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In some ways, Panette's life is like a dream. Solm is her home: the large swathes of desert sands, littered with oases. She is the retainer of a beloved princess who will one day be queen. And, mercifully, the only member of her family she can tolerate happens to be the prince's retainer.
Panette once saw her brother's constant presence as bordering on cruelty. She loves him in ways that make her heart ache; of all the people in the world, he is the only one who could ever truly begin to understand why she had to leave their parents. His presence is a constant reminder of them. Of their mother's fiery orange hair and the amber glow of their father's eyes.
Pandreo is a reminder that mirrors are not Panette's only enemy.
But unlike their parents, Pandreo is kind. Forgiving to a degree that baffles Panette. He even forgives her for leaving, whether or not he understands that she had to leave. There had been no other option; motion filled her, making her rise from the floor their father had beaten her to, and she ran. For herself, her heart, her body.
It was right for her at the time. To leave, to flee. A part of her always wished Pandreo would come to the same conclusion, but he never did. Beneath the thick layers of his easygoing nature, Pandreo would forgive the sun for ceasing to shine.
But now the wheels of time wind back. A letter comes: a missive scrawled in shaky hand. All this time she and Pandreo have spent looking for them, and here they are. Her parents don't have the decency to tell their children where they are or what they have been doing. On the run, in all likelihood: for unpaid debts and illicit scams. And yet they have the gall to ask Panette and her brother for money to tend to their affairs. Support us in our time of need, the letter begs. As we have always done for you.
Panette recalls a memory from her childhood: her father had been staring out the window, a nearly empty bottle of alcohol in his hand. It was a large window facing their backyard, and while the view was littered with weeds and projects their father had abandoned — planks of wood for the patio their mother always wanted, a poplar tree left in splinters that he had abandoned cutting down partway — the sky was beautiful at sunset. Not wanting to disturb him, she took to the ground to slink past him. She crawled — like a bug, she thinks now; flattening herself, scuttling upon the floor beneath the eyes of giants, ready to squash her — and instead of appreciating her childish attempt to please him, her father roared. He threw the glass bottle, where it shattered against the wall. The shards gleamed, strewn across the floor. He kicked at her ribs, lashing out; tears burned her cheeks as she gasped for air. She really was a bug to him: something to be destroyed and nothing more.
When had her parents ever supported them? At the most basic level, perhaps: providing a roof over their heads and regular meals. But where was the warmth? Where was the love?
Panette sinks to the floor, letter still clutched in her hands. The palace tile is hot against her thighs, the skirt of her dress spread out around her like a barricade. Jagged strips of black, orange, blue, and red. It is her very own rainbow: a style she has claimed for herself. The very opposite of the fake propriety of her parents, wearing religious garb despite their lack of faith. Slipping into the robes of white and red, forcing the fabric to fit their distorted shapes.
I won't cry, she tells herself. Why should I? I don't feel anything for them. I won't.
Unlike their parents, Pandreo is a true believer. In being good to himself and to others. He comes to her now as if summoned by the weight of her grief, pushed aside for so many years. Slammed into a box she has kept locked. Even as her brother stands in front of her, blocking the view — the stone-paved veranda, so much like what her mother always wanted, framing the mirage-ridden desert — she can imagine what he'll say. What he always says.
Won't you talk to me?
It's so hard to talk about this: with him, with anyone. And why should she? Voicing her pain makes it more real, somehow. A tangible beast to be vanquished yet again.
Pandreo sits beside her; in silence, for once. His white robes clash with her black dress, but when they were children, their mother often ostentatiously paraded them around as twins. Forcing them into matching outfits to attract the attention of their congregation. Such sweet children. Hair as orange as sunset; eyes like amber. But at some point Panette stopped growing while her brother grew taller and taller. Mountainous — like their father — compared to her.
Now, Pandreo nudges her knee with his own. Asking her without words to lean on him. To trust him.
Panette hands him the crumpled letter. As he reads, she stares out the open doors: into the bright blue sky and across the land of glittering gold. Even now, as the princess' loyal retainer, she craves the silence of solitude. Part of her will always long to be alone; to be the only one who can tell her what to do, how to live. But the need to be seen burns brighter than it ever has. To be with those who love her — because such people exist now. Such a reality has somehow been borne into existence despite her clumsiness.
"Well," Pandreo says after a long silence. "Not exactly what I expected, but —"
"They were always going to mess things up," Panette says, picking at her skirt. Pulling at loose threads. "Everything." Why can't they just leave them be? Pandreo had looked for them, of course; Panette had even joined his search for a time. But it had been on their own terms: they were the seekers of knowledge. Why had their parents been so cruel, so unkind? Why have children at all? Why traumatize them so? If given the chance, Panette once wanted to return even just a sliver of the pain they had given her.
Instead, their parents found them first. They could try to ask their questions now, but they no longer have the element of surprise. Their parents simply won't reply if they respond with anything but money: Panette knows this in her bones.
"It's up to you," Pandreo says, tucking the letter in his pocket. Soaking it into himself so his sister won't have to; taking the damage for her.
"Me?" Her voice is meek at first, surprising her. She tries again, more gruff this time. "Me?"
When was the last time anyone asked her something like this? The fact that she has any choice in addressing her trauma baffles her. When she was first reunited with Pandreo, he had insisted that she should talk to their parents after he found them.
Pandreo had been baffled, too: Dad was drunk all the time. He told me our childhood is a blur to him. He doesn't know, Panette. He doesn't know what he did.
And so Pandreo had assumed that it should be on her to divulge such details to their parents, all because their father had the gall to forget what had scarred Panette. But now Pandreo gets it; he understands that their family has been torn asunder and there is no putting it back together. They just have each other now. She hopes this is enough for him: that she is enough.
Her voice is deep and hollow when she says, "Get rid of it. I just want it gone."
"Are you sure?" Pandreo asks. Not to make her second-guess herself, but to confirm. To make sure they're on the same page. "If that's what you want."
She nods. Pandreo takes the letter out of his pocket; she can hear the parchment crinkle in his hands. He waits only a moment, giving her one last chance to say any parting words, before he rips it in two. The sound is so loud; echoing, booming. It makes Panette's heart race. She pictures her family in her mind, awkwardly huddled together before the image is torn in half. Then Pandreo rips the letter again and again until all that remains are the tiniest scraps, and when Panette closes her eyes, she sees nothing but the Solm of today. The palace: her home. Her friends, her brother. Their parents are gone.
Panette won't cry. She demands this of herself as she stands up, brushing her dress out again. Bits of pain leave her, falling to the floor with the grains of sand. To her surprise, she needn't have feigned strength: it is Pandreo's eyes that are red. Molten gold, tarnished. For this, Panette hates her parents even more. She hates them for being absent just as much as she would hate them if they were here.
"You're crying," she mumbles, pointing out the obvious. She had thought saying something would make this all easier, but she was wrong. Her head aches; her cheeks are aflame. The tears are hot, scalding. She can't remember the last time she cried. The feeling is strange to her; foreign in its rawness.
"I'm not — of course I'm not," Pandreo says as Panette tugs at his robes, needing something, anything to do with her hands. The fabric is thick, heavier than she remembers, but it is warmth: lived in and loved. "Well, maybe. It's not a bad thing, you know. It's just..."
"Personal," she finishes for him. Her voice is deep again, her soft facade shed as she fights the urge to wipe at her eyes.
Pandreo nods. "That's right." He leans down to kiss the top of her head, an affection she would have shied away from if she weren't so vulnerable. Just now, just this once, she lets herself sink against him. He leans down to wipe her eyes himself — the protective older brother in him isn't able to stop himself — and when he steps back, his fingers are smeared with sparkling blue-green and red from her makeup.
They scatter the letter's fragments to the wind. The day is hot, the sun searing above, and yet the sand swallows up the scraps easily enough. Something tells Panette this won't be the last time they hear from their parents, but for now, they have this slice of relief. Their parents are beyond their reach now: past the swathes of desert, beyond the mirages cupping the horizon, and perhaps across the great salt sea. They might as well be nowhere; formless and shapeless. Living on as ghosts.
"You're crying again," Panette says, hearing Pandreo suck in a quiet breath. He doesn't deny it this time, although she can tell he wants to. It's embarrassing for her, too: what if the princess sees them? What if the prince stumbles across them, all smiles and joy until he sees their faces? It's better not to make those they love worry, not with this. Someday Panette might tell Timerra about the letter, and someday Pandreo might tell Fogado, but for now, they have each other.
And that is all Panette needs.
Pandreo grabs her hand, sifting their fingers together. Mirroring how they had once huddled together for comfort as children. She remembers buckets of water they would pump themselves; dipping her hands into the lukewarm water; melding mud cakes with her hands. Despite being half a decade older, Pandreo always humored her. He was the only one who tried. The only one who went on adventures with her as she marched around, turning over rocks to see what manner of bugs lay beneath. Pandreo would squeal; Panette would huff.
They have come a long way since then, she realizes, squeezing her brother's hand.
Panette is someone now. Born from nothing and raised from the dirt, and yet now, she is someone.