POV's Jace
Philip and I sat at the dining table, our eyes trained on the door, waiting for Mother. The bell for dinner had rung a long time ago.
Our nanny, Alicent, stood against the wall, glancing toward the clock on the sideboard, then back to us. Father rarely ate with us, but Mother always did—at least dinner, even when she could hardly stand. She is always on time in case Father decides to show up.
Where is she?
Is she sick?
Yesterday, she'd looked white, except for the blue and yellow blotches on her face and arms where Father had disciplined her. She often did things wrong. It is difficult not to do wrong with Father. A thing that is okay yesterday could be wrong today. Philip and I often confused one with the other and got punished as well.
Philip took his knife and stuck it into the bowl with mashed potatoes that had stopped steaming before slipping the mash-covered blade into his mouth. Alicent clucked her tongue. "One day you'll cut yourself."
Philip shoved the knife back into the mash and licked it off again, his chin jutting out stubbornly. "I won't."
I pushed my chair back and stood. It isn't permitted to get up before dinner is eaten, but Father isn't home, so I am the master of the house because Philip is two years younger than me. I walked around the table. Alicent made a step in my direction.
"Jace, you shouldn't…" She trailed off as she looked at my face. I looked like Father. That's why she is more scared of me than Philip. That, and because I am going to be Capo. Soon, I'd be the one to punish everyone for doing wrong things.
She didn't follow me when I walked through the foyer and up the stairs.
"Mother? Dinner's ready."
No answer. I stepped onto the landing, then approached Mother's bedroom. The door is ajar. The last time that had happened, I'd found her wailing on her bed, but it is quiet inside. I pushed the door open, swallowing. It is too quiet. Light spilled out of the open bathroom. Downstairs, I heard Father's voice. He had arrived home from work. He is probably angry that I amn't sitting at the dining room table. I should have gone downstairs and apologized, but my feet carried me toward the light source.
Our bathrooms were white Carrara marble; for some reason, a pink glow reflected in the room. I stepped into the doorframe and froze.
The floor is covered with blood. I'd seen it often enough to recognize it, and its smell, a hint of copper and something sweet, is even sweeter today as it mixed with Mother's perfume.
My eyes followed the river of blood, then the dried waterfall of red staining the white tub up to a limp arm. The white flesh is parted, giving way to dark red below.
The arm belonged to Mother. It had to be her, even if she looked alien. Masklike and stiff, her eyes were dull brown. They were staring at me, sad and lonely.
I moved a few steps closer. "Mother?"
Another step. "Mom ?"
She didn't react. She is dead. Dead. My eyes registered the knife on the floor. It is one of Philip's, a black Karambit knife. She didn't have her own weapons.
She had cut herself. It is her blood. I looked down at my feet. My socks were soaked with the red liquid. I stumbled away and slipped, falling back, crying out. My butt hit the floor hard, and my clothes soaked up her blood, sticking to my skin.
I scrambled to my feet and stormed outside, my mouth open wide, my head throbbing, my eyes stinging. I collided with something. Looking up, I found Father's furious face glaring down at me. He hit me hard across the face.
"Stop screaming!"
My lips snapped shut. Had I screamed? I blinked up at my father, but he was blurry. He gripped me by the collar, shaking me.
"Are you crying?"
I amn't sure. I knew crying wasn't allowed. I never cried, not even when Father hurt me. He hit me even harder.
"Speak up."
"Mother's dead," I croaked.
Father frowned, taking in the blood on my clothes. He moved past me toward the bedroom. "Come," he ordered.
I noticed his two bodyguards in the hallway with us. They watched me with a look in their eyes I didn't understand. I didn't move.
"Come, Jace," Father hissed.
"Please," I said. Another forbidden thing: begging.
"I don't want to see her again."
Father's face twisted with rage, and I braced myself. He is upon me and gripped my arm. "Never again. You won't ever say that word again. And no tears, not another disgusting tear, or I'll burn out your left eye. You can still be a Made Man with one eye."
I gave a quick nod and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn't fight when Father wrenched me back into the bathroom, and I didn't cry again, only stared at the body in the tub.
Only a body. Slowly, the roar in my chest quieted. It is only a body.
"Pathetic," Father muttered.
"Pathetic whore."
My brows drew together. The women Father met when he wasn't home were whores, but Mother isn't. She is his wife. Whores took care of Father, so he didn't hurt Mother as badly. That's what she explained to me. But it didn't work.
"One!" Father bellowed.
One of the bodyguards entered. His name isn't One, but Father didn't bother learning the names of low soldiers and gave them numbers instead.
One stood close behind me, and when Father inspected Mother more closely with a cruel smile, he squeezed my shoulder. I peered up at him, wondering why he was doing it, what it meant, but his gaze was focused on Father, not me. "Get someone to clean up this mess and call for Paul. He needs to find me a new wife."
My brain stumbled over what he'd said. "New wife?"
Father narrowed his gray eyes. Gray like mine. "Change clothes and act like a goddamn man, not a boy." He paused.
"And get Philip. He needs to see what kind of cowardly whore his mother is."
"No," I said.
Father stared at me. "What did you say?"
"No," I repeated in a small voice.
Philip loved our Mother. It would hurt him. Father glanced at the hand still on my shoulder, then up at his bodyguard.