Daughter of Fire | I ✓ [ SAMPLE ]

chapter I

I would tell her that it was rather weird to tell me that she wished she had never met him. It was a notion that offended me enormously. Did she not realise that she was implying that I should not have been born?

"Savannah!"

I turned around at the sound of my name, and automatically cringed at the scowl on my mother's face.

"What are you doing outside?" she asked, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. Our ginger tomcat, Ron Weasley II, padded past her and walked up to my legs to rub his warm body against me affectionately.

I could not tell her the truth. "...Thinking," I settled for, fiddling with my fingers and leaning against the doorframe.

She stiffened but to her credit, kept a level expression. "I certainly hope that it's not what I think it's about."

"Nope," I said quickly, shaking my head, before blowing upwards to get my hair out of my eyes. "I was thinking about...nature." I glanced back at her army of chrysanthemums. "The stream, the trees, the flowers —"

"That's nice dear," she cut me off, "But can you please put on some warm clothes? It's freezing outside."

She then glanced down the length of me; in a short-sleeved t-shirt and swimming shorts. She turned her nose up in a huff as her gaze landed on my purple nail-polished bare feet. I offered her a sheepish grin.

"It is?" I asked stupidly, blinking. "I couldn't feel it."

Ron purred and flicked his ringed tail against my shin as though he understood and agreed with me. I bent down and picked him up off the ground, before holding him in my arms like a little baby.

Phoebe stopped doing what she was doing and froze, as if what I was saying unnerved her. It had been just over a year now, but little instances like these still seemed to spook her. It was nothing medical or even explicable —I had simply become immune to the weather; my body was always burning with its own heat; and certain plants with an aversion to sunlight seemed to wilt in my wake. We kept it to ourselves, still finding the means to function and hope that things would straighten themselves out.

Phoebe pointed adamantly towards down the hall. "Just do it, Savannah."

I trudged off in that direction, in no mood to argue. It had been a really long day, and I did not need her attitude at the moment.

Ron jumped down and walked ahead of me, then insistent on his regal and entitled independence.

I unlocked the door to my room and picked up the first pair of jeans my hands reached out for, before grabbing my favourite hooded jersey and pulling it over my head. I then caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on my way out, and nearly jumped a foot into the air, causing Ron to mewl.

I wondered if I had even brushed my hair that morning.

I rummaged through the mess I called a dressing table, looking for my hairbrush. I cursed as soon as I found my efforts unfruitful and stomped out to head to my mother's room instead. She must have lost hers this morning and so, snatched mine, before conveniently forgetting to return it.

Her room was off limits at all hours of the day —but I could usually get away with sneaking in and out in five-minute intervals if I needed something. And I knew that Phoebe would not willingly give me back anything she had taken in her haste.

Even if she would have given me the hairbrush, she would have also taken offence at my assumption; concluding that I was accusing her without proof. She was stubborn that way.

You hardly ever use it anyway, she would end up defending herself, too proud to say she had just borrowed it. Her pride was a really big brick wall that I wished I could sledgehammer to the ground.