Camille watched Cameron fade away back into the darkness. A cool wind blew from the north; it would have felt good on his skin if he hadn’t known what was happening inside the cottage right now. He sighed again, attempted to gather himself, and opened the door.
“Ah. There you are, Camille. Do you have a problem with coming home in the day, like normal human beings, or are you purposely making life harder for me?” Mother greeted him from her chair by the lone window in the room, across from Father’s empty chair. Father’s chair had been empty for a few years now.
Camille stood stiffly in the doorway, hand on Eli’s hilt. Cold sweat was pouring down the back of his neck, and his chest was heaving. He was staring at the little soft yellow bundle in that woman’s arms; it stood out horribly against her tight black dress. A wisp of black hair peeked out from under the blanket.
“Don’t just stand there, get over here and look at her. I’ve already named her.” Mother said, her voice harsh. Her amber eyes flashed, and she wiped a strand of straight black hair out of her face. Her lips were set in a hard, deep red line. It was amazing that she found time to put on her rouge, even at a time like this. Then again, it wasn’t.
Camille stayed where he was. It felt like his feet were stuck to the floor, and his legs were made out of cast-iron. He gagged, but he hadn’t eaten anything. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. It wasn’t like he didn’t know who this child was.
Mother sighed wearily, combing a hand through her long, straight, jet-black hair. “Come, Camille. Do not tell me you’ve become slow; you understand damn well what I’m telling you to do. Now stop being difficult and get over here.”
Camille started to slowly make his way across the room. It was strange; he could hear his own heavy footsteps in his ears, like he was on the outside, watching everything unfold. He stopped a few inches away from that woman, close enough to see the infant. He forced himself to speak. “…yes?”
Mother smiled warmly. She unwrapped the top half of the bundle to reveal a sleeping baby. It had a head of short inky black hair. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Camille said nothing. What lay in Mother’s arms looked wrinkly and pink, like a newborn mole, or a piglet. It made him sick to his stomach. Camille tightened his grip on Eli’s hilt.
“Well, isn’t she?” Mother asked again, though she said it more to herself than to Camille. She poked at the baby’s small hand, and it wrapped its tiny fingers around Mother’s finger, despite her sharp red nails. “This is your daughter, Camellia.”
It felt as if blood would start shooting from every pore on his body.
“Is that not a name befitting for our child?” She held the child up to him. “Here, hold her.”
