By Shannon Horning
Octavia always thought that Della would stay a child forever. When she nursed at her breast, when she curled into her side, when she leaped into her arms with a wide, bright smile. Time seemed to slow then, ensnared within those precious moments of childhood wonder. But now, as she gazed at her daughter, she realized she had been fooled.
Della stood with her back to Octavia. She was dressed in fine silks, layers of white trailing behind her like waves of melting snow. At her waist, the lady-in-waiting pinched her stomach tight and threaded through the hanging ribbons of lace. Her lips, often left bare, were painted red and her cheeks were flushed with rouge. The girl standing in front of Octavia was not the same one who would cling to her skirts or cry when she scraped her knees against the paved stone paths. As much as it pained her, that girl was grown now.
“Della.” The lady-in-waiting stepped aside as Octavia approached her daughter. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m suffocating. Add one more layer and I might as well drown.”
Octavia laughed before laying her hands on Della’s shoulders, turning her to face their reflections in the mirror.
“Look at you… I remember how small you were when you were just five, and now you’ll be 16. How fast you’ve grown! Are you excited for the ball?”
At her words, Della’s lips thinned into a hard line. Octavia, noticing this, glanced at the lady-in-waiting and tilted her head towards the door.
“I have something for you,” Octavia said once they were alone. She lifted her hand, her fingers unfurling to reveal a single daffodil. Its petals were the color of gold, glowing as if she held the sun in her palm. It wasn’t a string of pearls or a set of ruby earrings, but Della still lit up at the sight of it.
“From your garden?” She was captivated by the flower as Octavia slipped it behind her ear. “But you never let anyone touch your daffodils. And I don’t ever remember you picking them.”
“This counts as an exception. I’ve been tending to a plot of them for several months just for your ball, so they could be braided into your hair. How does that sound?”
Della turned to look at her, eyes shimmering. “Mama, no… they’re too important to you.”
“Not as important as you are to me.” Octavia smiled, cupping her daughter’s cheek. “I’ve read that daffodils symbolize new beginnings. Fitting for your debut, is it not?”
No reply came. A still air seemed to settle, heavy and smothering, the silence quickly eating the question between them. Octavia tried to catch Della’s gaze, but her eyes flitted away, looking at anything except her.
“Dee-Dee. What’s the matter? Every time I ask you about your ball, you start to fidget.”
Della stared at her hands. For a moment, Octavia thought she would tear the flower from her hair and walk away. But then she looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror.
“I want to cancel the ball,” she said, firmly. “I do not want to debut. Not as the heir of the Blackwood family.”
Shock gripped Octavia, squeezing the air from her lungs. She suspected her daughter to admit to some nervousness or anxiety, but certainly not an outright demand for the ball’s cancellation.
“Where is this all coming from, Della? Are you nervous? At my debut, I was just the same, but I —”
“No, mama. It’s not that. I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. I thought I would be fine with it, but with the ball getting closer, it just all feels too real. When you and Father eventually step down, I do not want to become tied down by paperwork and parliamentary meetings and all those social laws of the ladies and lords. I want to explore Hallesen, venture outside of its borders.” She turned to face her mother, eyes struck to life like flint against steel. “I realize now that I cannot do that if I become the Blackwood heir.”
Della’s words pressed down on Octavia, a numbness overtaking her tongue. It was not her daughter’s change of heart that disturbed her, but the suddenness of it. Only one thought raced across her mind: What would my husband say?
“But… you’ve studied since you were a child for this. Did you… did you at least discuss this with your father?”
At his mention, Della’s face went rigid and her neck flushed red. “I did. He said that I had no say in the matter. And to make it worse, along with becoming the heir, I would enter an engagement with a suitor of his choice.”
“What?” Octavia’s voice was tight with emotion, forcing itself out as a squeak. He never told her that. He never told her anything.
“Mama, you have to speak with him. Convince him not to declare me as the heir at the ball. If you say something, he can do little to oppose you.”
“You know your father, Della. He won’t listen to me.” Her voice was barely a whisper. The air around them seemed tense, tugging at her bones and draining the blood from her veins.
But Della did not notice. She simply met her gaze, shoulders square and stubborn. “He won’t listen if you don’t try. Besides, you’re the one that is Blackwood by blood. He has to at least consider what you have to say.”
She was right. Octavia knew she was, but it didn’t stop the pit from forming in her stomach. There was something about speaking to her husband — telling him what to do — that made her hesitate. Fear knotted in her throat, but an empty smile stretched across her face.
“Of course,” she said. “I will talk with him.”