Displaced

Moving On

The worst part is, now all that’s left on the serving dishes are eggs, which Judica knows I hate. I’ve finally restored my composure enough to glance at my mom. I wait for a moment to see if she’ll do anything. A glance, a harsh word, or even a hand on my arm to tell me she’s sorry Judica’s so awful. 

Predictably, Mom acts like nothing happened. 

Something dies inside me, not because this is different than any other day, but precisely because it isn’t. No day will ever be different. Judica was born thirty-six seconds after me. To preserve the bloodline and maintain our genetic supremacy, the youngest daughter is always Heir. My whole life was ruined by thirty-six seconds. 

Mom will turn a blind eye to the actions of her Heir forever.

Beneath me, Cookie whines. I want to whimper too, but it isn’t worth it. It just isn’t. I look at Judica’s plate, piled high with everything but eggs and I consider trying to pilfer something from her plate, but that’s not me. I never sink to her level, and I never bait her. I’d probably just get my hand stabbed again for my efforts. Or maybe she’d bop me on the nose with a newspaper. 

“You seem quite taken with your silverware, Chancery. Eggs?” Judica holds up the bowl of boiled eggs and feigns passing them to me. Her eyes gleam and I want to slap her face. 

Instead, I stand and rub my freshly healed hand against my cut-off shorts. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you in a bit, Mom.” 

Mom stands up, too. “No need. I’ll walk with you.” My mom and I walk out, and I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder. Judica isn’t even looking my direction, and I hate myself for checking. But Edam catches my eye and half grins, half grimaces.

I whip back around and practically jog from the room. What does his expression mean? Is he laughing at me? Or maybe he feels sorry for me. The wheels in my brain whir around so fast, I’m worried Mom will hear them. Or notice the cartoon smoke pouring out of my ears. 

“It was a very imprudent thing you did,” Mom says. 

Huh? Staring at Edam? 

“I’ve been mulling it over, and you may be right. It’s extremely unlikely you’ll defeat Lark. Melodics doesn’t work like that. Until you’re ready to go off book, you’re more of a dancer than a fighter.” 

Duh. She’s worried about me looking like a moron in front of, well, everyone we know. And the pain of all the stabbing and slashing while I’m losing, well, that’s going to suck, too. “She didn’t say this explicitly, but I think she needs this, Mom. She wants to do intelligence, but she’s crap at changing her appearance. She needs another leg up, or she’ll end up pulling guard duty for the next decade.” 

“Would it be so bad to have her around the palace a while longer?” 

Mom wants Lark to stay. Of course she does, and so do I, but not if it makes her miserable. Besides, now that I know her secret, I understand why she needs to go, and why her mother is pushing her toward her reclusive Uncle Max and his never-ending number crunching. Her odds of being caught rise dramatically if she stays at Alamecha central command, but hiding in a dark room, staring at a computer screen is her best option to go unnoticed. 

Lark’s biggest problem is that the difference between evian and half-evian will become more and more obvious as she advances in her training. 

“Of course I’ll miss her, but I want her to do what makes her happy,” I say. “Everyone should want that for the people they love.” 

Mom frowns. “Well, not only will her departure make you miserable, but losing this challenge to her won’t make things easier for you when she does leave.”

I’ve toyed with this idea for weeks, and the only person who knows is Alora, but something about my mom’s criticism of my decision pushes me over the edge. “Which probably won’t matter.” 

“Excuse me?” We’ve reached the door to Mom’s room, guards at attention on either side of it. I won’t miss the complete and total lack of privacy here, that’s for sure. 

I shove past them and after Mom follows, I close the door behind us. The familiar color scheme soothes me. Gold brocade curtains with pale pink swirls. An ivory and pale pink embroidered bedspread. Shaved and contoured carpet so thick it’s practically springy. Portraits on either side of her colossal four-poster bed. I’m smiling in mine, but Judica isn’t. 

This room is so familiar, I could sketch the entire thing without needing to close my eyes and recall any memories. I breathe in and out once, then twice. It smells like my mom. Like safety. Like home. This is my center. 

But not anymore. Lark’s moving on, and it’s time for me to do the same.

“Mom. I have something to tell you. Something you may not like.” 

Mom’s eyebrows rise. “Something other than news of the challenge you rashly accepted?” 

The one Mom expects me to lose? I swallow and forge ahead. “I want to move to New York and live with Alora.”