Chapter Hundred-and-Thirty-One
**Third-Person POV**
Irvette was taken back to the time when she was a little child. It was her birthday and she was upset that she had not gotten the dress she had been promised. She had been so angry that she had refused to go to her own party. She had even gone as far as to bite her maid. Her mother had come to her bedroom and taken her to the servant's quarters. There she had seen Regina for the first time. Her mother had made her watch the younger girl as she swept the floor in her maiden garb.
“It's her birthday today, do you know?” Raisin, her mother, had said to her.
“Today is her birthday?” quipped the little girl, blinking as she watched the girl sweep up dust.
“Yes, but look at her. It's her birthday and for a party, she's sweeping and do you see her dress? That's her birthday dress,” explained Raisin to her daughter.
“Where is her mummy?” asked the little girl.
“Her mummy is dead, sweetheart.”
“So she doesn't have a mummy to remember her birthdays?”
“Yes, love.”
“That's sad.”
“Very sad. Will you put on the dress I bought for you now? Will you come to your party?”
“Yes, mummy.”
Days later she had come across the little girl sweeping the hallways and had asked her, “How does it feel not to have a mummy?”
“Not to have a mummy? What's that?” blinked the little girl in confusion. What did a mummy mean? In her six years of existence at the time, she had never heard that word.
“You know, someone who remembers your birthdays,” replied Irvette.
“What are birthdays?” the girl asked. She had never seen anyone celebrate such a thing and, in the world of servants, days like that did not exist.
“The day you are born, do you not know anything?” the younger girl blinked her eyes in utter confusion.
“I sweep all day and those books are full of funny little things. I do not know what they mean even though the cook tells me they mean something,” came the response of the little girl.
“They are not funny little things, they are letters and the cook is right, they do mean something,” replied Irvette.
Since that day she had taken an interest in the little servant girl. She had taught little Regina to read and write and had taught her history and whatever she had learnt from her martial arts class; everything she knew, she taught the little girl. Irvette was very proud of herself in those days, and she was always disappointed in her younger sister for her lack of knowledge.
This went on for three years until Raisin caught the two girls reading together.
What in Hades’ name is going on here?” she had demanded.
“Mother?” Irvette was not sure what she had done wrong, only that she was in trouble because her mother only used that tone when she was in trouble.
“What are you doing with this filth?” asked Raisin, surprised to see her daughter playing with a servant girl. When she had been told that her daughter had been hanging out with a servant she had not believed it. To add insult to injury, she was hanging out with the daughter of her husband's mistress (that is what George had made her believe).
“Filth? She's a person like…”
Her mother had lectured her that day on hierarchy. She had told her that it was important to keep the status quo. Some people were of inferior birth, which meant they were meant to serve.
A young Irvette had not understood any of that nonsense, but she was determined to please her mother even though it meant treating her friend with disdain.
Irvette looked at her mother who was seated at the table and said, “You caused it. You told me I should follow the status quo. You told me not all lives mattered, especially when it was for the greater good. You understand, don't you? Father needs this.”
“He will demand your soul too,” the position of her mother said.
In the corner of her heart, Irvette knew this was so. It had started with her father-in-law and, before that, there were all these commoners. Then, her two brothers had disappeared for their father's cause and now her mother had followed.
It terrified her to think that she would follow the same fate as her mother.
She could still remember it all too clearly. She had been enjoying her vacation with her mother and younger sisters when her father had sent a letter to her instructing her to put the bird to rest. Irvette had been troubled for several days and did not have the courage to do as her father had said. However, he had barraged her with a staggering number of letters telling her to hurry.
One evening, she poured a vial of poison into her mother's tea. They were gisting about all sorts of things when the poison began to take effect. When her mother had begun to choke and request for help, she had sat down, calm as water and had watched her mother's last moments.
She had seen the look of horror on her mother's face as she realised that her own daughter had poisoned her.
“It was for the greater good mother; you should be proud of me,” but her mother was no longer on the table. The only thing on the table before her was the bracelet.
Irvette blinked back the tears that had begun to blind her sight. She did not deserve the tears; only those who felt guilt should cry.
She reached for the bottle of wine beside her and gulped a generous amount down her throat. She hoped the alcohol would take away the pain that concreted her heart.
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