Page 2 of Winter Princess
I find him in his office, staring at the computer screen. He looks tired and worn out. When did my dad get so old?
They were both in their forties when they adopted me. They wanted a child and when they were offered a baby girl, they accepted without hesitation. Even though they knew from the beginning that I was different. I love them for it.
I quietly knock against the doorframe. "Dad, tea is ready. Join us in the living room?"
"Aye, give me five minutes," he sighs, and turns back to his computer.
In dad-language, this means I'll have to come and get him in about ten minutes. At least by then the tea will be the temperature he likes: lukewarm, once you add milk.
I meet my mum in the living room and slump down on the sofa next to her. A large pot of tea is waiting on the little side table, as is a plate full of cupcakes. The next ten minutes are going to be torture. Can’t dad be on time for once in his life? But then, I should know the answer to that by now. He’s a bioethical researcher at the university, and when he gets started on reading a book or journal article, there’s no stopping him. My mum is an artist, one of the few who actually manage to make a living from their paintings. She uses the shed in the garden as her studio, and often spends half the night in there. She’s currently experimenting with fluorescent paints, which means it’s easier for her to paint when it’s dark rather than during the day. My bedroom looks out to the garden, and when I leave the window open in summer, I can hear her hum from the distance. It’s like she’s singing me a lullaby without even knowing it.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” she asks me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She’s a very tactile person and gives the best hugs in the world. My dad is the opposite; he’s more of a handshake guy.
“I’m going to meet Gina for tea in the afternoon, and we might head to the pub after. I was planning to do my birthday party on Sunday, but now…” I notice I haven’t told her yet. My birth mother is a bit of a sore topic in this house. I think my parents don’t like to be reminded that they’re not my biological parents. So I always make sure not to call her ‘mother’ in their presence.
“Beira has invited me to her place.” That sentence sounds so ordinary. Except that ‘her place’ isn’t on earth, and it’s more of a palace than a house. At least, that’s what she told me on her rare visits. I was five days old when I was brought to my parents, so I have no memory of the God Realms. I couldn’t even tell you how to get there. All I know of the magical world is what I’ve read in the books Beira brought me on her visits. They are very basic, but at least they taught me how to do a few magic tricks. Everything else I learned through experimenting. Which, after I discovered I could make things explode, my parents made me do outside. Far away from anything that could break. Although I broke a tree once. Oops. I never told them that.
“Are you planning to go?” my mother asks, her voice a little unsure.
“I guess so.” I try to appear more reluctant than I actually am. I don’t want to hurt her by saying that I can’t wait to explore the Realms, learn more about magic, find out which of the supernatural races humans write about actually exist. (I was terribly disappointed when I discovered that werewolves aren’t real. I always fancied meeting a hot wolf shifter one day.)
“She’s sending some people to pick me up tomorrow. I might be gone for a few weeks.”
“Oh. That’s… sudden.” She takes a long sip from her tea cup, hiding her face.
“I’m going to try and call if I can. I don’t know if mobiles work over there, though. But I’m sure they have some way of communicating with this world, even if it’s through letters.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult now, but with all this… magic stuff, I need to know you’re ok.”
“Everything will be fine, mum. Don’t worry.”
With a determined smile, she finishes her tea and gets up. “Come with me for a moment, there’s something I want to show you.”
I put down my own cup and follow her outside, through the garden and into her shed-studio. Large canvases line the walls and shelves packed with paints and other art supplies circle the room. This is the only chaotic room in my parents’ house. Everywhere else it’s tidy and spotless, but the studio is a manifestation of creative chaos.
My mum leads me to a cloth-covered easel. “I was planning to give you this tomorrow, but now… well, we don’t know when they’ll come and pick you up, so I thought I’d show you today.”
She carefully lifts the white cloth (I’m sure it was a bed sheet once) and reveals a big painting on canvas.
I gasp. Then laugh. Then smile. Then almost cry. Then hug her.
When my emotions subside a little, I turn to take another look. A painted Wyn stares back at me. When you ignore that she’s painted me in all colours of the rainbow, it’s almost like looking into a mirror. My mum is a genius. But what’s so special about the painting are the soft, intricate white lines that float around me. Magic. Even though she can’t see it herself, she’s painted them so realistic that they almost look like they’ll jump out of the canvas to bring life to something spectacular.
“You haven’t seen the best of it yet,” my mum laughs and turns off the light. We’re left in complete darkness – wait, not complete. As my eyes adjust, the painting transforms. My throat chokes up when I realise what she’s done. The painted me has turned into a simple white outline on black while the magic tendrils are bright and colourful, exploding out of myself while at the same time hugging me gently.
“How did you…?” I am lost for words, which is not something that happens very often. I’ll mark it in my calendar later on.
“Two years of experimenting,” she says proudly. I can hear her move towards the light switch, but I tell her to leave it off for another moment or two.
Finally, I am no longer the only one who can see the magic. It’s right there, on paper. It’s like proof that it exists, that it is almost… normal.
Chapter 2
On birthdays, my parents usually wake me up together, with a cup of tea, a plate of pancakes and a candle.
It's been tradition for so long that when I wake up by myself, alone in my dark bedroom, it feels very wrong. I switch on my nightlight and look around. Everything is as it should be. No scary monsters under the bed (I hope, I didn't actually check). I look at my phone and sigh. It's five in the morning. Time to go back to sleep again.
"Happy Birthday, Wyn," I whisper to myself and switch off the light.
