SHACKLES

CHAPTER TWO

All this transpired long ago—or so it seems to me now—but after that dreadful night, marked by piercing cries and the grave words exchanged between Papa and Mama, something altered. Or perhaps it had always been so, and I, in the innocence of childhood, had simply dwelt in illusion. The house grew quieter, almost reverent in its stillness, or perhaps it was the solemn hush of winter that wrapped itself about our walls like a mourning veil. Mama, once gentle and bright, became subdued; her eyes, once full of life, now bore a distant, unfocused gaze. She took to her figurines with peculiar devotion, dusting and polishing them ceaselessly, as though in her hands lay the power to cleanse them of some invisible blemish—or perhaps she believed they bore secrets which only she could read.

Mama turned ever more to God. She had always been devout, yet now her piety deepened into something more fervent, more desperate. She clutched her rosary as if it were a lifeline, murmuring prayers in the stillness of morning, in the silence of dusk, and in the hush that hovered between. I loved, above all, the evenings we spent in her chamber, her arms wrapped around me, the soft creak of the rocking chair beneath us, the fire casting gentle shadows upon the walls. She would read to me from the Holy Book, her voice low and steady, while the flames danced in the hearth, warding off the winter’s chill.

Papa was absent throughout the season’s length, and though Mama never spoke of it, I could not help but notice her indifference. She who once hung upon his every word now moved as if he were but a ghost. She poured herself into her time with me instead, and we spent many hours tending to the garden with our kind old gardener, Mr. Wheels. During those tender moments, as we walked among the frost-kissed hedges, Mama would often call me “Elaine.” I did not ask her why. I simply let her voice wash over me like a half-remembered lullaby. And yet—I missed Papa. I missed him terribly, though I knew not how to say it. The words would not form; they sat heavily upon my tongue like stones in a brook, unmoving beneath the surface of my silence.