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The curtains are drawn. Heavy black velvet drapes hung over the tall arched windows. On the other side, there's a small balcony that overlooks the green and the pond at the back of the estate. It's exactly twenty-seven feet from the ground, the length of nine spare bedsheets tied together and knotted onto the wrought iron railing. Lara can still feel the drop from the end of the makeshift rope and the gravel drive beneath her boots when she landed. She still has the cut on her knee from the tumble she took when her brother jumped down on top of her. The scrape is plastered now with an ugly white bandage that sticks to her skin, but it bled through last night while she sat in bed, listening to the silence. She watched a red flower appear on the white, blossoming like a watercolor painting, as the house lay still and quiet.
It's the first time she's been allowed back into the drawing room since they were caught playing escape. After the hissing and the scolding, the fretful attention to her knee, the lock on the balcony door, and the straight to bed with the two of you, forget dinner, that is what you should expect when you pull such dangerous stunts, you foolish children, and the long quiet night that seemed to go on forever.
It was late morning when Lara woke to her mother standing at the foot of her bed, staring down at her with the grim, sickly face she has always worn for as long as Lara can remember. She looks different in her portrait on the dining room wall— warm and kind, with a smile that shines like the sun, even in the faded sepia photograph.
"You have been summoned," her mother said. Already a dress was laid out for her, chiffon with lace. A handmaid stood in the doorway with her head bowed; in her hands, hair ribbons. "The family will see you now."
The curtains black out the sunlight. Though it is almost midday, it feels like the middle of the night. Like a time that is nowhere or nothing, as Lara stands at attention in the center of the drawing room and receives the news that will change her life.
"I see," is all she says.
Two simple words. But words of resignation. Unbidden acceptance uttered forth from her tongue, caught off-guard in the drawing room with the doors locked shut behind her and two guards posted on the other side. The words leave her mouth without much thought. It is still morning, and the news has not settled in her brain when she speaks, oh, yes, I see, I do, I will, mumbling an affirmation as one might accept the day's forecast from the weatherman. Hearing only the promise of an averagely overcast weekend before blinking to do a double-take: did you say volcano?
Her shoes crease in the carpet where she stands before the family. A firing squad, she thought when she entered. She surveys them in the silence that seems to last forever. She thinks now, she should have known something would happen this week. A cousin is getting married at the estate on Saturday. A cousin is always getting married when the family needs to meet under one roof. It is the best ruse for extra security around the perimeter, extra eyes in the hall. They water down the wine at cousins' weddings to keep the peace, but always her mother manages to find the well and drain it. It is not her mother's wedding portrait hanging in the dining room. That wedding happened too fast. It, too, was a ruse.
Lara names them in her head. There are five of the family, a fitting number. A prime that cannot be divided by any other than itself, for only one of them shoulders the burden, but they sit here together, five heads before her on the sofa, bent in their age as they stare through the silence at her. She names them as Willy would, from left to right.
On the velvet armchair sits Cousin, with her silver blonde hair pulled taut in plaits that Lara's handmaid has never been able to imitate. She seems old for her age; her face is marked with frown lines between her brows. Among the family, she does not smile, but something in her blue eyes betrays her inherent gentleness. She has always been Lara's favorite. Beside her sits Uncle, with one arm bent over the side of the couch. He is temperamental, out of line, his elbow hanging off the sofa as he stares across the room at her. She would get a smack upside the head if she ever sat like that.
In the center sits Grandmother. Always. She is bent over her cane, but her eagle gaze never leaves Lara's face, not as she speaks the news nor as she waits in silence for a response.
On the other side of Grandmother, there is Auntie. She sits with her hands folded in her lap and her dark hair pulled back to drape down her shoulders. Something about her makes Lara feel sick to her stomach: her grimace, her glare, or because they are the mirror image of each other. She hopes she doesn't look so severe when she is Auntie's age. And on Auntie's other side sits Father. Brushy brow like a hawk. Flaxen hair braided down his back. He is the only one who does not meet her eyes.
In the corner, the grandfather clock ticks. It echoes in the nothingness. One second, and already the ancestors are judging her.
"It is the great honor of your life to bear the warhammer titan," Grandmother commands. She leans on her cane with her shriveled hands, her long yellowing nails clicking together. Her wrinkled brow pinches and furrows as she hawks up at Lara. "Is that all you have to say, child?"
"Oh," Lara says lightly. She is short of anything else to say at this meeting. A memo would have been nice. Is she supposed to thank them? With these stupid fucking ribbons in her hair? "Yes, yes it is an honor. Such an honor."
From the end of the couch, Uncle gives a great harrumph. She can smell the smoke from here. She flicks her eyes to the side, where Cousin meets her gaze. Somewhere under that grave silence, she is smiling back at Lara. The others ignore him.
"You will be trained in the art of war," Grandmother tells her. "Strategy, defense, military history."
Her yellow nails click on the fat jewel in the head of her walking stick as she talks. In the darkened room, it is the only thing that glitters. It catches Lara's eye. She has been studying economics with her tutor this term; there is a map of the world's diamond mines in the back of her textbook, though she has not been allowed to look at it for too long. She wonders how many of their people died for that stone. She wonders if they deserved it.
"You are descended from a long line of noble leaders," Grandmother tells her. "You will uphold their legacy and bring honor to the family. It is a great prestige to follow this path, child, no matter the burden. The duty now falls upon you to bear it without protest. You are humbled and honored to undertake such a burden for your family."
"Oh, yes," Lara says. She bends her head, so slightly, and one braid falls over her shoulder. "Will I continue with my tutor?"
"Your life is in service to the Tybur line. You have no further need for school."
She pushes: "And what about Willy?"
The family sits crouched in the shadows as she stands before them, in her new shoes, in the chiffon her mother picked for her to wear. The bandage on her knee, which she realizes now must still be bloody red, must be peeking out from under the hem of her dress, must be dripping down her leg and leaving a strain on the frill of her socks.
"Your brother will serve the family in another capacity," Grandmother tells her. Her nails click, click. "This has already been decided. He has the gift of eloquence. It will be his great honor to lead the family into the new world era."
"The decoy," Lara fills in.
They do not like that word.
"The head of household," Grandmother answers.
"I see," Lara muses. She pushes the braid back over her shoulder. "And—"
Father erupts.
"No more questions!" he spits from his armchair. He hardly moves; his body seizes still, his suit unwrinkled in the velvet chair. But his hand, curled into a claw, his nails digging into the upholstery, and his furry brow, turned in to scowl on itself as he seethes at her from where he sits, never looking up. "No more, you insolent girl! You stupid child! Who are you to inherit such a power? To ask so much of the orders you are given? We should have you hanged for your insubordination!"
If Lara imagines, she can hear the world from behind the black curtains. The rope of bedsheets will have been cut down by now by an unfortunate maid with another basket of washing to do. Her blood on the gravel will have dried out in the sunlight, if there is sunlight outside; if it is raining, the water will have washed every trace of her away. In puddles, in streams, trickling down through the tones and seeping into the dirt. Disappearing into the nothingness beneath the ground. If she imagines, she can see Willy now; no doubt he is pacing in the hall between their bedrooms, wondering where she has gone and if the firing squad will let her live. He will be waiting for her, but she will not have time to warn him before it is his turn next.
"I see," is all Lara says.
On her way out the door, she can’t help but think: I have never held a hammer in my life.