Novel & Cerita Mary Jane: A Novel

Aurelia’s POV Marietta, my younger sister, has never been quiet. She was dramatic, loud and always complaining about something; her hair, her friends, her teachers, her boyfriend. So when she walked into the house that evening without a word, something immediately felt wrong. I was at the dining table pretending to scroll through job listings when the door clicked shut softly. I looked up to see her head was down and her backpack hung loosely off one shoulder. She didn’t even go to greet Mom like she usually did.

“I just got a new perfume. Can you help me test the scent? I want an honest opinion.” MaryJane nodded immediately, without hesitating she walked towards kyla. “Of course, ma’am.” Kyla extended her hand, the napkin between her fingers. MaryJane leaned in slightly, nose wrinkling as she inhaled. And then- Her eyes fluttered and her body wavered. She collapsed. Kyla caught her just in time, her arms bracing under the girl’s shoulders as she guided her limp body onto the bed. She moved quickly but without fear, adjusting the maid’s position so her breathing wouldn’t be obstructed.

Maybe a drink would help me calm my nerves, but then I realise that I need a clear mind for what is to happen. “No, thank you,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. The woman simply nods at me before turning to walk away. As she leaves, I sit quietly, waiting patiently as I listen to the fire crackle softly, filling the silence. I remain perfectly still, afraid that if I move too much, I will betray how unprepared I feel. This is a mansion. I am here to meet the man I agreed to marry... a complete stranger. All because my mother is dying...

It was both utterly disarming and profoundly intriguing. I shifted anxiously, adam's apple bobbing as she permitted the faintest of enigmatic smirks to grace those full lips. Despite the brevity of the moment, I sensed the fleeting spark of a deeper understanding kindling in those emerald depths - a glimmer of possibility that perhaps I might possess the requisite fortitude to bear unflinching witness to her uncompromising truths. Before I could muster a response, Jane reappeared in a swirl of gruff irritability and stale smoke. She tossed a fresh roll of handwraps to Megan with an exaggerated harrumph of impatience.

I pulled it free. Before the Last Bell. Sabine Varel. I knew neither the title nor the writer. This was excellent. Unknown books could contain anything. The first page gave me a woman repairing the damaged spine of a book while refusing to look at the man standing across her worktable. Her name was Mara. His name was Julen. Julen had apparently returned after several years away. Mara was not pleased. I turned the page. He attempted an explanation. It went badly. Another page.