Page 77 of Castle of the Cursed
“But something drew you back to Oscuro,” I go on. “And it had to be the same thing that lured you away—your brother.”
“Have you seen him?” she asks, confirming my theory.
“He must want us both here for something,” I continue, thinking out loud. “Another spell?”
“Stop it! I won’t have you talking like him under my roof—”
“You weren’t even coming back to this roof!”
“I never said that—”
“You didn’t have to. I could read it on your face.”
“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do!” she shouts, and we both go quiet. It’s the first time she’s told me the truth, and we both hear it.
She sits back down, and so do I. Now that she’s being honest, I ask, “Why don’t I remember Antonela?”
“We think those memories must have been destroyed by the spell that sent her to the other castle. Along with your birth language.”
“What?”
“After Antonela disappeared, you stopped speaking. Nor did you ask about her. It was like you had become a blank slate. I don’t know what happened next because you all took off. I’m guessing that since your parents had spent time in the U.S. and were both fluent in English—they used to have private conversations that we couldn’t follow because they spoke so fast—they must have raised you with the language.”
“So my past was just lost?” I ask incredulously.
“Your parents probably never brought up your sister again to keep from reopening a wound that had magically sealed itself. They chose to carry the grief for you.”
I don’t have the headspace to look at things from their perspective yet—I’m barely processing my own. But one particular word stands out from what she said. Grief.
“Then are you saying—?” I can’t finish the question, and I try again. “Is Antonela—?”
I swallow, trying to control the emotions rising up my throat as I form the words: “Is she dead?”
Beatríz’s face crumples, and I feel mine falling, too. I have my answer. My aunt and uncle killed my sister.
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice growing heated. “Maybe she’s in the other castle with Brálaga, and she has magical powers by now, and as long as I’m alive in this world to anchor her, she will live on in the other…”
I trail off because what I’m describing sounds a lot like a story we tell ourselves about a loved one when they die.
“You have every right to hate me,” says my aunt. “I hate me, too. I’ve regretted my actions every day. It’s why I devote myself to this castle and this town—to make up for the life I took.”
I feel a knot the size of a baseball rising up my chest. “Why bring me here if you knew how much danger I’d be in?”
“After the subway, I realized you wouldn’t be safe anywhere. I thought I could make amends to my sister by at least attempting to protect you.”
“More like you needed someone to replace you here.” The ball of emotion is at my throat, making the words come out squeezed.
“That’s not true!” she says defiantly. But she seems to catch herself because she exhales and adds, more calmly, “It crossed my mind that I could save my brother. I wasn’t planning on abandoning you here forever”—her words gather speed—“but I wanted to give myself the chance to disappear even for a little while, just to remember what it’s like to be a normal person because I’m tired of being a prisoner chained to this place and feeling so completely alone!”
Her hands cover her face, fingers forming a cage as her cries burst out, like a volcano erupting. Her shoulders shake as she fights against her sobs.
The sound is a trigger that takes me back to the center. I know exactly how that loneliness feels.
Night after night, I would tell myself I knew the truth, remembering the black smoke, trying to hold on to myself until I realized I had no one to hold on for, wondering what if something really was wrong with my brain, and most of all wishing my parents hadn’t left me behind. When she’s calmer, I ask, “Why did you wait so long to find me?”
“I tried to, for months,” she says from behind her hands. “I presented myself at the American embassy, but they lumped me in with all the fanatics. I went through every piece of news, until I read somewhere that you had been institutionalized. I called the center, but as no family was listed for you, they never put me through. The letter was a last resort.”
Her hands finally come down. She looks more like Mom now, messy and raw, not uptight and distant. “Give me a chance, Estela. Por favor.”
