PROLOGUE
The Past
The Hague, South Holland
Netherlands
Mila
I DON’T BELONG HERE…
Never have.
And probably never will.
Unloved.
Unwanted.
And truly out of place…
Taking a breath, I allow my head to remain low, forcing myself to show some semblance of shame for my actions—to show Father that I am truly sorry for all that I have done.
With his lips twisted in that disgusted way they always seem to be whenever he regards me, his chin lifts, and he runs a hand along his clean-shaven jaw and steps forward, bootsteps hard and heavy when they hit the polished mahogany floors we now stand upon.
An exhale follows and rips through the silence.
The birdsong outside slips in the large window across the room which is ajar. The white-tipped waves crash into the city’s edge. Outside the sun beams and sends golden rays over the bustling harbor this morning. It is breathtakingly beautiful in contrast to the nightmare occurring amidst where I now linger.
An absolute paradox…
I cannot see it as anything else.
Only a woman like me could see the beauty in a truly heinous moment like this one. And even though a tiny smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, begging me to let it break free, I force myself not to allow it. It is my intention to show Father and Mother nothing but respect in recompense for all the ways I, Mila Emma De Jong, their only child, have failed and disappointed them in my twenty-five years of life. Shamefully, I have done nothing—absolutely nothing—with all those years. I have not lived up to their expectations. I am now past the age of marriage, having chased every single man away which Mother and Father had ever sent my way. Oftentimes, going so far as to convince those unfit suitors that I belonged in a sanatorium if it ultimately meant that they would give up the ridiculous dream of ever making me their wife in this life.
I can think of nothing worse, even considering my unfortunate circumstances now, than being betrothed to a man, slaving away in a kitchen, belly swelling year after year with a child who would suck my succulent breasts dry with every draw of milk they would need to survive.
What’s a girl to do when she sees her future far differently?
When she dreams of being pure and wild and free…When she envisions a life beyond the four walls of this stone cottage by the deep blue North Sea. When there is a fire in her which no man—or woman—for that matter could ever put out…
My heart which beats steadily is scorching.
Skin licked with a heat that burns even my soul contained within.
I have vowed to carve out my own path in this hard, hard world with my bare hands even if my fingers bleed and my bones become broken from the sheer effort of it all.
Mother and Father have always told me I am beautiful, but what does it matter?
No woman is ever authentically respected by simply being pleasing to the eyes.
I will need to be more.
Lifting my head, I regard the pair who after so many years, claim they are still in love. The inside of my palm caresses my cheek and then I tuck a lock of my hair behind one ear and press my lips together. Glancing to my left, I eye over the massive trunk which holds most of my belongings which the old woman, Maude, our housemaid, had carefully packed, and something heavy and uncomfortable settles in my stomach and causes it to ache.
And I know it is fear…
Raw.
Palpable.
Gut-roiling.
Fear.
That thing which bolts most of us right in place and stops us from being as daring as our hearts truly wish and need to be. I shove fear down, like the horrible monster it is, put it in its rightful place, defeated, and think of nothing else.
My eyes fix on the extra-large window across the room once more…
Entrancing blue sea. Fat white clouds drifting in a northeasterly direction. The voices of men who work tirelessly in their fishing boats on the sea drifts into my ears. The day carries on outside of these white stone walls…
What does my future hold?
Where will I go?
What will I do?
I could ask the questions, chase them around in my crowded mind, endlessly. I could drop to my knees like a slave to my own sad, sad existence and beg Mother and Father to allow me to stay in this house which has provided me with more comforts than any young woman could ever need and be their perfect child. I could relent, submit, and force myself to be all that they want me to be.
I never will.
I never will.
I never will.
But just like always, I would fail in my attempts and we would be catapulted time and time again back into a moment that is just like now. There is no escaping it.
I will never be the daughter they have always wished for—one who makes them proud and who does not embarrass or shame them. I will never be that girl…
Vision growing watery, I turn toward where the trunk rests on the floor, offering both Father and Mother a terse nod. And then, with much effort, I put one foot in front of the other. Each step forward is agonizing, yet uplifting, as though with each one I am unravelling the heavy iron chains wrapped around me and letting them drop to the floor with haste. No one hears the boom of that heavy metal as it falls around me, but to me, it is thunder to my ears. It is courage. It is freedom.
What does a woman truly have without freedom?
Father’s solemn eyes stay transfixed on me. Clutching the sterling silver Holy Cross which hangs from her neck between her fingers, Mother weeps. Her pale Protestant fingers are wrapped tight around that sterling silver and her lips mutter things which I cannot discern, and I know that she is praying…for me, for my soul and for everything which she hopes I will turn out to be.
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, a breath slips from me at the sound which drifts on the salty breeze in the distance. I’ve heard it all my life, know the time of day by it too…
The bells.
So beautiful and melodic.
The rhythmic ring of them fills this quiet space.
They come from the high tower of the Grote of Sint-Jacobskerk—a church which has been standing tall for the last five hundred years. It is where Mother and Father so often pray…for me.
My eyes flicker open.
Time seems to still…The clock on the wall across the room seems to stop ticking. Maybe the earth stops spinning too. My breaths feel more labored. Heart beats even harder, or rather, it thunders in my chest and affects my ability to breathe.
I could never breathe here…
The air is too thick with judgment. The floors hold too many secrets. The walls are closing in.
I don’t belong here…
Leave.
Never have.
Leave.
And probably never will.
Leave…
Unloved.
Unwanted.
And truly out of place…
Mother and Father regard me with that look still, standing, waiting and watching.
Maude stands with her hands clasped and her head bowed, stealing occasional peeks at me.
And Fenna…
Oh, Fenna.
So remarkable.
So pure.
So perfect.
A girl far different than me.
My Fenna…
She stands while clutching a dish rag, shoulders sinking, soul fucking collapsing—just like mine is—and tucked away and near the kitchen with watery eyes fixed on me. I cannot bare to look at them for much too long. Because they own me.