//------------------------------// // Chapter 2 // Story: Fork in the Road // by Novelle Tale //------------------------------// “Make sure to roll the dough out flat, dear. A quarter inch thick.” “Yes, mother!” There was flour all down my front and ground into my hooves and coat, but I’d never been happier. I pressed down on the rolling pin, again and again, until the dough that I had so painstakingly kneaded was flat and floured and ready, just the way mother liked it. “Acceptable,” mother said from behind me, and my stomach warmed with the praise. “Though you should really be using your horn for such things, not your hooves, darling,” she chastised, and the warmth was gone as quickly as it had come. “Y-yes, mother,” I answered dutifully, hopping off my step stool so that mother could do the fun, I mean the important part! Of cutting out the cookies. “Once your magic is refined enough, you’ll be able to cut out cookies yourself,” mother continued, perhaps sensing my disappointment, or perhaps just filling the silence. She stamped out shortbread hearts one after the other, a practiced symphony of flashing cookie cutters, pans, and dough. Within minutes, the dough I had worked so hard on was gone, whisked away into the oven to bake. “Now, why don’t you show me how your brewing is coming along?” mother asked as she slid the oven door shut. She grabbed one of the many kettles from the rack over the kitchen island, filled it with water, and then encased it in her graceful magic.  “Chamomile tea takes three to five minutes to brew,” I said, making sure to enunciate my t’s the way mother liked. She didn’t like it when they were all slurred together, rounded out into d’s instead of being pointy like a proper t. “It does not turn bitter when over-steeped, and it has anti-inflammatory and antiphli–antiphy–anti-fever properties,” I stammered. “Of course, we would never over-steep or over-step, isn’t that right, Lemon Hearts?” mother asked. I gulped and nodded. Flour snowed down from my mane to the floor, and mother tutted, grabbing the broom in her magic. “A lady should never make a mess of herself,” mother chided, and I nodded again, this time leaving my head low. Maybe then she wouldn’t see me cry, either. But mother always knew. “Chin up, darling.” And with a single tap of her hoof, I was looking into mother’s green eyes that looked so different from mine. “Crying is another type of mess,” she chided. The broom went to work cleaning up the fine dusting layered over the floor, mostly around myself.  “I-I’m sorry, mother,” I sniffled. “And you haven’t been capitalizing my name, either,” she tutted. Behind her, the kettle started to whistle shrilly. “W-what?” I sniffled again, swiping at my eyes with the foolish hope that removing the evidence would remove the sin. “I am Mother, dear, not just your mother.” The kettle whistle pitched higher, louder, shaking and rattling in Mother’s green magic like a demon. “Of course you are, Mother, I would never—” “But you did,” she said, smiling sadly, and now the whistle was turning to a scream. “I’m disappointed, Lemon Hearts, but you’re still growing up. I suppose mistakes are expected.” “Mother, I didn’t—” “It’s okay, sweetheart,” mother cooed, and she pulled me close to her chest, her warmth so confining and cloying and sweet. “I’m sure some time in your room to think about your mistakes will sort things out in no time.” “N-no, mother, I mean Mother, I want to have tea and cookies with you—” The oven timer chimed, its measured beeping joining in with the screaming kettle as the scent of lavender permeated the kitchen. “Oh, that’s the cookies done already. Go on and head to your room, Lemon Hearts. We’ll try again together tomorrow, hm?” “Mother please—” “I’ll get the door for you, dear.” And then she opened the oven door and shoved me inside ____________________________ Lemon Hearts came to with a gasp, and then another, a third and fourth and fifth, until she was sitting up in bed hyperventilating, sweat matting her coat and the sheets twisted around her legs like a vice. Her little room was empty, of course, the way it always was. The last golden rays of the early evening light filtered through a gap in her blackout curtains, the sun not quite set. Lemon Hearts pressed her hooves to her eyes, hoping the pressure would help calm her racing breaths and pounding heart. It didn’t. Half an hour passed in still anxiety, the muffled sounds of evening birdsong slowly calming her body down in a way that she could never quite manage on her own. “No more sleep for me,” she muttered, finally freeing her head from the cradle of her hooves. The room was blurry, and bluer, now. The sunset was a small stamp of warmth on the bit of cool blue sky visible through the curtain gap. Lemon stared at it for a long time, long enough for the birdsong to fade and the stars to start winking themselves to life once again. She shivered, finally feeling the effects of her cold sweat. Kicking the sheets off her legs warmed her up a bit, though, and she flopped back on the bed, finally free. Just in time for her alarm clock to sound. Lemon Hearts sighed. “Shouldn’t have damned mothers and princesses,” she muttered, prying herself out of bed. Now she’d have to wash these sheets, too. As if the work laundry wasn’t enough. She staggered to her hooves and stretched. A nightmare wasn’t the most auspicious start to a day. Night? Lemon Hearts stretched, cracking her neck one way and then the other. As she did, her eyes came to rest on the mug beside her bed, the dregs of her long since cooled chamomile tea gelling at the bottom. Between that and the wadded up bedsheets, her room was looking like quite the unladylike mess. Lemon Hearts couldn’t help but smile. It was small, and she still felt exhausted, but it was better than nothing, she decided. And definitely better than where she’d been. She carted the mug out to the dim kitchen and practically tossed it in the sink as she shoved the tap up to maximum pressure. The calming scent of chamomile suffused the room, so much smaller than the grand kitchen in her dream. Lemon closed her eyes, her body at war between peace and anxiety as the water rushed down, overfilling the mug. Wait. Her nose scrunched up. Mother had asked about, and been making chamomile tea… directly in the kettle? Lemon Hearts frowned. Mother would never do something so uncouth, that had been the first sign that it wasn’t real. But even so… Why had it smelled so strongly of lavender at the end?