ONE
If my tears hadn’t paid for this mansion, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bitter about living in it. But they did, and so I hate it.
My parents decorated the hallway with everything they wanted in a home. It’s all a bit…excessive.
When there are hungry and homeless people in Serency, or those who can’t pay for medical care, having anything extravagant feels selfish…wasteful. We—really any of the upper class here in Noravale—could be making a difference and helping those in need instead of hoarding it all. But I get no say, because my diamond tears belong to Mother and Father.
A lush carpet lines the floor. Custom pottery sit on pillars as tall as myself. Silk curtains adorn tall windows so pristinely clean I swear I could reach right through them. Wrought iron sconces burning cinder rose-scented candles light my way. As I walk down the hall of the grand foyer to my parents’ room, a sense of dread settles like a stone in my stomach.
Unlike most people, I don’t shed regular tears. Instead, the hard, tiny gems fall from my eyes. Diamond tears, my blessing and my curse.
The colorful drapes hanging from the ceiling are the most recent addition to this absurd collection of unnecessary belongings. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind luxury, but not at anyone else’s expense. It jolts me back to the time I was five years old and Mother wanted a new jewelry set.
“Cry for me, Cadence. Do it for mommy.”
My diamond tears have always caused me sharp, intense eye pain and occasionally cut my cheeks as they spill over. Until that day, I hadn’t reached a breaking point. But that time, when I begged Mother to stop, she refused and said I mustn’t love her enough to give her what she wanted. And so, I cried until my eyes turned bloodshot and I couldn’t open them for days.
My gut wrenches at the memory, yet I continue my trek and pass every painting on the wall, knowing full well where they came from—who bought them. I was ten when Father wanted to replace the collection he’d only gotten the year prior.
“We have to impress our guests. Don’t worry. It will all be over soon.”
Except I’m sixteen now, and it’s not over. It will never be over. Not as long as I need to help my sister, Al.
I approach the laughter that echoes from the door of my parents’ room, open just a crack. A pattern of silver swirls coats the door frame and that pit in my stomach is now an anvil. All our doors were plain before Mother complained that Lady Amatsu was showing us up with the most gorgeously decorated doors in her house.
I scratch my back where a similar pattern of scars hides. It makes me want to rip all the silken folds off my dress and leave my wrists and fingers bare of their bangles and rings for how much pain they’ve cost me. I inhale deeply and push past the door.
“Cadence! Thank the gods you’re finally here. We have to pay Dr. Hyu in a few hours,” Mother says. She’s sitting by her vanity, dabbing blush on her cheeks and admiring herself in the mirror. Her long brown hair matches my own, except hers is smoother. Mine is mixed hair, a combination of straight, wavy, and frizzy locks. I like to thank Father for giving me the variety.
I tuck a strand behind my ear and close the door as if sealing my fate. Their room looks smaller than I remember. There is so much glittering gold in the décor, from small statues and trinkets sitting on all available flat surfaces to multicolored tapestries of castles and landscapes. Globe lights hang from the ceiling, equally spread out around a two-tiered chandelier.
I have to squint at first to adjust to the brightness. When I do, my gaze sweeps the room and I stifle a scoff. Since when did they have busts of themselves made? Father stands by his statue with his arms folded, and I remember when Al and I were younger, we used to hang and swing on each arm, giggling and smiling. Now, we’re on our own, struggling to hold on to something that’s not even there—and maybe never was.
I’ve never believed my parents were on my side. After all their greed, how can I trust them? But I still hope they’ll change someday—for their daughters’ sake. But I’m not sure we’ll ever be the family I want us to be.
“Do you need any help, Cadence?” Father asks as he walks over to Mother, their dark
brown and white skin in stark contrast to each other. My sister’s and my shared skin tone is somewhere in the middle—white like our mom’s, with an olive undertone.
I return to Father’s question. Do I need any help? Help? If you need to help me cry, all you have to do is tell me about all the promises you two have broken. But nothing can break my sealed lips because right now, my parents aren’t worth my breath. I shake my head.
It’s not the first time I’ve cried on command, but the billionth time isn’t any easier. I usually picture something sad—like a future where I’m never allowed to leave the house for the rest of my life—and the tears flow. Other times, I’m so detached from my body—like some incorporeal spirit—that nothing comes out. That’s when Mother and Father beat me—only mentally, but still awful—whatever it takes to make me start bawling. The worry in my stomach crushes my insides. I should know better than to put up with it. But I’ll do anything to help Al.
Whatever it takes.
This time, I envision if my sister was gone—if her neuromuscular disease progressed so rapidly that she died, leaving me alone.
Oh, gods. What would I do?
Al is worth more than the world to me. Even though she’s two years older than me, I still try to protect her from Mother and Father. But she’s usually the one holding me together.
I can’t help believing that if she died, I’ll have failed her. All the weight rests on my shoulders, and I know whom our parents would blame for her passing.
The morbid thoughts are working. A coolness settles in the corners of my eyes, and soon diamonds are landing in my cupped hands with tiny clinks. My tear ducts scream for relief as each finely cut gem slices past my sclerae like a butcher knife.
I’ve gotten used to some of the pain over time, but I’ll never be completely numb. I finish lamenting over my sister’s imagined death, ending the torturous flow of riches. My eyes burn and my cheeks ache as if I’d been crying normal tears—the way Al looks when she cries.
The diamonds in my palms reflect the light of the other jewels and trinkets overtaking the room, mocking me. I release them into Mother’s hands—her delicate fingers with long painted nails closing over them like claws. Her eyes glint even brighter than the diamonds do.
Father flashes his pearly whites and pockets some of my tears for himself. “Thank the gods again for your gift,” he says, a familiar refrain so cold and lifeless it only makes me shiver.
Gift? This so-called gift has brought me more than physical pain. Has forced me to cry in private. Live in complete privacy. No one can know about it because then they’d want to use me. Take advantage of me. At least, that’s what Mother and Father say. Isn’t it funny how they’re doing the very thing they’re protecting me from?
But I don’t voice any of my thoughts. I just nod and exit the room, wondering if they even realize I hadn’t spoken a word.
TWO
After I compose myself, as I always do, I head to Al’s room to make the most of the morning. It’s the best way to get out of my sullen, post-crying mood quickly. Although we have separate bedrooms, which are annoyingly just as elaborate as Mother and Father’s, I spend most of my time in hers. It’s become a ritual now, a way for us both to escape reality.
Her door is open, and I close it after I enter before meeting her on the velvet-cushioned windowsill. If our parents hadn’t built us a library, this spot would be the perfect reading nook. Instead, we use this space to create our own stories.
My sister moves her crutches out of the way so there’s room for me to sit beside her. Because muscles and nerves breakdown in her neuromuscular disease, she has weak legs and tires quickly. Sometimes, Al uses crutches or a wheelchair to get around. The condition can worsen over time…and be fatal. The best we can do is slow it down with a physiohealer, who gives her strengthening exercises.
After I settle in my spot, she wastes no time before jumping into our game, rubbing her hands together and laughing. “All right…let’s see what sort of fun people we’ll encounter today! There has to be someone interesting to make up a story about—it’s too nice for people not to be outside.”
I grin. “Not sure anyone can beat that burly man last week who you said was King Pontifex in disguise.”
We peer out the second-floor window, squinting to make out any passersby from a distance. While our home is surrounded by lush plants, flowers, and trees, bits and pieces of the city of Noravale are visible beyond. Mansions line the row across from us, each with a perfectly manicured lawn and pearl-white windowpanes. A few horse-drawn carriages make their way down the paved street, the open windows letting in the gentle summer breeze. The hustle and bustle of the city is our tiny slice of normalcy, but all we can do is look at it from inside our pretty prison.
“I doubt the king would appreciate being described as ‘burly,’ ” Al says.
“That’s what makes it so funny! And you’re the one who said it!”
We chuckle the exact same way, then burst out laughing because we did. We’ve picked up so many similar mannerisms from all our time together, one would think we were twins.
“Okay, well, I’m going to pick that boy over there. He’s cute!” She points to a long-haired redhead who’s walking an old hound at a leisurely pace. He pauses when his dog sniffs a tree before continuing on.
“He does look pretty cute. The boy’s not too shabby either,” I joke. I crack the window open, savoring the fresh air as I watch him.
“So.” Al curls her short brown hair behind her ears. “This boy has been lonely for a long time. His parents have made him study hard so he can get into Hosef Academy, but that means he hasn’t had time to make any friends…or have any girlfriends.”
Usually, we create stories different from our own to escape our reality. I don’t know why she’s deciding to stick closer to what we know, but I keep quiet and let her continue her tale about this future student at Soridente’s top school.
“This boy does everything that his parents ask. He’s passed his exams and is going to graduate next week, so they finally let him explore the city streets on his own. He moves slowly to make the moment last as long as possible.” She inhales deeply through her nose. “On his walk, he locks eyes with the most beautiful girl he’s ever encountered across the street. And in an instant, he sees flashes of not the past, but of the future—one with her. He realizes he can never go back to his old life because he’s found what he wants his new life to be—his destiny.”
I swallow hard. Will we ever get a chance at a new life? “Please, don’t make me cry. I’ve done enough of that today.”
She shakes her head, snapping out of her daze. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, Cade. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry, I get it.” I fiddle with the ends of the curtains. Al’s eighteen to my sixteen. We’ve never found love. Never known romance. We have each other, but still feel so alone. Even though we should be able to experience life away from home—from our parents—we can’t.
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here because of me.”
“Al, come on…”
“No, I’m serious.”
When we peer out the window again, the boy is gone. But I know neither of us will forget that story. Some stick with us long after the words leave our lips and the sun has set.
My lips purse. I don’t know if I’ll ever be allowed to find happiness outside these walls—adventure, excitement…and love. It feels selfish to want those things, especially because I know Al wishes for the very same things for herself. I take her hand and scoot closer to her on the cushion. “Don’t feel bad about being you. You didn’t choose to have this disease. Uncle Vinio had it, too. And I’d never trade any of our time together, even if it has to happen inside.”
Now Al looks like she’s going to cry. She closes her eyes and nods with a grin. “Thanks. I know all that, but it never hurts to hear it. I just don’t think love’s in the cards for me. How am I going to find someone stuck in here? But maybe we can get out. You’re gorgeous and smart and deserve to find a guy who’ll love and take care of you.”
I lean back and laugh. “First off, you can find love, too. Second of all, I can take care of myself.”
“Too true.”
“And lastly, who says the someone I find has to be a guy?”
“Or girl,” she instantly amends.
My cheeks warm. I can be exactly who I want to be in front of at least one person in my life. “There you go.”
My sister picks at the cushion. “You know, I feel guilty that Mother and Father use you to pay for my treatments. You…you should stop crying diamonds for me.”
“Al…” I sigh, tipping her head up to meet mine. “We both know they’re the ones who should feel bad. They refuse to spend a single coin or gem that they honestly earn on us. It’s always spent on their next new outfit or night out on the town. And then they spend mine, too. But as much as crying hurts, I don’t want you to suffer. I’ll make as many diamonds as it takes to help you—you, not them.”
Al smiles. “Thank you for that.”
“You know I love you.”
“Love you, too, sis.” She takes a deep breath, then smiles brightly. “Okay, enough sappiness. Your turn,” she says, switching her attention back to the window.
I hate how bad my sister feels, but it’s comforting to know she’s got my back. I follow her request to move on and rub my palms together, peering through the glass again.
A couple walks down the street, arms linked like they’re a hop, skip, and jump away from busting out in a dance right then and there. There’s a woman carrying sacks of potatoes and other vegetables on either side of her, struggling to make it to her carriage. Why she didn’t bring her vehicle to the market is a mystery.
I turn my head as a blur of black crosses to my left.
Someone is wearing a dark cloak, walking close to the bushes spilling onto the sidewalk. The person’s head is down, so I can’t see much as they slink in the shadows. Definitely not an everyday sight.
“I’m picking that person.” I point to the mysterious figure, unsure of whether they
are male or female. Their boots are slim, but it could still be a young boy, rather than confirmation the stranger is a girl. “They’re cloaked because they committed a crime and they’re hiding from the authorities.”
“Oooh,” Al says, leaning closer to the window.
The stranger stops at an alleyway, turning their head left and right to investigate the space.
I catch a glimpse of the person—the girl—underneath. My jaw drops and I can’t tear my gaze away from her. I can’t put my finger on what’s so mesmerizing about her, but she’s unlike anyone I’ve seen before. She has light brown skin and striking dark eyes. A lock of light pink curls slips out of the hood.
“Cade? Caaaade?”
“Huh?”
“What happens next?”
“Oops, sorry.” I bite my lip in embarrassment.
“I don’t blame you. She’s cute.”
I laugh and settle my racing heart for the moment to return to my storytelling. “Okay, so this girl isn’t just hiding from the police. She’s hiding who she really is. She doesn’t let anyone know her true self. But she’s waiting for the…right person…to let her know it’s okay to open up.” I smile, staring at her before she steps back into the alley and disappears.
A blotch of darkness remains where she stood. Almost like her shadow pulled away from her and now existed on its own. I blink and the next thing I know, it’s gone. It must have been a trick of the light, or an errant diamond tear from earlier blocking my vision.
Still, I find what’s holding my attention isn’t the shadow, but the girl. She didn’t look like she belonged in Noravale. Then again, neither do I. I stare at the spot, wondering if—hoping—she’ll show her face again.
THREE
After our people-watching session, I wheel Al down the ramp to the first floor to see Dr. Hyu.
Mother and Father used to take her to the hospital on the other side of town for rehab therapy, but then Mother got paranoid about her worsening condition and didn’t want Al exposed to the outside elements. So, what did they do? They made me cry enough diamond tears to build a personal rehabilitation gym and hired a physiohealer to make home visits.
Although I appreciate Dr. Imogen Hyu for all she’s done for Al, her presence only represents more pain for me since my tears pay for each session.
I sit on one of the low mat tables as my sister begins her appointment. Exercise equipment fills my vision from left to right. Bands, weights, balance pads, stretch straps, a stationary cycle, parallel bars, and more. I cried so many diamonds to deck the place out, to give her the best chance at managing this disease.
But my sister is the one person I don’t mind using my gift for. I’ll fill buckets if it means helping her. Plus, she’s helped me more than I’ve helped her. She’s made me want to live despite my parents giving me every reason to hate the life they’ve forced us into. Al and I? We’re in this together.
But sometimes I find myself at a crossroads—I want freedom while still being able to help my sister. Can I have both?
Realizing I’ve been digging crescent moon shapes into the soft mat table, I snap from my thoughts and relax my hands, focusing on Al.
She’s lying on her back on the low mat table beside me while Dr. Hyu stretches her hamstring, trying to straighten her leg.
I’ve been assisting Al with her home exercise program, but it’s hard when a disease does what it wants…and when there is no cure.
I struggle seeing how much tighter her leg appears—how bent her knee stays despite the physiohealer’s pushing.
I don’t attend all of Al’s therapy sessions, but Dr. Hyu asked the family to sit in on this one this time. I don’t know where Mother and Father are, but they arrive when the session’s almost over.
Mother tsks, working out the wrinkles in her dress, not even acknowledging we’re here. Father approaches the mat table with a passive expression. Gods, they’re acting like they’re not even late. If I had been a second late, there’d be hell to pay.
He tilts his head as he studies the scene. “How are things progressing, Dr. Hyu?”
The woman pushes the bridge of her glasses up her nose and releases Al’s leg, shifting to stretch the other one. “Her muscles have been stubborn today. They’re shortening, adapting to her sitting in the wheelchair more.”
“They’re angry,” Al says, pausing once to cough. “But I’m working on making them happier.”
My spirit lifts at her optimism, something I always try to emulate, especially right after a crying session. From inspirational words and medication to the good ole sucking it up, I’ve tried everything. But nothing cheers me up as much as being with Al.
Mother grabs the wheelchair by the handles and pushes it off into the corner. It’s a brand new one they bought for her a few months ago—gold all over, with satin cushions and floral embellishments along the armrests and wheels. “Well, we just have to get her off this thing, then.”
Dr. Hyu finishes stretching Al and pats her shoulder, signaling for her to sit up.
I catch the flash of slight annoyance in the physiohealer’s expression. But if she’s offended by Mother’s remark, she doesn’t say anything. “She’s been using a wheelchair for the past six years, Lady Esmerene. It’s normal for her neuromuscular disease to progress this way and make things harder for Al to move. Honestly, she’s doing great. Our goal in therapy is to slow the disease, but we can’t predict the tissue damage that will occur. Based on her last strength and gait tests, she’ll always require the wheelchair for longer distances and when she’s fatigued, but she should keep walking either without
assistive devices—or with the loft strand crutches, if necessary, for short distances—as much as possible.”
I’m glad Dr. Hyu has Al using the crutches. They’re like plain ones, except they allow her to hold objects like food or bags while walking, ...
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