Daedalia describes herself as the girl with all the flaws, but really she’s just completely lost in life. After a mysterious tragedy that mainly involves her and a crashed excavator, she excludes herself from the workforce. Her surroundings say her head hits rock bottom hard, but no one knows it’s her insecurity that’s killing her slowly. She never really takes it as a big issue, that she’s dying inside; that is until her aunt falls dead, literally, right in front of her, and she becomes one of the main suspects. When she thinks life cannot get any worse, people around her keep dropping dead right in front of her, one murder after another.
Instead of avoiding getting killed (or jailed) and leaving them to the police, she acts to find more clues regardless of the consequences. She blames it all on luck and coincidences whenever she’s on track; but as chances to prove herself keep appearing, her confidence gradually increases. On the brink of death facing the truth, she realizes that either the killer is aware of her lack of confidence and then tries to pin the blame on her, or that she really is the killer.
Daedalia describes herself as the girl with all the flaws, but really she’s just completely lost in life. After a mysterious tragedy that mainly involves her and a crashed excavator, she excludes herself from the workforce. Her surroundings say her head hits rock bottom hard, but no one knows it’s her insecurity that’s killing her slowly. She never really takes it as a big issue, that she’s dying inside; that is until her aunt falls dead, literally, right in front of her, and she becomes one of the main suspects. When she thinks life cannot get any worse, people around her keep dropping dead right in front of her, one murder after another.
Instead of avoiding getting killed (or jailed) and leaving them to the police, she acts to find more clues regardless of the consequences. She blames it all on luck and coincidences whenever she’s on track; but as chances to prove herself keep appearing, her confidence gradually increases. On the brink of death facing the truth, she realizes that either the killer is aware of her lack of confidence and then tries to pin the blame on her, or that she really is the killer.
A diminutive crystal vessel reflecting what other people see when they look at me - I’m spinning it right now with the majority of my fingers, gracefully, but in a peculiar way like my head is the one spinning inside. Maybe my head is the one that’s moving, I don’t know.
But there’s something else interesting about this pellucid thing. There, I can see myself turn delicate orange. They smell briny, sweet, and fishy. A tempting piece of glass, I’d say; the interior is filled with a slice of swirled smoked trout garnished with a little bit of dill and rosemary. It explains the yummy smell ready for my bite.
But enough now about food.
I’m talking to myself in my head again. Sigh. I always do, especially whenever I’m surrounded by these boring intellectual chatters - soigné with their judging eyes, always talk about what’s new in the economy. No wonder I never really fit in here. Whenever they bore me, I always let myself get distracted, just like with this fine piquant canapé.
To tell you the truth, they’re not always boring. I quite enjoy their company whenever they ask me about things that don’t matter. “Do you enjoy your study?” No. “How is your work?” Awful. “When are you going to quit?” Actually, already did. Especially whenever they don’t ask any further questions to my terse answer like they’re never interested from the beginning, I love it. You could say I enjoy more of this - wondering what they think when they look at me.
I add a smile in between occasionally, and nod from time to time. It’s quite whimsical that they think my smile means I’m naturally trying my best to listen to what they’re talking about and just eventually not getting the conversation, when really, I’m just not listening at all. But they’re probably right too. I really don’t get it sometimes. Don’t know or don’t care; honestly, I don’t even know anymore.
Actually, they’re very wonderful people, interestingly. Uncle Gershom with his fat belly and glossy hair on my left, Mrs. Oriel in the middle with her distracting big red jewel on her neck, and Sir Halihan looking like a misunderstood gangster in a super fancy suit. Actually, Sir Halihan is more like a big scary penguin to me. Well, that’s fun to imagine. I’d be a doozie drowsy koala, Uncle Gershom a teddy bear came to life, so that would make Mrs. Oriel… a white peafowl.
But seriously, this conversation at the moment about some new government policy raising interest rates and how to make more money out of it is just plain boring. Even worse when they ask my opinion about it. Easier to shrug my shoulders so I don’t have to think. No pressure’s best. I could probably think of something but I’d definitely say the wrong thing anyway, so why do I even bother? I mean, the right answer keeps slipping out of my mind, every time, even when I’ve learned about it. That kind of knowledge is like a dry glue to me, it just never sticks. And my brain is like a monolith when it’s uninterested, but it’s probably because I’m just not smart enough.
Ugh, honestly, ‘what’s for dinner’ seems more interesting to be discussed. Actually, if they’d rather talk about the food… Would they?
Who am I kidding? They wouldn’t.
You know what? Nevermind, I’ll just keep quiet.
I’ve just got to escape.
Succeedingly with an enormous amount of effort to get out of the conversation politely, I’m able to get to the kitchen uninvitedly to speak with one of the chefs; I just couldn’t take it anymore. The scent in this room feels so different to me. It still smells the same fishy good, even stronger than before; but I also smell peace, and this is exactly what my mind needs.
Dear friendly, talented, but slightly arrogant Monsieur Scerri with his blonde hair and twisted moustache is succinctly communicating the steps to me about how the little dish of joy was brought out into the world. He’s doing so while getting the rest of these little canapés out to the guests. He’s clearly good at juggling between working with his hands and talking with his mouth. I find it funny sometimes to see his yellow moustache moving along with his maroon lips. His fingers look shiny slippery from the oily condiment but it seems to support his speed rather than slowing him down.
“So I soaked just enough gelatine leaves in cold water to be drained and squeezed all the way - this is very important. Then, I added them to the stock and stirred until they’re completely dissolved. After that, I sprayed just enough oil inside the glass mould, broke the smoked trout elegantly with my fingers, and divided the trout between the moulds, just so I could fill each with the jellied stock in the middle. I refrigerated them for about six hours and voilà! Beautiful like a painting, yes?”
Very interesting.
It got me thinking though. I’d have probably been better off taking a painting or culinary major than some mainstream business degree in a great university that I took, which seems to have limited my option from a blow to the ego once to instead leave everything behind.
Maybe do some other things, like being a street artist for a change in this family; if only I have the courage and the talent. Free of pressure, full of passion, constantly standing on the temptation border between maximum creativity with no boundary and getting into jail for trespassing. Besides, I’m never really fond of remembering instructions, moreover following them.
Or maybe a career like Monsieur Scerri’s; he seems pretty content with his work. I’ve already got a bunch of tips from him anyway and it’s probably not too late for me to start. And I do love eating, too much, that I sometimes wonder if I really do. But then again, I’m pretty sure I’d get fired within two hours of probation for eating too much customers’ food looking too delicious, out of the obvious kitchen stress with no cooking contribution from myself.
I’m not even kidding. I’m pretty sure this would happen. It’s the worst possible outcome when the heart is more to take than to serve. You could also say, I’m prone to be against following orders most of the time. I just like to do my own thing. So everywhere I go, I feel like I’m already bound for disruption and destruction.
It’s in my nature. I like my freedom fully intact no matter the consequences. So in that case, I’d really rather eat them in front of the boss chef, get fired, then laugh about it in my sleep.
In some such way, that really happened.
In Nurtured Blood, Daedalia emerges as a relatable and flawed protagonist, grappling with the uncertainties of life. Following an unfortunate personal event, Daedalia withdraws from the workforce, finding herself at a perplexing crossroads. Unbeknownst to those around her, her insecurities gnaw at her inner being, suffocating her spirit. However, when her aunt tragically dies right before her eyes, Daedalia's life takes a sinister turn, thrusting her into the spotlight as a prime suspect in a series of baffling murders.
Throughout the story, Daedalia's internal dialogue draws readers intimately close to her emotional turmoil. As she confronts the mysterious deaths occurring in her midst, the readers feel an empathetic connection, experiencing the protagonist's innermost fears and uncertainties. This proximity enhances the intensity of the narrative, immersing readers in her world as they navigate the twists and turns of her journey.
The plot thickens with the unexpected revelations brought forth by the enigmatic character, Corina. Corina's revelations challenge Daedalia's perception of herself and her role in the escalating deaths. These revelations propel the narrative into a thrilling roller-coaster ride, keeping readers on the edge of their seats, fervently flipping pages to uncover the truth behind the mounting body count.
The book expertly crafts an air of mystery, making it increasingly difficult for readers to identify the culprit responsible for the deaths. With every new clue, Daedalia's suspicions oscillate, leaving her – and readers – in a constant state of uncertainty. The unpredictability of the story injects an exhilarating energy, urging readers to engage in their own detective work alongside the protagonist.
As Daedalia inches closer to the harrowing truth, the story takes an unforeseen turn. The author's deft handling of plot twists adds an extra layer of intrigue, subverting the reader's expectations and keeping them guessing until the end. It is in this culmination of events that the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and Daedalia's journey comes to a captivating resolution.
Nurtured Blood stands out not only for its gripping plot but also for its portrayal of Daedalia's character development. Throughout the story, her growth from a woman crippled by insecurities to one who gains confidence in her abilities is compellingly portrayed. This metamorphosis serves as a powerful anchor, driving the story's emotional resonance and inspiring readers on their own journey of self-discovery.
In conclusion, Nurtured Blood is an enthralling mystery that will keep readers hooked from start to finish. The relatable protagonist, Daedalia, draws readers into her tumultuous world, while the enigmatic 'Corina' introduces an extra layer of intrigue. The constant uncertainty surrounding the murders, along with the satisfyingly refreshing twist, ensures that this book will linger in readers' minds long after the final page.
With its well-crafted internal dialogue and depth of character development, Nurtured Blood is a riveting read that will leave readers eagerly awaiting more from this talented author.