“You’re as lovely as ever, little girl. But I gave birth to you and I know when something’s wrong with my daughter.”
The truth was on the tip of her tongue when a roar loud enough to frighten a beastie thundered from out back. “Damn it all to bloody hell, may it die a cruel and vicious death! Mon Ange!” her father cried out, and his loud clomping up the steps made her eyes widen.
Rarely did her father ever swear, and if he did, he was truly mad.
Betty nibbled her lip. “He’s a beast this morning. You know how we and the Depardus compete every year for the largest pumpkin? Well—”
The door slammed open with a crack, and the heavy mutterings of her father rumbled through the mudroom.
Grimacing, Betty patted her hand. “Give me a moment, honey, to try to settle him. Just know anything he says, it’s not technically directed at you.”
With those final ominous words, Betty jerked from her chair and ran to the back room, disappearing behind the door.
There were heated murmurings and then another door slammed. A second later, her father’s large frame stomped through. His thick brows were gathered into a vee.
“The mangy bastard poisoned my patch, I know he did!”
Standing, wondering why her father hadn’t greeted her as he normally would, Shayera chalked it up to his annoyance over the annual contest that meant so much to him.
Father was convinced that if he could just grow the biggest pumpkin, somehow, miraculously, the villagers would suddenly learn to love them. A pipe dream, Mother said, but one Father clung to with the tenacity of a pit bull with a bone.
He stabbed a blunt finger into the air while riffling his other hand through his mud-streaked black hair. Father never looked so bad as when he gardened. Generally he was fastidious with his appearance, but not when digging in the dirt.
“You’ll see. Your mother doesn’t believe me.” He paced the length of the kitchen, glowering at the copper kettle hanging above the stove as if it’d done him harm. Rounding, he shoved fists into his heavy autumn jacket. “Come with me. Come see this travesty.”
“Daddy.” She tried to keep the hurt from leaking into her voice but failed miserably. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” She held out her arms, waiting for him to pick her up and twirl her about like he always did, but it didn’t happen.
Shoving a cap onto his head, he nodded. “Yes, yes, my little rose, I’ve missed you, but this is of the utmost importance.”
More than a little hurt and wondering where her mother had gone off to, Shayera got up from the table and joined him as he walked outside, gesticulating wildly to the pumpkin patch.
“There, you see!” His large chest filled like a bellows. “Poisoned, non? You can see it, tell me you can.” He turned and pleaded with her.
And try as she might, Shayera couldn’t understand at all why he was so mad. The pumpkins were fat and a buttery orange, perfectly round and ready to pluck. “Daddy, they’re fine.” She looked at him.
“Non. No.” He swiped a hand through the air, marching back and forth. “That Arondale poisoned my lot; it is so obvious.” He jerked his fists in the air. “They are small, his are not. We grew our pumpkins from the same seeds; my lot is a good kilo smaller than his. How can you not see?” He stopped immediately and spun to face her, and then a light of something seemed to click in his eyes.
More convinced now than ever that she was actually in the game and not merely visiting her family, she hugged her arms to her chest, realizing just how real and dangerous that room in Rumpel’s castle was. It would be so easy to spot the break in reality if her senses weren’t so engaged, if it all didn’t feel so real. But her father just didn’t act like this.
It couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t be so heartless, he would hug her and pet her head and call her his little—
“Mon petite chou.”
Cabbage. He would call her his little cabbage.
“Oh my darling, I am so sorry.” He shook his head. “Look at what I’ve done, how I’ve scared you. My baby girl.”
And then he was rushing at her and twirling her around just as she’d known her real father would, and his hug was so warm, so rich and alive, that she began to question her own doubts.
What was real? What wasn’t? The lines were beginning to blur.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she smiled into him. “I love you, Daddy. I missed you.”
Being held by him felt so good; his hand rubbed up and down the length of her spine, petting her like you would a frightened kitten, and she wormed closer into his touch, because now she was truly home.
Then a violent blast of arctic air slammed between them, breaking them instantly apart, and Shayera was confused again. Her father blinked as if startled, and then with a shake of his head, he looked up to the sky.
“Bloody weather,” he groused, dusting off his jacket before turning back to the garden. “We need to fix this.”