Free The Swan Kingdom by Zoe Marriott Page A

gasp.
    I knew from my mother’s rare mentions of her sister that Eirian had been only two years older. The woman staring at me looked at least two decades older than my mother. Her face was gaunt, marked with deep lines at her eyes and mouth; her lips were a thin, pale line. Her hair was the same red-gold that I knew, softly pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck, but it was streaked with great bands of white at the temples. Most startling of all to me were her eyes. Instead of the compelling leaf green I had unconsciously expected, they were a pale icy blue – the same colour, I realized with a jolt, as Hugh’s. The woman had a startling beauty, but it was like that of the dead tree outside, bleached white and tinged with sorrow.
    She looked at me silently; the only change in her expression was the quirk of one fine, beautifully arched brow. Plucked, I thought. Mother’s had been straight like mine.
    Then she spoke, and it was my mother’s voice, exactly as I had last heard it. “So … you are my sister’s daughter.” She squinted at me, sending deep lines arrowing up to her forehead. “Disappointing. I expected more. Your features lack fineness. Your figure has no elegance. And your hair… You obviously take after your father.”
    My teeth snapped together at her rudeness.
    “Come closer,” she commanded.
    I ground my teeth as I obeyed, shocked and angry. How could this woman be my mother’s sister? Yet she was. It was undeniable.
    She reached out one hand – an ugly, stubby-fingered hand – and grasped my chin. The skin of her fingers was soft and well cared for against my face as she ran her gaze over me. Perhaps she meant to cow me with her disparaging look, but I was too angry to moderate my stare. I met her eyes with the full force of my outrage. She flinched, a tiny sound escaping her. Her hand fell away from me and she covered her face with it, shrinking back into the depths of the seat. Suddenly she seemed small and frail. I was stunned by the strength of her reaction and just starting to feel ashamed of myself, when she spoke again.
    “You certainly have her eyes.” Her voice was steady, though she continued to hide behind her hand. “More importantly, you have her wildness. I can see it in you. If you try to follow her path, you will have the same end as her – an unfortunate one.”
    There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of my rapid, angry breaths. How dare this withered, dried-up old woman talk about my mother so? I dared not speak. I was frightened of what I might say.
    “While you are in my home,” she continued, “you will behave properly, as a young lady should. If I see any signs of your mother’s temperament, I will know how to act. You may go now; Anne will take you to your room.”
    I turned and stalked out. Anne quickly closed the door behind me, and then waited in silence as I stood, shaking with anger and trying to gather my calm again. After a moment, I nodded at her, and she led me back along the corridor to another door, which she opened for me. I went past her into the room. It was small but scrupulously clean, and filled with dark, looming furniture. The mantel and fireplace were tiny and unlit. The bed I did recognize, but it was strange to me – carved of wood and perched on legs, rather than sunken into the floor like the ones at the Hall. Surely you would fall off in the night?
    As these thoughts trickled through my mind, the larger part of my attention was fixed on the small glassed window opposite me. It looked out over a large square of closely trimmed yellowing grass, edged with sad rose bushes that were all thorn and no flower. Beyond was a pale, tussocky hump of land with what looked like a deer trail leading over it. The way to the sea? I fumbled with the unfamiliar latch, trying to open the window and let the air in.
    “’Tis no use, Lady,” Anne said quietly from behind me. “The mistress had it nailed up.”
    I turned to stare at