent, priceless happiness.
If only I had known how briefly that happiness would last.
Later that evening, there was a huge commotion at the main gate, attracting Dad, the bodyguards, our gardeners, and all the maids. I too wanted to run down the wide steps to see what wasgoing on, but Delilah held me tight and pulled me back into the mansion.
Nobody told me what had happened at the gate, but Dad came and ushered me into one of the three conference rooms at Rosewood Manor. He sat me down on a chair and asked me a series of questions about the strangers who had been hanging around the area lately, a boy and a young adult who were wandering around the edge of his property. He asked when I had first seen them, if I knew their names, and what the boy had been doing near the property. I said he was collecting wood in the area as I secretively fiddled with my bracelet, which was still over Nathan’s band. I didn’t tell Dad his name or about my little trip even though I knew you shouldn’t lie.
Dad forbade me to speak to anyone except the staff. “I’m worried about you, darling. I just love you too much.” For a moment, his gaze rested on my frilly dress, which had been torn by the hedge. I quickly put my hand over it. I didn’t want to make him sad, he had already lost Mom, and I was a good child, he had said so himself. I could sense he was afraid for me. It’s easy to sense other people’s feelings in a large room, easier than when you’re standing at the garden gate and suddenly being kissed. You’re caught off guard and don’t notice if the other person is as excited as you are. In a large room with only two people, it’s as if the entire atmosphere is filled with the other person’s feelings, so strong that you can breathe them in. And now Dad’s fear seemed as overwhelming to me as the sea in which Mom had drowned.
Nevertheless, the next day, a strange force drew me back to the hedge behind which Nathan was waiting. But as I was about to slip through the bushes, my bodyguards appeared out of nowhere. One chased Nathan away and the other escorted me to Dad, who was waiting for me in the reception hall. He was standing under the portrait of Richard Hampton, his father,my grandfather. Like a plantation owner, he looked down at me sternly as if he were still scolding me from the grave. Dad had lost his parents when he was four years old. Dad always lost everyone he loved, which was why he was so scared.
However, now, he looked terribly disappointed. In his hand, he held a few colorful ribbons from the dress I had worn yesterday—and the driftwood heart.
“We didn’t find the ribbons on the property. Do you have something to tell me, Willa Rae?” he asked, more resigned than angry, which made me feel even worse. I owed Dad so much, almost everything. Why didn’t he yell at me? And why couldn’t that yellow-eyed Richard Hampton stop staring down at me so reproachfully as if he could see into my innermost being? His amber eyes frightened me.
I hung my head. “I’m sorry, Dad. It will never happen again.”
I was right because the next day, when I tried to hide candy, eggs, and bread in the hedge so that Nathan wouldn’t have to steal anymore, Dad caught me. That same evening, we left Rosewood Manor, the gigantic trees, and the lush gardens, and never returned.
I, however, have never forgotten Nathan and the Palace of Shards.
Chapter 2
New York, eight years later
Dark waves crashed over me, I swallowed water and flailed blindly with my arms. I was drowning. The taste of salt filled my mouth and the wild roar of the ocean raged in my ears.Daddy!The silent scream remained in my head. Something was pulling me down, something relentless and dark. I couldn’t breathe.Dad! Help me!
I jumped up with a strangled sound, disorientated for a few seconds. My heart pounded hard against my ribs. Gradually, I realized that I was sitting on my four-poster bed, covered in sweat, but safe many feet above sea level.
I hesitantly let go of the duvet, which I had gripped with my fingers as if it were my life preserver. I knew the Atlantic was far away, but my heartbeat only slowly calmed. I blinked several times in the golden morning light that fell through the room-wide panoramic window.
I hated these nightmares, when I was drawn into the depths of the ocean by something dark. Sometimes, it seemed as if my missing memories were lurking there on the sea floor, as if a partof me wanted me to look at them, but even when I sank deep enough into these dreams, everything remained black.
I wiped my forehead and glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was five thirty and I was not going to go back to sleep anyway. Trembling, I rose, pulled my sweaty lace nightgown over my head, and walked to the unadorned window in only my underwear. From our $42 million penthouse, I looked down on Manhattan. Usually, the view calmed me. I had painted this subject countless times in oil: Central Park—the bustling green rectangle—the tiny people, trees, and lakes, the silvery skyscrapers on either side, and flat Harlem at the end. Seen from above, the whole thing looked like a living painting. I could look at it, enjoy it, but I didn’t have to be a part of the hustle and bustle.
Today, though, the city only solidified the fear within me. Something was wrong. The nightmare hadn’t felt like a lost memory, but more real, more like a warning. For a moment, I pressed my trembling fingers against my eyelids and took a deep breath.
It was only a dream, Willa. Everything’s fine.
Maybe I was simply nervous about tonight’s party and searching for an excuse not to attend. Dad had insisted on hosting a fundraiser on my nineteenth birthday even though he knew how much I despised crowds especially when they were high-society people who were eyeing me with suspicion—me, who preferred to stay in the background, happy with my oil paints and so out of place with them.
“You have to occasionally leave the penthouse, honey. You live in an ivory tower here,” Dad had said three months ago when we were talking about my birthday. And—as always—I relented. Naturally, he was right, and he meant well. But I was afraid he would make too much of a fuss about my birthday and this gala was of course only because of his love for me.
For a while, I stood at the window and watched the golden sky above the skyscrapers turn soft lavender blue. It looked like the ocean at dawn. I sighed. I knew it was all connected. My missing memories, the dreams, and my tendency to shut myself off from the world and cling to Dad. Sometimes, it seemed to me that my life could only begin when I could fill in the gaps in my memory, but that was utter nonsense. According to the doctors, the amnesia caused by the accident was protecting my subconscious, and until I could come to terms with the memories, they would remain locked inside me like in a safe. It was dangerous to remember. And life was dangerous too. At least, for the daughter of a billionaire. TheNew York Timescalled Dad, god and benefactor. Half the world called him that, but naturally, he had as many enemies as friends.
I turned away from New York, put on another nightgown, and decided to make the daily flower delivery before the staff arrived; Dad was already in the office anyway. Sometimes, he started work as early as 4:30 so he could spend more time with me in the evening.
Barefoot, I left my grand piano and took the curved staircase in the gallery into the foyer. With the three-story fountain, the outrageously expensive marble floor, and the crystal chandelier the size of a small car, it could have been the White House reception hall. Luckily, no one was there yet, but the flowers had been delivered: orange lilies, salt-white roses, and cherry-red stocks. Dad must have opened the door for the deliveryman. For several breaths, I leaned over the sea of flowers next to the golden double doors and inhaled the sweet scent before fishing out a bundle.
There were exactly three things in my life that I truly existed for: the first was a smile from Dad, the second was my painting, and the third was fresh flowers. And all three things always helped me calm down when I was nervous.
