Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 154

Her Obsession.

The Prince’s Picnic.

Sage

:

59

Something’s off. The first thing I notice when I wake is that the house isn’t quiet anymore. It’s bustling with voices, footsteps, the occasional thud followed by someone swearing and someone else shushing them. I blink the sleep from my eyes and sit up slowly. Morning light filters through the curtains, soft and gold. It’s early, earlier than anyone in this house has the right to be awake.

Somewhere down the hall, Ma’s voice carries clear as a bell: “Connor, if you don’t hold that ladder steady, I swear to God you’ll be the one

hanging from it by supper!”

I frown. Ladder?

Then Diego’s laughter joins the mix, bright, bubbling, and I hear little feet scamper across the floorboards.

What on earth…?

I pull one of Connor’s shirts over my head, the hem falling halfway down my thighs, and wander out into the hall. The smell of baking hits me hard, a heavy scent of bread, sugar, and cinnamon. The kind of scent that makes a house feel like home, if you’re the kind of

person who knows what home smells like. I stop in the kitchen doorway, rubbing my eyes.

Ma’s at the counter, apron dusted in flour, hair pinned up like she’s preparing for war. Connor’s beside her, looking far too awake for

someone who hates mornings.

“Morning,” I murmur. “What’s all of this?”

The way they both jump is suspicious as hell.

“Oh! Morning, darling!” Ma says too brightly, sliding a plate of bread toward me. “Just making breakfast.”

I glance out the window, where I can see a very awake, very dishevelled Liam in a tangle of lights and then look back around the room at the three suspicious faces. Naomi tells me not to worry about him, that he’s just adding a little ‘sparkle‘ for Conner. When has Conner ever wanted things to sparkle? Just to confirm my suspicions, Conner lifts his hands not so innocently and tells me that it’s Ma’s idea. Which

makes a little more sense when she tells me it’s a spring cleaning thing.

Still, I turn to Conner, “You want to try that again?”

He gives me his best innocent grin. “You’re imagining things, little ghost.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And maybe don’t go outside today,” he adds, way too casually.

“Why?”

The Prince’s Picnic.

“Bad weather coming.”

I glance at the window. Clear sky, not a single cloud. “Looks dreadful.”

“Wind,” he says, deadpan.

“Wind,” I echo.

He nods solemnly. “Dangerous stuff.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Better than I used to be,” he says, smug.

Ma clears her throat loudly. “Eat your breakfast, dear.”

I take the bread, but my eyes stay on them as I bite. They’re hiding something. They all are.

For the next few hours, the whole house hums with barely concealed mischief. Liam and Pa come in and out of the back door, each time

with a new excuse, such as chopping firewood, needing tools, or “checking the fences.” Naomi’s “helping” Ma in the kitchen, which mainly

involves sneaking bites of dough and making Ma swear under her breath. Every time I walk into a room, conversation stops. Every. Time.

And when I ask questions, I get deflections that range from creative to absurd.

“Liam, why are you on the roof?”

“Exercise.”

“Naomi, why are you stringing fairy lights?”

“Ambience.”

“Connor, where’s Diego?”

“Uh… studying.”

That one earns him a sharp look because Diego is four. He just grins and kisses my forehead before walking off, muttering something about generators. By midday, I’ve given up trying to pry answers out of anyone. Whatever they’re doing, they clearly think I’m too fragile or too clueless to notice, which is adorable, really. So I take the hint, retreat to the living room, and settle in with a book.

The quiet that follows is strange. I can hear them still, their soft voices, distant laughter, a hammer striking something metallic, but they move around me now, orbiting. Keeping me comfortable and contained. I know how to recognise being managed. It used to be something cruel. This feels… different. Gentle, even. Like they’re protecting something good. I’m not sure what to do with that. By late afternoon, the light changes. The golden kind of warmth that makes the air itself feel thick and warm. I’ve been reading the same page for ten

minutes when Diego’s little voice breaks the calm.

18:08 Thu, Nov 6

The Prince’s Picnic.

“Sissy!”

…

:

He bursts through the doorway, cheeks flushed, hair wild, energy spilling out of him like sunlight.

“I have the best idea ever!”

“Oh, do you?” I close the book, smiling. “Do I need to brace myself?”

“No! It’s good! We should have a picnic! Like a super cool picnic with food and blankets and everything!”

I tilt my head. “And what’s the occasion?”

“Because it’s nice out,” he says quickly. “And Ma said–uh–Ma said picnics are good for di–ges–tion!”

“Did she now?”

“Yep!” He bounces on his toes. “And I can be the prince, and you can be the princess!”

I try not to laugh. “A prince and a princess, huh? Big promotion for us.”

“Uh–huh. You have to wear something nice. Like a princess dress.”

“Ah,” I say. “And what will you wear, Prince Diego?”

He looks very serious. “I have a really nice dress shirt. I’m pretty sure princes wear dress shirts.”

“Good to know.”

He spins, looking around. “What do princesses wear?”

Before I can answer, he gasps dramatically and shouts, “Ma! Are there any princess dresses in this house?”

From the kitchen: “Oh, I’m not sure, dear! Let me have a look.”

Her tone is far too amused.

Moments later, she appears in the doorway, arms full of fabric. She’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “Here, my love. Try

these.”

“Thank you, Ma,” I say dryly.

59

“Anything for royalty.”

She’s gone before I can question her. Diego dives into the pile with enthusiasm, tossing dresses everywhere until he lets out a delighted

3/4

18:08 Thu, Nov 6

The Prince’s Picnic.

gasp.

“This one!” he declares.

:

59

It’s a mid–length white sundress. Soft linen, corseted bodice, flowing skirt. The kind of thing made for sunlight and gardens and laughter. I can’t remember the last time I wore something like it.

“Please, Sissy,” he says, holding it out with both hands, eyes bright. “Just wear one. Maybe this one. You’ll look like a real princess.”

And really, what kind of monster says no to that?

“Alright,” I say softly. “If my prince insists.”

He grins so wide it could power the whole house. “You’re the best!”

“Don’t you forget it.”

He dashes off, yelling for Ma to help him button his shirt. When he’s gone, I hold the dress up to the window. The light glows through it,

pale gold, delicate. I brush my fingers across the fabric before slipping it on, and it feels cool against my skin. It fits perfectly, almost

suspiciously so. The skirt sways when I move. The woman staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like a weapon. She looks like

someone who might actually deserve this strange, quiet kind of joy.

“Alright, little prince,” I whisper, smiling. “Let’s see what kind of trouble you’ve got me walking into.”

Comments

✩ 4