63. Before

Before

Rose

I am seven, which means Daisy is four. That’s always how it is for me, my life measured by the existence of the only light left. It wasn’t always that way, of course.

There had been another light, once.

It had been snuffed two years before, consumed by the shadows of this place. It was bitter, to know our mater was gone.

That Daisy and I had not been enough to make her stay, and simultaneously understanding the call of the light spilling onto the streets outside the threshold of this dark domus.

Daisy is digging in the cupboards, trying to help me find just one more bag of flour.

There has to be more flour.

The sting of tears wells in the corners of my eyes as I contemplate asking Pater for the coins stamped with the man of two faces on one side and a ship on the other. I’d need two for a loaf, but for the flour the baker charged ten. The bag could make them twenty loaves, but getting ten discs at once?

There has to be more flour.

A small squeal and then shattering glass. My heart stops. “Daisy!”

Scrambling over to where Daisy had disappeared a few moments earlier, I drop to my knees to see her sitting in dark amber liquid, shards of the bottle scattered around her but the base still intact.

Daisy begins to cry when she sees the look on my face. The terror.

“It’s okay, Daize,” I say, extricating her from the shards of glass. “It’ll be okay.”

It probably won’t, but I’ll try to make it so.

“Papa will be so mad,” Daisy sobs into my chest.

“Pater,” I correct softly. Only when Mama had been here had he been Papa. This makes Daisy wail harder, a sharp and swift reminder of what?

The Mater she probably can’t remember. Or perhaps, of the sister who was less afraid, less cautious.

Maero take me, I hate the helplessness of holding my baby sister as she cries. I pet her hair and take my own deep breaths, showing Daisy how to calm herself.

Children are to be seen and not heard. At four, she understands the rules, and the consequences of breaking them. Slowly, shaky breaths replace her stifled sobs.

“I did this,” I say sternly, meeting her watery eyes. “If Pater asks, I did this looking for flour.”

“But Pap- Pater will be so mad,” she whispers. We both know what she doesn’t say, what it means.

“I’ll be okay. This is what big sisters are for.”

Daisy clings to me, our blonde hair tangling together as our small hearts beat rapidly against one another.

“It’ll always be me and you, Daize.”

“Promise?” She hiccups.

“Promise,” I say, already knowing it’s a lie.