Shayla

“The physician spoke with confidence. He was a man, after all. He had no reason to think he would not be believed.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward

“I like him. That surprises me. I’m not prone to liking people in general.”
― J.T. Geissinger, Pen Pal

“Friends make friends better. We accept the bad parts, celebrate the good parts, and we don't torture you for your mistakes”
― Lucy Score, Things We Hide from the Light

“I am sure you understand," Father began, looking past Violet at the wall, "that I cannot allow you back into my house after what you have done. I have arranged for you to be taken to a finishing school in Scotland. You will stay there for two years, and after that I will decide what is to be done with you."
Violet heard Graham clear his throat.
"No," she said, before her brother could open his mouth to speak. "That won't be acceptable, I'm afraid, Father."
His jowls slackened with shock. He looked as if she had slapped him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I won't be going to Scotland. In fact, I won't be going anywhere. I'm staying right here." As she spoke, Violet became aware of a strange simmering sensation, as though electricity was humming beneath her skin. Images flashed in her mind---a crow cutting through the air, wings glittered with snow; the spokes of a wheel spinning. Briefly, she closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling until she could almost see it, glinting gold inside her.
"That is not for you to decide," said Father. The window was open, and a bee flitted about the room, wings a silver blur. It flew near Father's cheek and he jerked away from it.
"It's been decided." She stood up straight, her dark eyes boring into Father's watery ones. He blinked. The bee hovered about his face, dancing away from his hands, and she saw sweat break out on his nose. Soon it was joined by another, and then another and another, until it seemed like Father---shouting and swearing---had been engulfed in a cloud of tawny, glistening bodies.
"I think it would be best if you left now, Father," said Violet softly. "After all, as you said, I'm my mother's daughter.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward