SHACKLES

CHAPTER SEVEN

Papa returned at last, and I flew into his arms with joy. He lifted me high into the air and spun me about, and I giggled gleefully, whilst the maid looked on, smiling at the cheerful scene, her face aglow with delight. Papa then pressed a gentle kiss upon my brow.

“And where is thy mother?” he asked.

“She is at rest,” I replied softly.

That evening, we partook of a bountiful supper, replete with my most cherished dishes. Mama sat with us, her attention turned wholly toward me. She did not so much as glance at Papa, nor did she serve him as she once used to. At times, her gaze drifted elsewhere, distant and forlorn, and a faint sneer would ghost across her countenance.

That night, she lay beside me in bed. I turned to her and asked, “Mama, wilt thou not sleep with Papa tonight?”

She chuckled lightly and replied, “Nay, my darling. That papa of thine is a grown man, well able to care for himself.”

A sudden knock came at the door, and Mama swiftly pressed a finger to her lips, signalling me to feign sleep. I obeyed, and together we lay still.

Papa entered quietly, observing us for a moment in the candle’s glow. Then he extinguished the flame, drew a blanket over us both, and departed without a word.

After he departed, Mama and I lay facing one another in the quiet darkness. There was no strangeness between us—only a tender stillness that felt safe. It was not perfect, yet it was home.

And somewhere in the hush between her silent gaze and the soft rustle of night, I drifted into sleep, not knowing exactly when.