It was a laugh.
A sharp, brittle sound, like ice cracking under a winter boot. My mother, Lydia Thorne, stood by the marble island, her silk robe fluttering as she chuckled. She didn’t even look down at me as she stepped over my trembling form to reach for the kettle.
“That is precisely what you deserve for being utterly worthless, Elara,” she said, her voice devoid of heat, as if she were commenting on the weather. “Perhaps now you’ll finally learn your place in this house.”
All I had done—the grand “sin” that had earned me a dislocated jaw—was ask a question. I had looked out the window at the sprawling, overgrown backyard of our estate and then at my brother, Kyle, who was sprawled on the velvet sofa, his thumb rhythmically scrolling through a sea of mindless content.
“Why am I the only one cleaning the yard?” I had asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why can’t Kyle do anything?”
