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When I first spotted the egg on the mantel in the Grimthorpe mansion, I was hypnotized. I wondered what it would be like to possess an artifact with such alluring beauty. In a strange twist of fate, long after Gran was fired from her job as a maid there, I met a gardener tasked with cleaning out the property after the deaths of the owners. He remembered me from when I was a child, and he also recalled how much I'd admired the strange, pearlescent egg on the mantel. He said it was a worthless bit of tat and that I could have it. And so instead of going into the trash, that golden egg became mine. Now, it sits in Gran's curio cabinet, a private reminder of what we survived—Gran and me.

"I'm telling you, Juan, that 'huevo' is a worthless trinket. But I'm fond of it regardless."

Juan grabbed the egg, placing it in my shoebox. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he said.

It was eerie. He said aloud the very words that had been ringing in my ears all morning. "I swear," I said, "every day that goes by, you remind me more of her."

"Of who?" he asked.

"My gran."

CHAPTER TWO

My dearest Molly,

If you're reading this, it's because the person to whom I've entrusted this diary has chosen this moment for you to know the truth about me...and about yourself, too. My instructions were simple: "Don't rush it. Wait until the time is right." And so if your eyes are tracking these words, that time is now.

Oh, how I wish I'd had the chance to convey all of what is written here in person. How I would love to see you with my very own eyes, to enjoy everything you've become, because it was always clear to me, Molly, that you are special in ways you never gave yourself credit for. Despite the trials and travails of your early life, I knew you would blossom into a woman who would make me so proud. My dear girl, remember this if nothing else: you have always been and will always be my precious treasure.

As I write this, my end is nigh. Though I know it has been hard for you to accept, I am very ill, and I will not be getting better. It won't be long now before I leave this world. It's a moment I'm dreading, not for myself but for you. I fear leaving you to navigate life on your own for the very first time. I know you'll manage, and I know it's necessary—the natural order, the older generation making way for the new—but the only inheritance I'm leaving you is grief. Try as I might, there's nothing I can do to spare you from that or from the other slings and arrows this life will aim at you.

But before I convey more, Molly, first, I must issue an apology. It is an unfortunate fact of life that sometimes we grow old before we grow wise, and for my part, I have learned—too late—the error of my ways. A long time ago, I decided to bury my past and hide it from you. When you were young, clever girl that you were, you used to grill me about my personal history, and all I said in response was Let sleeping dogs lie.

It was my firm belief at the time that sadness, pain, and loss should be suppressed and buried. I know now that I was wrong to deny you the truth, for my past is not mine alone. It is yours as well.

Do you remember the stories I used to tell you when you were young— fanciful tales of maids and maidens, lords and ladies, paupers and princesses? You'd look up at me with your big round eyes and say, "Tell me a new one, Gran, a story I haven't heard before." I was happy to oblige.

My tales started as fantasies, but they never stayed that way for long. No matter how I tried to keep my life to one side, it wove its way into the fabric of my fiction. Sometimes, the things I made up cleaved so close to my own experience I feared you'd spot the anguish on my face or hear the pained catch in my voice. But you never did—or if you did, I never knew it.

Now, I can't stop thinking about those tall tales I told. Did I do the right thing? Did any of the lessons sink in? Why did I think that veiled fantasies were what you needed when I should have just told you the truth—about myself, about our past, about all that was taken from us? Still, in the end, we lost nothing because love remained. It remains to this day.

My darling Molly, in your short life, you've endured more than your fair share of injustice. Oh, the sticks and stones I've seen hurled at you. I would have done anything to have them strike my being rather than make a mark on yours, but no matter how hard I've tried, I can't protect you from the world's cruelty.

 

Instead, I created a parallel universe, where we can see ourselves through a glass darkly. I turned our lives into a series of parables with morals I hoped you'd decipher for yourself one day. Perhaps through the legends of a girl or a maid or a princess, you would see who you really are—a uniquely gifted individual whose differences are her greatest strengths. And perhaps over time you'd discover the truth about me, too. For there is always truth in stories, Molly, and herein lies the truth in mine:

 This excerpt ends on page 16 of the hardcover edition.