Page 40 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Forty

Indulgent Feasts and Pagan Trees

Lyric dreaded meals without Kai now. She skipped breakfast. It was now lunch. And today was Christmas.

She hadn’t told anyone. She knew they didn’t care. The Thornwicks were the kind of people who bought whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Holidays were irrelevant in a house that already had everything. Kai had already explained this to her once.

But to Lyric, it meant something.

Back home, her mom would be dancing barefoot in the kitchen, stringing popcorn and cinnamon sticks onto thread while holiday music crackled from a dusty speaker. Her dad would burn the toast and pretend it was on purpose. The house would smell like sugar and pine.

Now, there were no lights. No music. Just the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She stepped into the dining room, smoothing the wrinkles from her sweater, trying to shake the unease curling low in her stomach.

There was something suffocating about the long oak table stretched for two, the sterile clink of silverware, the way the sunlight slanted through the tall windows and caught on the endless white tablecloth like a spotlight she couldn’t escape .

Mrs. Thornwick was already seated at the head of the table, sipping from a porcelain cup. She looked up, her expression unreadable.

Her silhouette was sharp against the afternoon light, like a queen already on her throne.

“Good afternoon, Lyric,” she said pleasantly. “Please, sit.”

Lyric offered a tight smile and obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.

They ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the estate and the delicate scrape of silver against china.

Mrs. Thornwick set her teacup down, the porcelain clinking softly.

“Malachai tells me you’re sentimental about Christmas,” she said, cutting into her meal. “I suppose you grew up with trees and glitter and sugar cookies.”

Lyric gave a hesitant smile.

“My mom always made it feel special. We didn’t have much, but we made memories.”

Mrs. Thornwick’s lips curled—not quite a smile.

“Memory is often the first tool of delusion,” she said. “You may not know this, but our family doesn’t recognize the modern holiday. It’s a grotesque celebration—fat men in red suits, indulgent feasts, pagan trees.”

She sipped her tea again.

“We honor the Lord in older ways. Quietly. With reverence. ‘Touch not the unclean thing, and I will receive you.’ That’s Second Corinthians.”

Mrs. Thornwick looked up, eyes burning straight into Lyric’s. “We come from an old line,” she added. “Some traditions must be pruned if the tree is to grow straight.”

Lyric’s heart gave a little twist.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

For a moment there was silence.

Then, without looking up, Mrs. Thornwick started again.

“So,” she said lightly, “Malachai tells me you tried to speak to him about our conversations. ”

The knife in Lyric’s hand paused mid-cut. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“I—I just—”

Mrs. Thornwick looked up sharply, cutting her off with a thin smile.

“If we’re going to be getting along here, I don’t think we need to be running to Malachai for every little thing, do you?”

Lyric blinked. Her breath caught.

“No, of course not. I—I apologize.”

“Good. I think you and I are perfectly capable of having adult conversations. Don’t you agree?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

“Yes,” Lyric said quietly, throat tightening. “Of course.”

Mrs. Thornwick returned to her plate, slicing into her food with perfect precision.

“The stories you came up with… they were quite imaginative.”

Lyric tried to hold her voice steady, but it cracked anyway.

“I was only repeating what you said.”

Mrs. Thornwick let out a small, condescending laugh.

“And there lies the problem. You’re young. Emotional. And sometimes, when people like you hear things, they don’t quite understand them. They fill in the blanks. Usually with fiction.”

Lyric’s cheeks burned. A tremor passed through her hands, so she set down her fork. Her stomach twisted.

She wanted to stand up. To leave. To say something that mattered.

Instead, she sat frozen, a wax figure in a hollow performance.

Silence fell again, thick and unbearable.

Mrs. Thornwick didn’t look away. She simply stared—casually, almost curiously—as if Lyric were a painting she couldn’t quite decide if she liked.

Lyric dropped her gaze. Her throat was closing. Words gathered behind it, but none felt safe enough to speak.

What if she’s right? What if I’m overreacting? What if I’m the one unraveling?

She forced herself to speak .

“So… the garden looks lovely today. I was thinking of sketching out back for a bit. Maybe getting some air.”

Mrs. Thornwick didn’t respond at first. Then she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, stood, and said coolly,

“Please excuse me. I have things to tend to in the nursery.”

She smoothed her skirt, her eyes sweeping over Lyric like she was an afterthought.

“I’ve been told it’s a boy,” she added, almost to herself. “That’s the most perfect and useful thing you’ve done here.”

The air seemed to leave the room. Lyric’s heart stuttered.

As she passed, Mrs. Thornwick placed a hand on Lyric’s shoulder—not comforting, not maternal. Just a brief, possessive touch. Like brushing dust off something she owned.

Lyric sat in the silence that followed, the echo of that final sentence clanging in her mind.

She pressed a hand to her belly.

“Don’t worry,” She whispered, voice soft and steady. “When you come… our Christmases won’t be like this. We’ll make them magical. I promise.”

But even after she escaped the dining room, the dread didn’t leave her.

There was still dinner.

Still Mrs. Thornwick.

Still the echo of what had already been said .