Chapter 2: Lladró Figurine

It’s hard to remember a time without hunger and hardship. Working my fingers to the bone and eating scraps.

“Ceres!” My mother bellowed. “Ceres, come here this instant!”

My body ached as I rose from the floor. It was Tuesday, which meant scrubbing the kitchen floors. My life was a series of chores, an endless routine both mundane and exhausting. Repetitive. I dried my hands on my apron and ran towards my mother’s impatient calls.

“Yes, ma’am?” I quietly said with my eyes averted. I didn’t dare look her in the eyes.

“We will have guests tonight. Keep Dmitry out of sight.” She says his name like she is spitting a curse. “Dinner is to be ready promptly at 7, service for 7.” It’s almost as if saying his name causes her physical discomfort. “Dinner must follow the menu I left in the dining room. I also left a menu for the next morning’s breakfast. Maristela is in charge of the table settings and will aid you in service this evening. All the footman will be prepared to serve. All the maids will be busy readying the rooms for this evening. The Crown Prince and his family are dining tonight.” My mother never even looked in my direction as she delivered her orders.

“Yes, ma’am.” I quickly retreated. If I’m to make dinner, I need to finish those floors.

Dmitry is my brother and the light of my world. I have raised him since the night our father died when he was an infant. I scrape together change from groceries and selling cakes and pies to other noble houses in order to send him to school. I haven’t been to school in years. There are far too many things to do at the estate.

Mother broke the night my father died. It was like the light inside her was extinguished. It died with him. Her grief swallowed her whole and there was no room for us. It was like she was drowning and lost the will to gasp for air. I was only 11.

She was just a beautiful porcelain figurine. Hollow. Devoid of any emotion. No love or grief. No joy or pain. Genteel and perfect. Expression forever frozen. Not a single crack showing. So delicate and breakable, something to display on the mantle. Something to be possessed and coveted. A beautiful piece of art to admire.

On my best days, when the rays of sun filter through the windows and reflect off her golden hair, I like to believe that everything she has done has been to save us. That she’s a dutiful martyr, sacrificing herself so that I can remain alive. Loving her husband only an elaborate ruse to give me the chance to realize my destiny and find my path. My father worshipped her. He was devoted to loving her and loving us in equal measure. I loved my father and if he loved her she must be good.

On my worst days, when I see her as the shell of her former self, I wonder how my father ever found anything worthy of loving.