Free Exile by Anne Osterlund Page A

simple.
    Aurelia sank down and buried her head in her hands, reaching for the strength within herself. But there was none there. She had been avoiding the thought of her mother for so long, nothing had ever filled the gap. Perhaps that was the weakness, the flaw in her own design, that had allowed Aurelia to lose herself in the forest.
    All this time—her entire life—she had blamed her mother for leaving. And for much more. For the failure to be there, to teach her daughter how to become queen, and to answer her questions. Yet now, when Aurelia had the chance to alter that reality, she had chosen to lock the door.
    Hiding was her father’s technique. And her mother’s.
    I cannot—I will not be my parents, she thought.
    She gathered the threads in her soul, pulling them tight. If the cavity within herself was due to her mother, then confronting her was the only way out of the mental vines and tangles that had clutched at Aurelia ever since the morning after the fire.
    Slowly her body unfurled, and she stepped toward the door. Her chest contracted, and her breath ran shallow. Her friend’s hand threaded through her fingers, but she shook it off. This was not something Daria could do for her. Nor Robert. Nor anyone else in the length and breadth of the kingdom. It is my task.
    Without looking back, Aurelia forced herself beyond the threshold and down the corridor. The rising circular staircase swallowed her whole. Antler horns sprouted out from the walls above her, their sharp points threatening like spears. The wood-grain wall ran from reds to blacks, and the steps, though perfectly constructed, seemed to narrow as she climbed.
    Toward her greatest fear. She could not help but feel that ignorance would be easier. Then there could be no misunderstandings. Or brutal truths. Was the chasm in her heart not better than her mother’s open hatred? Were fragile memories not better than broken ones? And was it not all better—the hurt, the emptiness, the anger—than the agonizing flutter of hope?
    At the top of the stair, she saw only the blue door, a bright unavoidable color that pulled her all the way to the end of the hall. Her hand reached for the latch, fingers refusing to curl into a polite knock. To do so would permit refusal or allow time for retreat. This is my choice. I must make it.
    The barrier swung at her touch.
    Sky blue walls opened around her. Ocean-colored fabric graced pillows and cushions. Robin’s egg curtains fluttered at an open window. And dozens and dozens of fresh bluebells filled the room. A woman, her back to the door, was arranging a handful in a vase on the windowsill.
    There could be no doubt about her identity. Dark brown wisps drifted down her neck, and her brown skin mirrored her daughter’s. But the woman did not turn.
    “Mother?” Aurelia whispered to the only person who had ever held that title in her heart.
    The woman froze, shoulders stiffening like a statue’s, thin arms with bent elbows pressing tightly into her sides, fingers strangling the flowers in her hand. Her face, profile, gaze—withheld.
    As they had been forever.
    Doubt assailed, a deluge of emotion sweeping through Aurelia. She was again a three-year-old child without strategy or defense. Everything she had built up, every verbal and logical weapon, fell useless, sucked into the swirling whirlpool of the carpet. And she could do nothing but stammer the truth. “I ... I know you do not wish to speak to me, but ...”
    The statue did not turn.
    She forced herself to continue. “I need to know why.” There, the words were out. And now— bother! The tears were coming, stripping her of her dignity. There was no winning in this situation, no stopping the sick hollow feeling in her stomach.
    The woman remained frozen.
    “Why?” Aurelia demanded. She wiped the salty smear from her face. “Why won’t you look at me? Or talk to me? Why don’t you want to know me?”
    The statue began to tremble. Its entire frame, though