Free Imperative Fate by Paige Johnson Page B

peering at me from the skewed back-view mirror. “The wait got you in a ramble?”
    I twitch a thin brow, the driver’s disagreeably chatty nature and effeminate dialect whetting my agitation. “Not exactly,” I return a bit sharply. “I’ve known Mr. Winchester for years; it should be fine . . . I just miss Daddy,” I murmur retroactively, rubbing an itch under my ivory sweater jacket.
    Out of commiseration or embarrassment, the chauffeur quiets and lets me test “zen” breathing exercises.
    Despite how I’ve known and encouraged this day to come since Daddy left me without a proper ally, obese sweat beads still crown my forehead and staple my ears. Six months seems like splinters of seconds when the shadow of Mr. Winchester’s estate covers me. My heart looms from a point as tall and precarious as the top of the brown brick turret he promised would be mine.
    My hands as clammy and shaky as egg yolks, I wish I was home, that Harold and Daddy could live with me there, doting to me and amicable to the other. Alas, to Daddy, Harold was more of a freelance babysitter than a friend. Subsequently, I place a referendum on all Harold sacrificed to get me here, and grit my teeth, monitoring my breathing for any tell.
    I cannot be meek and disparaging. I told Daddy I’d be a good girl and Harold I’d be an astute one who won’t run off from him, flinch at distress.
    “This is the last stop, m’ lady,” the driver speaks again. “Hope it’s as magical as it looks. Mr. Winchester should have some time spoiling you.” He opens my door, reading my face, trying to keep that pretentious smile, and walks me to the door (about a mile trip up the peach brick steps).
    In my haste, I feel poor for misjudging the driver as bothersome. Under other circumstances, I would’ve found him to be a polite, cute elderly man. He could’ve just as easily ignored me and departed before we knew the place wasn’t vacant.
    “Come in; it’s unlocked” came from a pretty distance inside the McMansion.
    “This is where I get off. See ya, princess,” the black-capped dandy bid as farewell.
    “Thanks,” I was sure to say louder than anything else I may’ve mumbled in the car. Once his footfalls evaporate in the smoke-scented air, I control my cagey breath and turn the crystal knob.
    The inside is warm in color and temperature, lit peach and cream like an upscale Christmas even though it’s a good nine months off. The rooms are open with just a suggestion of structure, the furniture is clean and classy; the carpet is downright art. It amazes me, in our four–year friendship and eight–month romantic one, I’ve never been here, nor have I thought much on it.
    Following my adoptive father’s voice leads me straight to the edge of the jutted kitchen counter space. During, my eyes helplessly water from the fragrance of reed and citrus. My long and lonely status.
    His deep, dark brown eyes smile before he does. “We meet again,” he greets cordially, a smirk wrinkling his subtly tanned skin. He scratches a freckle on the edge of his handsome face, sets a few papers on the Oreo brown dining table, and steps into clear view, looking pleased but very tired. “You’re mine now,” he jokes with a degree of truth and the triumphant shake of his fist.
    I nod, proffering a frivolous hum as response, wiping my clammy hands on my pale pink dress. “I suppose so. I suppose it’s better than anything else I could do.”
    He’s not sure how to react to that, amity and hesitance playing tug-of-war in his eyes. “Did you have any trouble getting here?” he asks, fixing an upraised section of his nice, blond hair. He’d gotten a trim. Before, a wave of gold dusted his left brow. Now, all was uniform in length and quite military, quite boring. “It’s been unreasonably hard to reach you,” he notes. “By pen, by telephone, by slim chance in the Capitol.”
    I shake my head, my heavy eyes at my white Converse. “No, I didn’t have much