Lorelei

The bitter, metallic taste of hatred from the breakfast hall still clung to the back of my throat, a phantom residue that no amount of swallowed pride could wash away. Each whispered insult, each glaring eye, felt branded onto my skin. I walked beside Penelope, my hands clenched in the soft folds of the turquoise dress, the beautiful fabric now feeling like a costume for a play everyone was heckling.

“Penelope,” I began, my voice unnaturally bright, trying to shatter the gloomy ...