My Three Lovers and the Crown

"Hello, Nyra."

My whole spine felt as if something cold were slithering down it, yet the wind had nothing to do with the shivers. There's no such thing as good news when a counterfeit stranger persuades me with my genuine name, not names that I liked, like in high school, buddies nicknamed me Nini. Only bill collectors invoked the formality on my license.

"Yes?"

"I'm Elena Joeson. May I come in?"

"For what?" The word escaped sharp as a dagger. 

So there was something familiar about this person out on my doorstep… her features flickered past my mind, but I'd learned long ago that visitors without proper introductions brought with them only trouble.

"It’s rather chilly here. I'd like to get warm.”

"Tell me why you came first, then we'll see." I crossed my arms.

Barefoot, she stood level next to me. Those heels elevated her like a queen on a pedestal

"I'm here about your mother."

"Which one?" 

Ten years ago, the mother who raised me, the one I'd thought for thirty years was my mother, had died. But last year, a woman called and told me she was my real mother. It was complicated… but nothing ever came out of it.

"Pardon me?"

"The dead one, or the one who abandoned me?" 

Her emerald gaze softened into something almost human. "I'd really rather speak of this inside."

"Yeah? Well, I don't. Just say what you want, or leave."

She met my defiance head-on. "Your birth mother is why I am here. She's dead."

Shock smashed into me like a tidal wave gone rogue, dragging me under without a chance to take a lungful of air. My body moved on autopilot.

Elena breezed past. I shut the door and led her through the dim hallway to the living room, where my recliner sagged like a loyal beast.

But it wasn't grief. It was a shock. A hollow noise, a void in place of what might have been emotion. My birth mother was dead, but even now, I had no idea how to mourn someone I'd never forgiven. Selfish, naturally; but then, grief makes monsters of us all.

Elena sank onto the faded old sofa. My dog, Milo, jumped up beside her, pressing his warm bulk against her leg while begging for the ear-scratches he demanded from anyone who didn’t reek of immediate violence. She performed, absent-mindedly threading her fingers through his thick fur. I settled into the recliner, and the springs groaned in sympathy.

Words finally clawed free. “Why are you here?”

Her gaze lifted and met my eyes. “Her will was read last week. That’s when we found out about your existence. All these years, and she never spoke of you, Nyra. Not once. But she left you a legacy.”

Hope flickered, fragile as candleflame in a crypt. Statues didn’t earn wages. My accounts bled dust. Rumor painted my birth mother in silks and gold: old money, older secrets, a marriage sealed in boardrooms and bloodlines. 

“Oh?” I didn’t want to sound too excited.

“Before I explain, you must experience it for yourself.” 

“What do you mean?”

She rose, a passing of flames, and crossed the room.

“The true legacy is something passed to the firstborn daughter in our family. However, it comes with three gifts. They are to prepare you for the legacy. And I am going to give you the first gift right now.”

Rising from the couch, she crossed to me and grabbed my hand, holding it between both of hers. Closing her bright eyes, she began to murmur in some strange language I didn't know. I felt the wind, and at first thought it was leaking through the ancient windows to blow her light, long hair back, but it was warm.

Heat began at the point where our skin touched and spread into a burn. Suddenly, her words grew faster and louder, and at the crescendo, I felt the intense warmth shoot through me, more like an explosion. It was all fire and heat, lightning filling me like a teacup from hell.

I tried to jerk back, but she held me, chanting still as the pain wracked me, only to disappear as fast as it came.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed back into the loveseat. “What in the world was that?” I panicked.

She towered over me. “Make a wish, about your body or mind. Wish to speak a new language, or to be taller, shorter, thinner, or bigger. Wish it now, Nyra.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

Power flared in her eyes. It was something older than wrath, patient as glaciers, vast as the dark between stars.

Panic seized me. I blurted the first impossible thing my fracturing mind could grasp: “I wish I were Black.”

A spark snapped along my nerves. My skin prickled as if waking from a century’s sleep. I looked down.

My pale winter flesh had melted into deep mocha. A scream tore out of me. It was like the world had tilted, and I fell through the crack.

Elena flicked her wrist, and silence swallowed the scream. My throat worked, but no sound escaped. She did another flick, and the mocha drained away, leaving me ghost-pale again.

She stepped back and fixed her coat. “For the next twenty-four hours, any change you wish upon your body or mind will hold. At the stroke of midnight tomorrow, whatever form you wear will bind for seven days. I will return then. Pass the trial, and the second gift is yours. Any mistakes you discover you've made may be undone then.”

My voice crashed back mid-curse. “—the fuck!?”

“Three gifts. Three trials.” Her smile was soft. “If you survive them, the legacy is yours to take. Good day, Nyra.”