Wait! I cry out mentally. What if the soul returns to its original vessel only to find it occupied?

  “That’s,” I get the mental impression of him winking while putting a finger in from of his lips in a fashion very reminiscent of a particular Slayers character, “a secret.”

  What? That’s bullshit!

  I feel a soft touch on my forehead, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my face. I look up and see the blurry features of my mother.

  “There’s my little girl.” She says softy. “Here, I brought something that should help some with the pain.”

  She passes me a warm object made out of a leathery material I can’t identify. It sloshes as though filled with fluid.

  “Put this on the lower part of your tummy and it should help the muscles relax a bit which will help with the cramping.” She continues in that same soft tone. “You’re growing up so fast, it’s probably wrong to still call you my little girl, but even though you may be a woman now, you are still my beautiful little girl to me. We have talked about getting your first period before, but you likely don’t remember due to your memory loss.”

  “I know about p-periods, Mom.” I assure her, my face burning.

  “Ok, ok.” She says, a smile in her voice. She reaches out and gently strokes my hair with her soft hand. “You know you can talk to me about anything you feel the need to, period related or otherwise, right? I will always be here for you, Beira. You are my treasure.”

  “M-mom!” I say a bit loudly, embarrassment clearly written on my face.

  My mother chuckles softly, giving my head a soft pat before leaning in and kissing me softly on the forehead.

  “I’m so proud of you, my daughter, and I look forward to seeing the beautiful woman you grow into. I feel as though I don’t tell you enough how proud you make me.”

  Her kind words wrap me in their warmth and I can’t help but compare and contrast her with my mother from my time as Michael. Both were strict and rigorous in their views on the importance of my education. Both would push for perfection on this front, but whereas Micheal’s mother would push me till I broke, my mother would push me to my limit but never beyond. Both were restrained in showing affection to me, but whereas Michael’s mother would turn her back to me when I needed comfort, my mother was here trying her best to be reassuring and let me know that I am loved.

  Pain shoots through my skull and I gasp as dual memories flood my mind.

  In one memory, I was sitting on the floor, tucked into a corner of the funeral home room that the viewing for my dad was in. I had gotten overwhelmed from the amount of people I didn’t know who had shown up to the viewing and started to cry despite my efforts not to. I missed the man who was always open and encouraging to me, the man who I never got to tell my secret, the man who I would never see again. I had turned to my mother for comfort and she had just started back at me, her eyes cold. She told me to go sit in the corner out of sight if I couldn’t control my emotions which she thought was pathetic for someone who had just turned fifteen. That was how I came to be sitting in the corner, hidden by the wreaths that people had sent for condolences. This was where I hid, even during the funeral that followed the viewing, coming out only for the interment, where the finality of everything completely broke me. That night after we had gotten home was the only time I heard my mother cry that day, and only after I had retreated to my room. Never once did she try to comfort me over the loss of my dad.

  In the second memory, I was being held in my Daddy’s strong arms, my small arms wrapped around his neck as I bawled into the side of his neck. My grandpa, the former Count Whoriskey MacBain, my mommy’s daddy, had died suddenly and we were currently standing, well, I was being held, beside the MacBain family mausoleum while a local priest performed a ceremony before the placing of his body within. My parents had explained to me the night before that my grandpa was going on a trip and I would never be able to see him again after this which made me sad. Grandpa had always been kind to me and taken time to play with me. He would also give me sweets when he thought my mommy wasn’t looking. He would laugh, full of mirth, when she caught and scolded him for giving me the sweets. My daddy, who had been away for months fighting in a war, had just gotten home from the battlefield when my parents sat me down and tried to use my daddy’s absence as an example in an effort to help my seven-year-old mind understand what grandpa’s death meant. It wasn’t until the next day, when I had seen my grandpa’s body that the analogy they had been trying to make clicked into place, causing me to start crying. My daddy had picked me up to hold me close but before burying my face in his scruffy neck, I saw a tear fall from his eyes and that made me cry even harder. He bounced me up and down while patting me softly on the back but couldn’t get me to calm so he passed me to my mommy who had also been crying quietly. She carried me to a stone bench not far away from where the rites were being held, and sat down while holding me close. She talked softly to me, in a mostly calm voice though interrupted by the occasional sniffle, and managed to get me calmed to the point of falling asleep in her arms. That night she let me sleep with her to ‘ward off’ any bad dreams I may have, though I knew it was as much for her as me.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Biera, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I hear my mother saying with a slight panic in her voice as I come back to the present. “Speak to me. What’s wrong?”

  I groan as I wait for the pain in my head to subside before explaining the memory of Grandpa’s death and internment.

  “Oh, Biera.” She says softly with a sigh. “I know your memory is starting to return, your father told me about your dream, but I hope you get some of the good memories to come back to you soon and not just the bad.”

  “That wasn’t a b-bad memory, Mom.” I tell her. “It was actually a good memory because it helped me to see a s-softer more vulnerable side of you. A s-side that showed me how much you love me and put me before yourself when you needed comforting just as much, if not m-more, than I did. Besides, th-that isn’t the only good memory I have regained recently.”

  “Oh?” She asked, cocking her head slightly to the side.

  “Y-yesterday, when Angus and I reached the Rose Gazebo, I remembered when Daddy s-showed it to me the first time.” I flash a small smile at her. “I remembered the colors and s-scents as Daddy let me play until I had exhausted myself and how he explained how to use the gazebo to p-protect myself should I need it.”

  With the way these memories come to me, will I ever forget who I was and only remember being Biera? Or will I just have two sets of overlapping memories? What if I get to where I can’t distinguish between the two and say the wrong thing? And that’s not even getting into the whole soul issue Damian explained to me.

  “That’s good.” She says with a pep in her voice that contrasts against her normally cool countenance

  “May I rest my head in your lap, M-mom?” I ask suddenly.

  “Sure, let me sit down.” She replies, moving to sit on the side of my bed just beside my head.

  She gathers my hair to get it out of the way and helps me to shift until I can rest my head on her lap. Once I’m settled in, she resumes her soft stroking of my hair and smiles down at me.

  “You have grown so much since you last laid like this.” She says softly.

  I don’t respond, choosing to just close my eyes and snuggle close as I enjoy to sensation of her hand in my hair.

  We sit like this for some time, how long, I don’t know. I think I may have dozed off at one point thanks to the warming sensation on my lower abdomen and the relaxing feel of my hair being stroked. Eventually, she pats me softly on the head then lifts it up and gets me to shift out of the way so that she can stand.

  “I have work to attend to, the books won’t balance themselves.” She says as she prepares to leave. “I have canceled your lessons for tomorrow in order to give you some time to recuperate, but the day after that, regardless of your pain levels, you’ll have to attend. Your period is going to be a regular thing in your life from now on, and you will have to learn to how to work through the pain because the world won’t wait for you.”

  She bends down, brushes my hair away from my face and give me a gentle kiss on my forehead.

  “I love you, my daughter.” She says before straightening, turning around and walking out.

  Before the door closes behind her, it opens again and Mary enters the room. With a tray that has a large bowl on it.

  “Pardon me Lady Beira, the Dutchess said that you were to take your meals in your room for today with strict orders that you remain in bed today.” She says as she brings the tray over to the bed. She sits it down on the side table and helps me into a sitting position.

  “Thank you, Mary.” I say gratefully.

  “Do you need the water replaced in the bladder?” She asks, gesturing towards the thing I had started to think of as a hot water bottle. It has started to cool but was still a little warm though I knew it wouldn’t last much longer.

  “Yes, please.” I reply, giving her a smile as I pull the bladder and hand it over to her.

  She sits the bladder on the edge of my bed and moves the tray over to me. Whatever it is that is in the bowl smells both creamy and fruity which, while smelling good, did little for my appetite while everything in my lower torso felt as though it were tied in knots.

  “I brought you some warm oatmeal with a mix of berries, Miss.” She informs me. “Please try to eat some. I’ll understand if you can’t finish it, but this should be easy on your tummy.”

  “I’ll eat what I can, though to be honest, my appetite isn’t all that great right now, and I feel a little nauseous.”

  Mary offers a gracefully curtsy in reply before grabbing the bladder and leaving.

  I take the spoon that is on the tray and get a little of the oatmeal on it to taste. To be honest, I never had really found oatmeal that appealing, and this was no exception. It wasn’t really an issue with the flavor, which was sweet and creamy, just more of an issue with the texture. All oatmeal I have ever had is slimy, including this one. Never the less, I make myself eat it, stopping for a bit whenever the texture of it makes me gag.

  At least the flavor is good.

  I get probably half the bowl eaten, maybe a little less, when my stomach informs me that it can take no more. I sit my spoon down and dab the corners of my mouth with the napkin that had been provided and slide the tray away, just in time for Mary to reenter the room. She retrieves the tray and drops the newly filled hot water bladder off in its place. I gratefully grab the bladder and sink into my bed, preparing for what is sure to be a most boring day.