“Come, child, into your clothes.”
“I'm not wearing that dress.”
Alyse took a step backward, surprised at Saoirse's tone, at the disgust in her voice.
“I hate that dress.”
“But I made this dress for you. The color matches your eyes.”
“It's gray and it's ugly. I won't wear it.” Saoirse turned her eyes to the windows, away from Alyse's aura and the colors dimming with hurt and despair. The smoky, blue cloud was almost transparent, colorless. Hurt did that to auras. Pain took away the aura of the person feeling it. Anger flashed an aura red, blood red. Arrogance turned an aura purple, a terrible, blue purple that pushed away other colors that dared to try to intrude. Except, of course, for black, the color of deceit. Pain, emotional wounds, these took the colors away. Saoirse had seen a kitchen boy, struck by a guard. He'd done nothing. But the guard filled with ugly, loud, orange ambition had struck him. And in a moment the silver threads weaving their way through the boy's aura disappeared and the aura with them as he scurried out the door like a mouse.
Alyse's head drooped. She walked to the wardrobe. “Very well, what would you like to wear?” It's only Murtagh and the lessons that are making her act so. Alyse's lips trembled. “Perhaps the pink one?”
“Yes, I'll wear the pink. And you can take this garbage back to the kitchens. I detest runny eggs. Have them bring me bannocks and jam. And make sure the bannocks are toasted.”
Alyse swiveled round at Saoirse's tone. How much like her father she sounds.
Dutifully, Alyse picked up the tray and left.
When the door closed softly behind her, Saoirse crumbled. Her shoulders shook; she sobbed, tears flowing down her face like a river at flood.
When Alyse returned, Saoirse was gone.
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