Discovering the Devil

T w e n t y - e i g h t

XXVIII

PENELOPE woke up with an acute onslaught of melancholy. It was so strange. Today was the anniversary of one of the happiest days of her life. And yet every day on this date, Penelope couldn't help but shed a few tears. She couldn't explain why, and she hated every single salty drop. The person she dared to cry for didn't deserve them.

Penelope excused herself, set her favorite maid in her stead, and slipped away. It was an inappropriately sunny and cloudless day. Birds dared to chirp happily and a breeze blew sweetly. As Penelope left her carriage, a fat tear burned in her eye and snaked down her cheek. Everything today—including her—was acting counter to how it should.

Penelope inspected the headstone. There were no flowers, that was good. Two years ago, Penelope had seen flowers by the grave. She'd wondered about who had left them there all day before Penelope remembered that there was no point.

David Redwood, Count of Au Printemps, had been beloved by everyone that knew him. Everyone but his wife and only child.

Penelope sighed. "God, I hated you." She'd expected her sentence to come out clear and resolute. And yet, before the words even came out of her mouth, she choked on a sob. "I hate you," she wheezed. "I hate you so much."

A comforting hand pressed against her back. Penelope sharply turned around. Her mother had materialized by her side. The countess' other hand was preoccupied with a wet eye and a handkerchief. "It's all right, darling. It's alright." The two of them embraced. For a few moments, the tension of the past couple of weeks ceased to exist. They were just mother and daughter.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Penelope whispered.

"It is okay to cry, my love. He was your father."

"He was an animal," Penelope seethed. "I'm glad he's dead."

The countess squeezed her daughter. "Me too," she replied quietly.

Penelope reluctantly broke away from her embrace. After all, it was she who should be embracing her mother—not the other way around. She did not want to be greedier than she already was. For Penelope, this yearly visit was for a father she never loved. For the countess, it was for a man who had obliterated her heart. Penelope wiped her tears as she stared at the grave. "I'm sorry, Mama."

"What for?" the countess whispered.

"I'm sorry that he was not what you imagined. I'm sorry he's gone."

The countess laughed. "You say that as if I still love him."

But you do, Penelope thought. Out loud she said, "I am just sorry." There was a locket that the count had bought his wife when Penelope was young. It was gold and engraved with the couple's initials - two interlocking D's. Sometimes, Penelope saw her mother wear the locket to her heart. It repulsed her. But then she would remember the times her father would remember how to charm his wife, kiss her, and bandage all the wounds he'd inflicted. Penelope would ask herself how she could blame the woman who had married many years her senior, who'd fallen for a man who did not exist. And then Penelope would remember the little bottle of arsenic she'd found in the wake of her father's death. Her mother may have been haplessly in love, but she was not weak.

"I love the man I thought I knew, but I do not love him," the countess murmured. "I did not love that monster."

"Of course not," Penelope replied. Her voice was soft and faintly motherly.

"I know what you might have thought when you were little...what it might've looked like..." The countess went on but Penelope did not listen. Her hatred for her father only festered into something feverish. Even from the grave he still tortured her mother. Hell was not painful enough for what he deserved.