The Deck of Destiny - A Caraval Oneshot Collection

Purple Stains my Young Heart

Setting: Pre Caraval

Scarlett was not hungry.

She had been trying to comfort Tella so much this past week she had forgotten how to breathe on her own. Their mother was gone, and ten-year-old Scarlett did not want to sit at the dinner table if Paloma wasn't there too. Her tiny hands clutched at the scarlet earrings her mother left her; the only thing she had left of her.

A gentle knock on her door rattled Scarlett and her head whipped around, expecting her mother to walk in and tell her a bedtime story. Her hands released the earrings on top of her soft bed startlingly. She was already moving towards her cedar-chest to pull out the story book Paloma promised to read to her before she left. She loved her mother's gentle voice and her smiles and her soft hand smoothing over her hair. She couldn't wait to see her again.

But Scarlett stopped short when she recognized a maid standing in her now open doorframe, looking at Scarlett with a vacant expression. And she remembered.

Mama's gone.

"Your father wishes your presence at the dinner table, Scarlett. He says it would be best if you weren't anymore late than you already are," the maid, Lacy, told her.

Scarlett's tiny hands fisted her dress skirts in her palms, trying to shove her voice cracks down. "I'm not hungry. Is Mama back yet?"

The maid hesitated. "Not yet, I'm sorry, Scarlett."

Deep down Scarlett already knew the answer, but she wanted to ask it anyway. Maybe tomorrow Mama will come back to read our story. Scarlett remembered her mother saying the book was about princesses and knights and thieves, and she was looking forward to listening to it.

Lacy, uncomfortable, left Scarlett alone and headed back to the dining room. She was glad; tears were already beginning to stream down her face and she didn't want the maid to watch.

But much sooner than Scarlett would have liked, the maid returned, her expression more worried.

"Your father demands you at the table, Scarlett. Why don't I walk you down?"

Scarlett's glassy wide eyes saddened a little more. "But that's Mama's job."

The maid didn't know what to say.

"Please tell Papa I'm not hungry."

"But Scarlett-"

More tears fell down her face and the maid, once again, left.

When footsteps returned, they were heavy, and Scarlett recognized them as her father's. Marcello barged into his daughter's room with his youngest trailing behind him, and Scarlett didn't need to see his colors to know he was angry.

Tella looked as fragile as Scarlett felt, and she dared to look into her father's eyes.

"You disregarded my demands twice, Scarlett?" His voice was rough and quick, and it made Scarlett flinch.

"I just don't want to eat, Papa."

"That's not what I asked. I asked you to be there, and you didn't come. You need to be punished."

Scarlett waited for her mother to calm down her father as she usually did, to diffuse his burgundy anger into a tender yellow. But, of course, she kept forgetting.

Mama was gone.

Scarlett stumbled into her dresser as she walked backwards nervously, but her father didn't turn on Scarlett.

He rose his hand and struck Tella.

"Stop!" Scarlett screamed as her sister gasped for air, her small knees collapsed on the ground. She would look back at that moment a million times and wonder how Tella didn't cry.

Marcello wiped his hands against the other and curtly turned towards Scarlett. "Now you know to not do that again, or your sister gets hurt. Understood?"

Scarlett soothed her younger sister while nodding. "Understood."

Marcello removed purple gloves from his vest pocket, and slipped them over his lanky hands. "I hope you'll be good from now on."

Scarlett hugged her sister tight, and little Tella hugged her back equally as fierce as Marcello left the room.

"I'm sorry," Scarlett whispered a thousand times into her sister's blonde hair, and Tella held strong. She did not cry one tear even though Scarlett was crying a million.

She knew their mother would have held Tella tight and comforted her, so that's what Scarlett was going to do, even if Scarlett was breaking on the inside too. She didn't want Tella to feel the inevitable loss of their mother as strongly as she did, no matter if Scarlett knew she couldn't prevent it. She just wanted to fill the empty space Paloma left behind.

The somber sorrow Scarlett felt was purple all around, disorienting her view of everything. The rays were too strong and she could barely see her sister. Purple, purple, purple.

Tella's hands clutched Scarlett's dress. "It's okay, Scar. It wasn't your fault."

But Scarlett wasn't good. Of course it was her fault. She needed to be good.

That was the last time she ever called Marcello 'Papa'.

She thought of the story book lying in her cedar-chest in front of her bed. Scarlett never ended up listening to it. She would look at the cover, but never open it.

Five years later, when she was fifteen, she finally stopped hoping that her mother would come back. She realized it was about as probable as the sun turning purple. Paloma left her and her sister, and she hated her.

She hated her for leaving them behind; hated her for making her wonder each night why she left; hated her for the feeling she felt each dinner when she wasn't there; hated her for never finishing their story; hated her because she was supposed to keep Scarlett safe, but as days went on the house she lived in felt less like home.

Five years later, when Scarlett was fifteen, she finally opened the story book. But she did not read it. She tossed it into the hearth of the fire in her room, and watched it burn, along with any love she had left for her mother.

Felipe was dead. Tella's life was on the line, and Scarlett was drowning. Paloma had promised to teach Scarlett to swim, but she left before she had the chance to. And as Scarlett sank, she blamed Marcello.

But part of her blamed Paloma too.