“When Lily and I were kids and dad hadn’t been…killed, he used to compare us to flowers. I was a white lilac, full of youthful innocence. Lilliana was a calla lily, magnificent when she chose to dance,” Beatrice smiled slightly, lost in a haze of childhood memories for a moment before she visibly shook herself.

“Well, after dad was murdered, mother continued to compare us to flowers. But this time, they were different. I was the flower that was given special soil, specific food and lots of human help to grow, she was the weed given concrete to grow in and she grew,” a sharp, bitter laugh escaped her. “She grew strong even when people tried to stop her, she grew because of some inner fire born purely out of spite. She grew up strong and independent.”