If the morning sun had eyes, it would not have shone on Palom's house that day. The evening did not close its eyes, and its miserable darkness bore witness to the fragments of a miserable night that tormented a raging heart that allowed its pain to erupt with all its force, leaving its traces clearly visible.
Simon pushed the door of the house behind him and lowered his bag to the floor with a surprised face. He looked at the wide hallway filled with broken vases and roses that had fallen to the floor with sadness that made him sigh deeply, filled with a deep regret.
"River! River!" He called to the housemaid who rushed out of the living room in clothes stained with red and white wine. He did not need to wonder about its true source, for the scene before him was nothing but a normal face of an abnormal life.
"Where is Sevin?"
"In her room, sir."
He peered through the living room door for a moment, only to find the situation even worse. Glass was scattered everywhere, and the destruction of antique vases was widespread, reflecting the violent upheaval that had gripped the place.
He quietly took off his coat and hat and looked up the stairs with worried eyes. "How long did her shift last this time?"
"For a few minutes at a time throughout the night. At sunrise, she went out into the garden to fetch some jasmine before retiring to her room until now."
Simon nodded silently, signaling for the maid to return to cleaning up his older sister's mess, which had become a routine that occurred almost every week, with varying reasons and circumstances .
It wasn't easy at first to adapt to her violent outbursts of anger, which sometimes included harsh and insulting words that made her feel very sad after she calmed down and realized what she had done. But as the years passed, he got used to them and became adept at dealing with them.
He would avoid her throughout the outburst until she regained her senses.
He stood in front of the ajar door of the room, inhaling the pungent jasmine nectar that pierced his runny nose and the sweet melodies that reached his ears before he knocked very gently, welcoming in the pitch darkness pierced only by a weak light that filtered through the curtains to illuminate part of her still face
"Seven," he whispered. He looked at the wilted jasmine petals spread on the floor and the music box, along with the incense burner that emitted that scent with the power of his alarm. The blonde was in the middle of her bed, her paint-stained hand holding her small pen, absentmindedly poking it inside her notebook.
He raised the gramophone needle to stop the music and her hand from drawing. He knelt on the edge of the bed and looked at them. "What happened, Seven?"
"It's the same eternal problem of the man who sees that he has ownership rights to every woman he sets his eyes on." She spoke hoarsely, craning her neck for him to see the tired circles around her eyes. Eyes that had not tasted sleep that night
"..I think it will remain an unsolved problem until the end of time, Simon." She smiled sarcastically. He remained motionless in front of her. His eyes followed her as she suddenly straightened energetically, opening her closet and pulling out one of her pink dresses, looking at him energetically. "Since you're back, why don't we take a little walk together?"
He nodded in agreement. He didn't dare ask anything, and he never intended to. She went through that episode repeatedly, with its strange rituals that followed. Then she was at her best, eager to do any cheerful thing, as if she hadn't just had a bad night.
It was a normal situation, so he wasn't surprised.
He stepped past her broken legs in the middle and left, leaving her solid mask of face shattering, revealing a miserable face, revealed by the woman's shards like a miserable painting on which life had left its mark.
"You have no right to object!"
She closed her eyelids exhaustedly. That harsh voice echoed in her head like a tyrannical tune that she had never been able to destroy. The look of disappointment and helplessness found its way to her face, and the same old repressed feelings revived inside her once more.
"Father... he hurt me!"
Her father's face shriveled with a lack of patience, and he looked at her with such anger that she shrank back in front of him, ready. You know he's quick to anger. Remember what you did to make him do this.
"I told him I didn't want him to touch me. Everything I said no to, and he didn't even care. He made me do something I didn't want to, Dad!" She breathed, hoping to find some emotion in her father's icy eyes. But all she found was indignation.
"You're his wife. He has the right to do what he wants, and you have no right to object. Don't be a child and act the way you should. Ralph doesn't like stubbornness."
"And what about what I love?" She reacted unintentionally, so her father frowned roughly and leaned back on her seat with a dark look that held her in front of him as he pointed at her harshly. "You're the one who agreed to it, so don't complain now. Fulfill your duties first and then think about your rights."
She was silent, just as she always did. She had no right to object. No right to say no. No right to anything. She was a woman. She had duties that she must fulfill, and then it was possible to discuss whether or not she deserved her rights.
Sikin returned to her devastated reality and took a shaky breath. She still remembered that night when she discovered that the new life she had chosen was nothing but an uglier face than her old life. The night she learned to say no... but no one was listening to her
The chill of late January dominated the bodies that settled down with melancholy and enjoyment at the hour of noon, which threw its golden sun on the busy streets of London, as Harold watched its movement calmly.
It was the same old café... opposite the window of La Marcheille, the tailor and fabric shop. Perhaps at first, he had sat to watch the unknown lady receive his roses each day with a different reaction, but as the days passed, he grew accustomed to the hours of sitting, sipping his tea with relish.
But today... was different from all the others. Today, Mrs. Wendy Marcheille did not show up on time. He counted the minutes until two hours had passed after her usual time. The shop was managed by her assistant, but there was no sign of her; he became worried.
The shoe boy cashed his money before getting up and crossing the street at a brisk pace, pushing open the shop door so that the smiling young assistant, Jacqueline, would notice him .
The shoe boy paid his money before getting up and crossing the street at a brisk pace, pushing open the shop door so that the smiling young assistant, Jacqueline, would notice him. "Good morning. How may I help you?"
He kissed his puffy breath, spotting one of his bouquets of white roses resting in a small vase in the corner. "Sorry. My name is Harold Sigrid, and I wanted to speak to Mrs. Marchiel. Where can I find her?"
Jacqueline pursed her lips gently and shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, Mrs. Marchiel isn't here. She had an emergency and couldn't make it today."
An emergency.
He bit his tongue hesitantly and looked at her questioningly. "Can you give me her address? I'm a friend. I sent these roses!" he finished eagerly, pointing at the roses in the corner before her uncertain eyes
A flock of doves soared across the sky through the drifting clouds. Harold got into the first carriage that stopped and breathlessly announced his destination to the driver with excitement. Piccadilly Circus, 28 Regent Street. Quick, please!
It was difficult for him to smile. He held the usual bouquet of roses in his hand, breathing with ecstasy that roamed his emeralds as he watched the streets unfold before him as the two horses galloped by with a rush that thrilled his heart.
The road wasn't long, or perhaps he felt that way because he was lost in his gentle squirrel. When he got out of the carriage, he looked at the medium-sized house with its budded sunflower garden, which made him look at the bouquet of camellias in his delicate hand, disappointed, before he went and knocked gently on the door
A forty-year-old matron, whose features reminded him of the sharp-tongued Lydia, greeted him, and he smiled warmly at her puzzled look. "Good day, ma'am. I am Harold Sigrid, and I have come to meet Mrs. Wendy Marchiel."
The woman raised her eyebrow in silent sarcasm before inviting him into the warm house, with the scents of roses mingling inside the many vases that decorated the living room. The matron directed him to it, asking him to wait.
He tried to control his joy, but failed. He was in her home. He was inside her private sanctuary, surrounded by various picture frames that he couldn't help but examine with curiosity. He let his feet move freely around the spacious room, looking at the many pictures of her with her young child or some strange people
But what was truly puzzling was the absence of any wedding portrait of her anywhere. There was no evidence of a man in her life, which surprised him. No widow would ever leave her wedding portrait in a prominent place in the house.
"I hope you're enjoying your tour."
He flinched at the sound of her soft voice, a smile creeping across his lips again. She was swaggering in a delicate pink dress, making her look like a beautiful bird that had suddenly burst into his life. He didn't mind at all.
"Hello, Mrs. Marchale." He kissed her hand gently, seeing her face melt into a small smile that told him she wasn't upset by his intrusion or his sudden visit. He relaxed back into his previous seat with relief
What brings you today, Mr. Sigrid? When Bertha told me your name, I was surprised, though not surprised, that you knew the home address. Wendy crossed one leg and watched him expectantly as he scratched his neck with a nervous smile .
"Charlie!"
The lady hurried to her feet, kneeling in front of the little boy under Harold's gaze. He followed her, patting his scarlet cheek gently, while the child glanced at him questioningly.
"Isn't that the Birdman? Did he bring them with him, Mother?" Charlie looked at him eagerly, his eyes glazed over with a fever, which was evident in his eyes. Harold pursed his lips in discomfort, distracted by the lady's completely subdued laughter, which he almost missed, as she rose to her feet and turned to him.
"This is my emergency."
She pointed to the sick child with slithering eyes, and Harold smiled as he too sank to his knees, welcoming the little boy with a beaming face. Just like the birds, the children were in his eyes
"You have no idea how much they miss you and wish they could stay with you forever," he said softly, two emeralds slowly flying down to strike Wendy's gleaming physique like a deep arrow alone. "It seems they fell in love with you at first sight."
He had no idea whether he was speaking with birds or with his own infatuated self. But the lady's charming smile told him everything. His heart was the prey of an unexpected love.
Pete's clock chimed four loudly, merging with the sound of the door closing, trailing the shadow of Louis, who left his coat and hat on the candlestick and made his way to the study where his grandmother sat sipping afternoon tea with a knife he tore monotonously.
"Good evening."
"Good evening. How was your meeting with Baron Lawrence?" His grandmother didn't take her eyes off the cracks in the sky through the wide window. She still refused to speak to him except reluctantly, and that made him very sad. Nothing was worth that punishment.
"Good. We've agreed, and I'll start on the project in a week." He warned softly, plopping down on the seat opposite her, following her scowling face with displeasure.
"You should be thankful he didn't write you off after you let everyone down with your shameful act."
He sighed in despair as he snatched his cup of tea from Oliver, allowing the stifling wheel of silence to spin for several minutes until he put the cup down and glared at her decisively. "Grandma, how long are you going to talk to me like that?"
"Until you come to your senses again." She threw her blue eyes against their doppelgangers with a scowling, reproachful look, making him knit his eyebrows, shaking his head in hidden protest. "I never lost him."
"I lost him the moment you laid eyes on that blonde lady." The grandmother became harsh. He recoiled in anger as she lowered her glass, glaring at him blankly.
"...Do you think I'm unaware that you went to her house last night even though I told you to cut ties with her? What is she doing to you? She cast her spell on you and you surrendered to her!"
The same argument again. Louis wiped his face, breathing heavily, before sliding to his knees, facing her looks, surprised by his movement, and gently grasping her hands .
"Why don't you want to see that I really love her? I respected your words and didn't talk to her for the past week despite my going through it. But last night, I really needed to talk to someone. Someone who would understand me but you. You know that you are always the first person I turn to, but I can't transfer my burdens to you because I can't bear to see the sad look in your eyes. Siqin is not what everyone says, Grandma. Why don't you believe that anyone could be the opposite of what you imagine and all you need to do is look for books? She is the woman I can spend the rest of my life with. She is the woman who would be an ideal wife for a troubled person like me. A woman who doesn't wait for someone to take responsibility for her but shares life's worries with him. Trust me... if you get to know her, you will love her."
He saw her eyes melt delusionally before his insistent words. He could hardly believe his tongue, which had been raving about a woman for whom his feelings no longer throbbed with passion. Rather, he was now filled with passion. How quickly the feelings of a loving heart change.
"I want a better woman for you," the old lady whispered stubbornly, making him shake his head, clenching her fists fervently. "And there's no one better for me."
"She's a widow five times over!"
"And what's her fault? No one is immune from death!"
Her lips straightened rigidly, seeming unconvinced, even though she didn't insist on speaking in the face of his insistence, which was evident in his eyes and the sincerity and passion evident in his words. She suddenly withdrew her hands from his embrace and frowned in dismay. "Let me think about it."
His face beamed with joy at her decision. He kissed her hand warmly, which pleased her, before withdrawing, leaving her to retreat to her mental palace, lost in thought about the critical situation her grandson had placed her in .
Either she would please him and agree to his marriage to the most unpopular and suspicious woman in the city and open her door to gossip. Or she would refuse and be the reason for the breakage of his young heart, which had defiled his virginity with a love that was almost forbidden in her dictionary. She was confused.
"Oliver."
Her grip on her cane tightened as her blue eyes intensified with a firm look that bridled her tongue, which moved in response to the servant's request. "I want to send you with an invitation."
Her fingers maneuvered the piano with its antique luster, singing a sad tune that danced with the sensitive hearts beneath Palom's ceiling. Her eyelashes touched delicately with every stroke of the scent she invoked, releasing all her defeat and despair like waves of a soft melody
Simon sat on a nearby chair in the living room after the effects of the night's battle had subsided, enjoying the sunset's gentle descent across the sky, matching the sweet musical background his older sister created. He submitted to it with ecstasy .
Simon sat in a nearby chair inside the living room after the effects of the night's battle had subsided, enjoying the sunset's gentle descent across the sky, matching the sweet musical background his older sister created. He submitted to it with ecstasy.
This was just another normal day in the abnormal life of the Palom family.
With the first knock on the door, its melodies slowly dissipated, and the sound of the footsteps of Naher, the house maid, filled their ears, which listened to a faint greeting, which she returned with only a thank you, followed by the door closing again, folding her way into the seat of the still blonde.
Sikin received the folded paper that Naher extended to her, informing her that the servant of the Legrent house had sent it, opening it with tingling fingers, reading the few monotonous words written on it, reflected in its glassy green eyes
"What was written?" Simon broke the veil of her reverie, breathing silently as she left the letter on the piano, quietly changing the notes. "It is Madame Elisabeth Legernet, inviting me to have tea with her tomorrow at five."
Simon pursed his lips with hesitation that overcame his eyes. He glanced at his sister's back with all the listlessness that had dominated their monotonous day and knotted his words anxiously. "Be careful which way you go, sister."
"Don't worry. I know what to do."
He was silent. He returned his brooding gaze with a resigned look to the fluttering wings of the sky, listening to the return of the deliberate, sad-sounding fragrance that had surrounded them with melancholy, played by that vague smile that lingered on the edge of Sikin's lips for a moment .