Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Shockingly, I saw Sylvie bestow an actual, genuine smile at Miranda as she murmured “Merci” in gratitude.
Could it really be as simple as providing her with the comforts of home? Or maybe it’s that bread and jam have nothing to do with her current predicament and are something she can give herself grace to enjoy?
I tuck those thoughts away in my personal mental folder I’ve named How to Win Over Sylvie.
“After we register you for school today, my mom is going to take you shopping for clothes,” I say. Of course, Sylvie already knows this is the game plan as I told her last night when I checked on her before bedtime. But it’s hard to initiate conversation with this girl at the best of times.
“I don’t want to go to a public school,” Sylvie says, talking around the food in her mouth. She swallows and lifts her gaze. “Why can’t I go to Prescott? I like it there.”
Because all the Mardraggons go there, I think, and they turn out to be pretentious pricks.
“Because I think you’ll have a more rounded experience at Shelbyville Primary.”
“It’s not fair,” Sylvie exclaims, her voice pitched higher than usual. She drops her knife smeared with marmalade and it clatters loudly when it hits the plate. “You’re making my life miserable and I hate you.”
That shouldn’t hurt since I hardly know her but those are words I’ll never forget, no matter what becomes of our relationship. Rather than allowing it to bring me down, I decide to open up a part of myself I’ve held tight the past week, allowing a moment of anger. “Do you think I asked for this? You know, my life got disrupted too and it’s not been easy having you dropped on my doorstep.”
Sylvie’s face screws up tight and she erupts into what I am quite confident is a string of French curses. “Espèce d’ignorant, que connais-tu de la misère? Tu es un con avec une cervelle d’oiseau. Un idiot, qui est née dans les bas-fonds. Je suis révoltée de savoir que nous sommes parents et je vais vous rendre la vie aussi misérable que la mienne peut l’être.”
I keep my expression impassive, my finger tapping gently against the side of my smartphone that sits face down on the kitchen table. “I’d prefer that you speak to me in English, especially when I suspect you’re calling me names.”
Sylvie smiles sweetly, but the tight lines say it’s purely manufactured. “I said I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you.”
Not what she said, but I let it go. “I’m sorry if I implied you’re a burden. You are not at all. I am merely pointing out that this is difficult on everyone. It’s been a shock to me and I’m trying to adjust, same as you.”
“Not same as me.” Her voice is small and it tears at me. “You didn’t lose your mom, did you?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I don’t have any strong feelings about Alaine dying. Not in the sense that it affected me, since I barely knew the woman. But a profound sense of sadness overwhelms me on Sylvie’s behalf. Sorrow for what this little girl has lost. “No, I didn’t lose anyone and I’m really sorry you did. It’s not fair to you at all.”
Sylvie glares at me. “You don’t care. You hated my mom. You hate all Mardraggons.”
“I didn’t hate her. But I hardly knew her. Your mom and I were barely acquaintances and I know it’s probably hard for you to understand how she got pregnant—”
“I know how sex works,” Sylvie snaps angrily.
Yeah, I’m not going there so I ignore it for now. My tone is soft, patient, and I hope she really listens to me. “None of this is fair to you and if I could just let you go back to Lionel and Rosemund, I would. But I can’t. You’re mine now and I’m going to continue to hope you learn to like me and my family just a bit in the next few months. I’m going to hope you give us a chance.”
Sylvie’s lip curls, revealing her teeth before she sneers in French. “Je ne vous donnerai aucune chance. Je suis une Mardraggon et ne serai jamais une Blackburn. Vous et tout le monde de cette ferme, pouvez aller au diable.” Her expression morphs and a placid, duly obedient look falls into place as she switches to English. “Now… if you’ll excuse me. I need to brush my teeth before we go register for my new school.”
I sigh as Sylvie stands from the table. I wait until I hear her on the staircase before flipping my phone over and stopping the recording.
I have no nefarious plans in recording our conversation other than to find out what in the hell she’s saying. I am at a distinct disadvantage in the communication game if I can’t understand her. Last night I found an app that can translate recordings and I’m hoping to glean clues from her French tirades. I suspect she’s being more truthful in her feelings, just as I also suspect she takes great joy in the fact I can’t understand her.