Moon-Cursed Princess by Mark Twain 7
Chapter 7
It was a rundown apartment building.
But that was the best I could afford to rent back then.
Bryant opened the door expertly. The spare key was still under the doormat, and he remembered it.
The place smelled musty, long uninhabited.
But he didn’t seem to care, walking in and calling out, “Ms. Morrison!”
Right. He didn’t know Suzan was dead and gone.
He was resisting me for Corinne at the time. I never got the chance to tell him.
He’d never know I attended two funerals that day: one for my birth mother, whom I’d never met, and another for the Suzan who raised me through every hardship.
Only after seeing Suzan’s memorial portrait did Bryant realize it.
He slumped onto a dusty stool, burying his face in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I smiled bitterly. Tell him what?
That after Suzan died, I was penniless and couldn’t even afford a proper funeral?
That I accepted that identity only because I wanted to give Suzan a
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decent farewell?
Even if I told him, would he have stopped blaming me for “stealing” Corinne’s place?
At this time, Bryant called the housekeeper, asking, “Still not back?”
“No, Mr. Whitney. Mrs. Whitney would never be like this. Could something have happened?”
“What could happen to her?” With that, Bryant hung up.
See? I knew it. He would never believe me. He only believed what he saw himself.
He rubbed his temples. Getting up to leave, he knocked my notebook to the floor.
This was bad!
I frantically stepped in front of him, trying to stop him from opening that notebook. But I was a ghost. I couldn’t stop anything.
I crouched on the floor in defeat. My last shred of dignity was about to be stripped bare before him.
That notebook didn’t just record my miserable past. It was also filled with my love for him.
He picked up the notebook and strode to his car.
He drove fast. So fast, as if trying to catch something slipping away.
As the car turned onto a muddy path, I guessed where he was headed- the place where my adoptive mother kept me alive.
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I recorded that place in my notebook. But why go there?
He drove for a full day and night to reach the small mountain village. The road was too narrow for the car. He had to walk.
The deeper he went, the grimmer his expression grew.
I guessed a silver-spoon man like him had probably never seen so many dilapidated mud-brick houses.
Honestly, this was after I’d had charity funds used for repairs.
I used to live in a thatched hut. When it rained, water dripped through the roof onto me-downpour outside, shower inside.
The village was isolated. His out-of-place presence made the locals turn and stare.
He stopped one and asked, “Marjorie… Did she use to live here?”
That person shook his head.
Unwilling to give up, Bryant gave my adoptive mother’s name.
“Oh, that black-hearted woman! Died of illness eight years ago. She raised that girl like an animal. Karma, I tell you!”
When Bryant heard the word “animal,” his brows furrowed.
Later, when he pushed open the door of the broken-down thatched hut, the sight of the massive iron cage inside froze him completely.
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