Astrid

Father and I leave the soiree early. Lady Tremaine had attempted to dagger glances my way when I kept insisting on our departure, but I’d pretended to pay no heed.

Only when my heels sink into the dirt path on our shortcut home do I satisfy myself with the notion that going home early is, in fact, a good idea. Beside me, my father’s breathing grows heavier.

“Did you take your medication today?” I try to keep my tone as light as possible.

His reply is curt nonetheless. “It’s fine.”

Another stretch of silence. Irritation bubbles in my chest, but I decide to be the more gracious person. My fingers bunch up more fabric from my skirt, hoping to spare myself a few hours of scrubbing dirt off the hemline.

“It was nice to see you mingle with your peers once more,” my father starts again, tentatively contrite.

Our breaths come out in puffs. Is it the cold? Is that why his condition has worsened lately? Despite the worrisome theories beginning to plague my thoughts, I manage a derisive smirk.

“What peers? Most of the girls refused to even look my way.”

“That’s not true. I saw… Now, what is her name?” He scratches above his eyebrow. “Kat...Catherine…”

“Katya.”

“Katya. I saw her wave to you.”

“Yes. Well, that’s because she doesn’t know any better. The only reason why we find acquaintances in one another is because we are both outcasts. The enemy of my enemy.”

“Now, Astrid,” my father clicks his tongue in admonishment. “That is an ungrateful thing to say.”

“What? We both think it; it’s just never spoken aloud.”

My father produces a key from the pocket of his vest and pushes it into the back door of our house. Like our family, our abode is humble in size. Yet after my mother passed when I was a child, I remember how much bigger the whole place has become now there is one less member of the family around.

I hang his coat up on a rack for him before I untie my own wrap. The first room I retreat into is the room opposite our kitchen: the study. As soon as I open the door, a mess of my father’s inventions scattered all over the floor welcomes me.

“What is this?” I cry out in dismay.

It is not so much the clutter that takes me by surprise; this is a normal occurrence. It is the disorganized papers and the abacus lying on the study table which bother me.

Behind me, my father utters a curse he thinks I cannot hear. “Astrid, don’t -”

But I am already crossing the threshold of his precious inventions. A globe turns when my skirt sweeps over it. When I settle in the old wooden chair, fear shoots up my nerves as my fingers brush over the pages.

The figures and calculations scrawled all over are difficult to decipher at first, but the meaning behind it all is clear: the numbers are impossible.

“Oh, Papa.”

A wrinkled hand snatches a paper out of my grip. For some reason, this gesture appears too harsh. I fight the lump rising in my throat.

“Why is it…” I swallow. “What costs so much?”

He stacks it all into a neater pile and shoves his hands into his pockets. When I gaze up at him, he refuses to look away from the globe.

“Papa?”

“It is just the medication. I can ask Doctor Erving for another discount.”

“Shall I go to work? The mill has another vacancy. Katya told me one of the maids found work elsewhere.”

“Nonsense, Astrid,” he snaps, finally turning to match me in the eye. “No woman works unless there is no man to support her. You will do as you always do. Stop your worrying.”

“Stop my- Do you think there is some switch for the emotion? Papa, listen to reason. It is only rational for us to find some solution to this. Your illness worsens by the day.”

As if to prove my point, he pulls out his handkerchief and starts to cough into it.

“I am doing perfectly fine, thank you kindly. As clever as you are, you are not a doctor.”

“And you can no longer call yourself one!

“Astrid.” Towards the end of my name, his voice breaks off in a strain. I watch dumbly as he bends over in another fit of coughs. When he inhales, he wheezes.

I wait. And wait.

He doesn’t stop coughing. I stop hearing his sharp inhales.

“Papa?” My irritation falters. I lean over the table. “Papa!”

He holds up a hand, but that is the last thing he does to protest. Before he can straighten up to reassure me – as he always does – his knees buckle.

He crumples to the floor.