Her mother tried to hug her when she arrived home – she offered to bathe her and pop her into bed.
“It was for the best Inanna” she murmured, not game enough to look her in the eye.
Millie ran up to her, relieved at having her sister home; Frances took one look at her and knew without a shadow of a doubt, she would never have her sister home.
She spent weeks in bed talking to no one.
She would get up only to bathe on occasions. She had barely eaten in that time and her fragility was reflected in her waif like frame.
Her only solace, her horses.
She would ride daily for hours on end and every time she did she was hopeful Eamon would appear from behind a hay stack or an old oak tree, but he never did.
She would brush and feed the horses and walk slowly past Eamon’s old out-house, happy memories filling her heart for just a minute, a fleeting smile gracing her lips momentarily.
It seemed easier to hold the pain and anger inside, rather than the love. She held such great fury against her father and every time she caught a glimpse of him, the rage would grow inside.
Eamon was a reflection of love, her father of hate.
Her heart ached and it made her blind – blind with fury and blind with rage.
Gone was the gorgeous free spirit full of love for everything and everyone.
Gone was the cheeky Miss, brimming with confidence and wild stories.
Gone was her self-assured nature, her wicked wit and her infectious smile.
But what stayed was the knowingness in her eyes.
Her Grandmother Lillian used to say she could kill with just one look.
When your eyes met hers, it was as though she could read everything about you.
This scared some but excited others.
Her father couldn’t bare it. She would know exactly what he was thinking, would cut him off at the pass, finishing his sentences for him. She would say things she could never possibly have known about him.
She wouldn’t show her skills to everyone, as witchcraft was highly frowned upon in this age: punishable by death. Her mother and Inanna always knew she had the gift – her father wished she didn’t.
As if it wasn’t unpalatable enough that she was outspoken and single minded – but that his daughter, his own flesh and blood could be into healing and Wicca of all things was just too much for him to take.
She wasn’t to talk about it in front of him but when she was really mad at him, she would tease him with her profound knowledge, making him irate.
It was the only tool she had left now.
Her generous and kind spirit had become spiteful and unkind – to him anyway.
She was developing a distaste for men and it grew by the hour.