I do not know why I continue to write in this infernal book. Outside these pages, no one listens. Perhaps that is a blessing; here at least, my voice is not interrupted by sneezes, groans, or the incessant chatter of idiots. I am overworked, underappreciated, and yet I receive not so much as a “Thank you, Aurelia, for trying to save me” from Nephele. After all my efforts — tending her bar, learning the delicate art of pouring drinks without spreading her pestilence, pleading with every fool in Runeheim who might know of a cure — the wretch looks at me as if I’ve merely spilled flour across the floor.
She lingered, snot oozing and breath pungent with illness, questioning every step I took as though I were some mortal threat to her delicate constitution. Nosey Nephele, indeed. That childhood nickname still fits her perfectly.
Then, as if my life were not already a gauntlet of frustration, my charming brother swooped in. He bullied the townsfolk into concocting some foul remedy – one I already had well underway – and of course she treated him like a god-sent hero. How infuriating that she lavishes gratitude on him while treating me as though I were an inconvenient shadow. The injustice! The gall!
Out of sheer spite, I agreed on her behalf to a Saltworks — a laughably pointless addition to the harbor — simply to see her flinch under the cost. Let her taste disappointment, the way she dishes it to me daily.
Saturday I spent slaving over her birthday cake, a masterpiece of Hestralian splendor: pineapple, cherries, sugar, exotic flavors she could not begin to understand in this frozen city. When I arrived with it, she barely glanced up, asking instead where I had been. The little wretch. Only after much coaxing did she mutter, “You’re my favorite cousin,” but I could feel the falseness slicing through me sharper than any blade. Why did my mother favor her so? Why did she squander my inheritance on Nephele rather than me, her own daughter? Truly remarkable.
After Nephele vanished to tend her bar, I sat with Steiner, learning that she had been paying him and the other crewmen three silver each forum — a betrayal of principle that demanded restitution. When I confronted her, she waved it off with her usual flippant grace, citing trinkets and gifts as if they could balance the scales of my suffering. Four silver coins later, safely in my pocket, I promised myself a drink — a private celebration of justice in a world that otherwise refuses it.
I kept Nephele company while she prepared for the feast later in the evening. A kindness she hardly deserved. The feast, however, was incredible. So many foods from so many townsfolk poured in to fill the tables. The options were so many that I found it difficult to decide where to begin with my indulgences.
Later on into the evening, I managed to procure a schematic that our family had been longing to obtain. Nephele seemed both relieved and distressed by the price of it, but it was a momentous occasion for us to finally be able to obtain the piece of paper. I’m sure she might consider showing more gratitude later.
We parted ways so that I could make it in time to greet my little old ladies that were set to arrive off the shores. She asked me to swear to behave, as if she were so innocent as to not be the one needing to swear.
And then… my ladies arrived, Sunday afternoon.
Abuela del Ron was first, descending upon our house like a tempest in a dress of rum and sweetness. She waved a shot glass in my face and stuffed a pastry in my hand simultaneously, while declaring that “if the world is ending, at least your mouth will be happy for the afterlife.” Her advice was harsh and sugary, her love administered in dangerous doses. I suspect my liver will never forgive me.
Next, Tía Besitos floated in, perfume and lipstick first, kissing me on both cheeks with the zeal of someone who believes affection can solve all problems — especially Nephele’s. She immediately began offering matchmaking advice for the entire household. “You see that man?” she whispered, pointing at a passing beggar. “He is destiny!” I nearly choked on my patience.
And finally, Abuela Pan Duro, goddess of flour and discipline, arrived with an oven at her back and judgment in her eyes. She began baking immediately — the smell of yeast and fire filled every corner of the house. When Dong Quixote tried to steal a morsel, she smacked him with a loaf so hard it could have felled a moose. He apologized on the spot and has since adopted a permanent posture of fear. I do not blame him.
Nephele’s wards — Dong Quixote, pacing and muttering about “honor and dough,” Damascus Steel, attempting to charm Abuela del Ron into granting him more shots, and Cass A’Nueva, sprawled like some tragic poet who believes sobriety is a performance art — added further chaos. I watched them all, trying to maintain the illusion of composure, and failing spectacularly.
And Nephele? She arrived shortly after. Pale, silent, detached. She glanced at the scene with a look that might have been fondness, or disdain — I cannot tell which. I reminded myself: I am Aurelia. I am magnificent. I am indispensable. If she cannot see it, that is her loss, not mine. Also, that would make her blind.
Finally, I could breathe. The madness of my Hestralian ladies brought a strange warmth, the familiar chaos of home amidst Runeheim’s frozen absurdity. Tía Besitos kissed my cheeks, Abuela Pan Duro handed me a loaf — more of a cudgel than bread, but a cudgel I could respect — and Abuela del Ron offered me a shot, harsh as life itself. For the first time today, I felt seen, in my own way.
Perhaps this is what it means to survive Nephele: not through gratitude, not through fairness, but through the loyal insanity of friends who remind me I am worth the effort.
Though I do have to admit… I rather like the crown she got me.
