Page 129 of Bound By Crimson
Lyric gave a hesitant smile.
“My mom always made it feel special. We didn’t have much, but we made memories.”
Mrs. Thornwick’s lips curled—not quite a smile.
“Memory is often the first tool of delusion,” she said. “You may not know this, but our family doesn’t recognize the modern holiday. It’s a grotesque celebration—fat men in red suits, indulgent feasts, pagan trees.”
She sipped her tea again.
“We honor the Lord in older ways. Quietly. With reverence. ‘Touch not the unclean thing, and I will receive you.’ That’s Second Corinthians.”
Mrs. Thornwick looked up, eyes burning straight into Lyric’s. “We come from an old line,” she added. “Some traditions must be pruned if the tree is to grow straight.”
Lyric’s heart gave a little twist.
She didn’t know what to say to that.
For a moment there was silence.
Then, without looking up, Mrs. Thornwick started again.
“So,” she said lightly, “Malachai tells me you tried to speak to him about our conversations.”
The knife in Lyric’s hand paused mid-cut. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
“I—I just—”
Mrs. Thornwick looked up sharply, cutting her off with a thin smile.
“If we’re going to be getting along here, I don’t think we need to be running to Malachai for every little thing, do you?”
Lyric blinked. Her breath caught.
“No, of course not. I—I apologize.”
“Good. I think you and I are perfectly capable of having adult conversations. Don’t you agree?”
It wasn’t a question. Not really.
“Yes,” Lyric said quietly, throat tightening. “Of course.”
Mrs. Thornwick returned to her plate, slicing into her food with perfect precision.
“The stories you came up with… they were quite imaginative.”
Lyric tried to hold her voice steady, but it cracked anyway.
“I was only repeating what you said.”
Mrs. Thornwick let out a small, condescending laugh.
“And there lies the problem. You’re young. Emotional. And sometimes, when people like you hear things, they don’t quite understand them. They fill in the blanks. Usually with fiction.”
Lyric’s cheeks burned. A tremor passed through her hands, so she set down her fork. Her stomach twisted.
She wanted to stand up. To leave. To say something that mattered.
Instead, she sat frozen, a wax figure in a hollow performance.
