The Wrong Parasol

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Dearly, Departed

Copyright: Lia habel

"You and Nora shall be the prettiest pair out walking," said my mother. "What boy could resist?"

Her well-meant words hurt me in more ways than I could count as I looked down at my brand-new parasol. The lamp was white, of course. White for purity, for a future marriage to be arranged by my parents. What else had I expected?

You and Nora shall be the prettiest pair … When she was found.

If she was found.

It was only her disappearance that had finally convinced me, if not to admit the truth to others, at least to admit it to myself. I would have done anything to see Nora again, watch the sparks fly from her eyes when she was angry, hear the crystal chime of her laugh. To hold her close, her head on my shoulder, my hands buried in her silky black curls.

I would have given everything to walk out with her … and not only as a friend.

But if, by some miracle, she came back to me alive, and if she felt the same way (which I doubted; I'd always needed her more than vice versa), my family would still not permit me to act on my feelings. Isambard's twittering and Mother's lectures had made it clear beyond a doubt that I was expected to marry a wealthy man. As for Father, he was as devout a Catholic as the ancient founders themselves. No greenlighters allowed in his family.

"Thank you," I told Mother, dredging up a passable imitation of a smile. "It's lovely."

Still, looking down at my Christmas gift, I could not help wishing it were green.