Tainted Reflections

“Hello, Mother,” I say, gleefully watching the way she jumps when finally noticing me. The woven basket full of the day’s harvest slips from her frail hands and rolls across the ground, leaving a trail of green leaves.

So, this is Cohen’s mother. I take a second to look her over, noting her weather-beaten skin and stringy brown hair. She is wearing a drab, cotton dress that ends just below her knees. I did not try to conceal myself for this trip and am wearing my castle attire: a silk magenta gown that brushes along the dirt path leading to her fields. Cohen’s mother is extremely poor, as I had guessed, so I do not believe it will be hard to convince her to come back to the palace with me.

I bend down and right the basket, gently replacing the cobs of corn that had fallen. “How are you, Mother?”

“Why are you calling me that?” she snaps.

I tilt my head, considering. “Are we not mother and daughter if I am married to your son?” A part of me wonders if she bleeds the same way her son does.

She recoils at the revelation, then narrows her eyes. “You’re married to Cormac?”

I stand and hold the basket out in front of me, my knuckles white on the woven handle. “Your son’s name is Cohen, not Cormac.”

She licks her teeth, appraising me for a moment for passing her test. She snatches the basket and walks away.

I lift my silk skirts and hurry to keep pace with her. “Cohen is not well. I came here to convince you to come back with me to the castle to see him. Or at least to be near him.”

She stops in her tracks and I crash into her back, nearly sending the basket sprawling again.

She huffs. “I’m not saying that I want to see him, but why in the seven skies is he at the castle? Is he in trouble with the royal family?” she questions.

“Do you not know who I am?” She shakes her head, and I nearly wrinkle my nose in disgust. How many people does this poor farmer know who own silk clothing? “I am Queen Melissa of Sonyou, and Cohen is my husband, the king.” I smirk internally, loving the way my title rolls off the tongue, though I keep my face a stony mask.

“My son is a king?” Her voice is breathy with shock. I resist the urge to smile, able to tell she will easily come with me.

“Cohen is not well. Please—come to the castle. Just for a moment,” I say again.

I glance over my shoulder to make sure my guards are still hidden behind the bushes at the entrance of the fields. I will not need them if Cohen’s mother comes peacefully. And since I must hide her away in my personal dungeons, it would be best if less people knew of her existence to question where she is.

I inhale shakily, glancing down at my smooth, court hands, tainted with Cohen’s blood. Ripping open his back only satiated my hunger for vengeance for so long. What exactly would be a fitting punishment for someone who used me to become king and tried to kill me the second the crown was set upon his head? I fist my hands, cherishing the feel of my nails biting into my skin. To lessen the burning pain of betrayal in my chest, almost as if my weakness has been branded with iron onto my skin, I must make Cohen truly lose everything he holds dear.

I smile and say in a voice as sweet as honey, “May I please call you Mother? It will make it easier to communicate if I have something to call you.”

“Call me Narcissa then.” She turns and begins walking away from the fields and towards her cottage.

“Please wait!” I call out, having to run to keep up with her brisk pace. How demeaning, for a queen to be running after a farmer through the dirt. “Mother-I mean, Narcissa, please,” I beg, needing her to come with me. I need to spill her blood before my husband’s eyes for him to feel the intense agony he has caused me. “Your son loves you so much,” I explain, sprinkling a bit of truth into my soup of lies. That love is the only reason my plan will work. “Cohen has told me so much about you. We actually fell in love while speaking to one another about our families.”

The fields and distant cottage all fade into nothing, and I find myself sitting on the edge of a marble fountain.

***

The village is almost empty with only a handful of people strolling across the cobble stones.

“Have you ever tried apple pie?” A voice asks from behind me.

I tense before recognizing Cohen, he sits on my left, the fountain spraying mist in his direction.

“No, I have never eaten this before,” I reply.

He hands me one plate of apple pie while keeping the other for himself.

“I think you’ll like it, it’s a sweet dessert. Tell me what you think.” Cohen picks up the pie and chews it.

I follow his lead, pinching the slice and taking a small bite out of the tip. Sticky sweetness fills my mouth. “Mmm,” I say, swallowing, “It is really good.”

Cohen’s laugh is as bright as the day. “My mother used to make this for me. She would put it on the windowsill, and I had to try to get a piece without burning myself or her noticing.”

Just like this, we lapse back into cheerful chitchat. Cohen and I finish the pie and then begin walking back to our carriage.

***

Plumes of dirt rise when I shift my feet, returning to the present. My blood boils like the heat of the sun has been infused in my veins. I stammer for a moment, trying to continue the story with a soft-hearted tone. “C-Cohen told me about how he used to come up with bizarre plans to eat your pies when you put them out on the windowsill to cool. And how he nearly burned himself every time. I would love to hear any stories you have of him,” I say, hoping she does not actually tell me any.

She scoffs. “Queen Melissa, I know you must love my son, but he is not deserving of it.”

I pause, my mind still a bit muddled from the flashback. “I-I’m sorry? Why is he not deserving?”

I mean, I know that he is not deserving, nor will he ever feel my love again, but why would his own mother say so?

Finally at the front steps of her cottage, Narcissa twists to look at me. “My son doesn’t have a heart. He doesn’t know how to care about anyone other than himself. I’m not sure if Queens are allowed to annul marriages, but if you can, you should do it soon.”

“Do you not love your son? Do you not want him to be happy w-with me? I am sure he has a heart,” I argue, knowing he must have one since he knew exactly how to trick mine. “If you would just come to see him—”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry, your Majesty, but even if some part of me loves him after everything he’s done, he doesn’t care about me,” Narcissa says.

I stare at her, not comprehending how I had gotten it all wrong.

“Have a safe trip back to your castle.” Narcissa walks up the short steps and goes into her cottage, gently closing the door behind her.

I stand still in front of the steps, unsure if I should still continue my plan to kidnap and torture Cohen’s mother, even though they do not like each other. But if he does not care about her, hurting Narcissa will not do anything to him. What is the purpose of doing it then? How had I gotten it so wrong? I picture Cohen’s smile that day, the fountain misting his hair. His laugh, bright and careless, curdles inside me now like milk souring. The sticky sweetness of pie on my fingers becomes like tar, gluing me to a moment that never truly existed. I had been angry with him for insinuating that I was too obedient earlier, and the heartfelt story about his mother was one of the only reasons I forgave him.

How can it be that even his story was a complete lie? I scoff, the sound breaking like my shattered heart. I laugh at myself for believing a single thing Cohen ever said to me. When Cohen tried to kill me a few weeks ago, I discovered that our entire relationship was a farce in order for him to become king, but until today, I still believed that story. For some inexplicable reason, I thought he must have given me at least a grain of truth from his sea of manipulation.

I force myself to move and walk back to where my guards wait, hidden. Once I pass the large bushes, I see their white helmets gleam in the daylight and remember when Cohen had been a simple guard with my heart in his hand. This cottage marks the start of his life of humble beginnings. The start of the person who I fell in love with that day at the fountain.

“Burn the cottage,” I command, not able to see one more piece of Cohen live to see another day. “And the fields too.” I shiver, despite the heat, watching my guards scurry off to carry out my orders.

Watching a small drop of fire pour onto the fields, it washes over the corn and grass like a wave of blood, racing towards the cottage. The fire is almost as hungry as I am, consuming every last bit of Cohen until all that is left is himself, rotting away in my prison. For a moment, I see the fountain again. The sickly sweet smell of pie and his ringing laugh. But the memory dissolves into ashes.

“Take me to where Cohen is imprisoned,” I tell my carriage driver, only entering once the smell of acrid burning consumes the air, and screams erupt like a volcano. I sit inside the carriage on the plush velvet chairs, feeling my chest hum with something that should be triumph, but it feels too hollow. I gaze down at my hands, seeing them stained vermillion. The screams and crackling flame melt into one sound — his laugh, warped by memory. I may not have taken Cohen’s mother captive, but I still have him. Or perhaps it is him who still has me.