Bloody Bel Brightleaf

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The house was silent when she got in. Bel closed the door as quietly as she could and padded down the hallway, stopping just outside the patch of light from the dining room doorway. Cautiously, she peered inside.

Her mother sat hunched over the dining room table like the Pale Man in Pan’s Labyrinth, wearing only a red silk nightgown. A half-empty glass of wine stood by her left hand. Her dark hair hung over her face, so Bel couldn’t tell whether she was awake. It was a typical posture for Erin.

Bel glanced at the big, square painting that hung behind her mother’s chair. It was one of Erin’s earlier pieces. Though it showed talent, it was a pretty obvious homage to Klimt–if Klimt had gone for barn-door red instead of gold patchwork. The subject was a woman, hunched over a table with her head in her hands, a glass of wine spilled at her elbow. Bel didn’t know if Erin was aware of the irony or not.

She looked back at her mother.

Foe, whispered the voice in her head.

Bel knew that. She and Erin had been foes for as long as she could remember.