Shoes, dresses, ribbons, and more line the shop windows. It is a type of finery that only the rich could ever buy. But...

"Only the best for us," Mother always says.

But what of those with less? I think as I peer through the shop windows. In reality, I am watching the people around me in the windows' reflection. The difference between the rich and the poor seems starker than ever here. The rich are dressed opulently, flaunting their wealth like peacocks; all the while, the poor surround them in nearly equal measure dressed in tatters. Many of them even go shoeless, forced to beg on the streets with few other options to turn to.

My expression does not betray the pity I feel for the poor and destitute. Mother never says a word about those in the lower classes, but it is easy to tell that she believes herself to have narrowly escaped such a fate. It is something that I cannot help but hold her in contempt for – after all, the rich aren't as far removed from the poor as they like to think.

Out of habit, I run the well-worn piece of paper in my pocket through my fingers: a calling card which has lost most of its ink to my skin. The store it belongs to is on this very street. It looks out of place on a street like Guildelyne Court, which boasts a number of luxury stores marketing to the upper class. There is a notable berth around the store as usual – as expected for a wizard's shop. From what I can tell, though, the place has never been in any danger of closing.

My mother and older sister have wandered off without me, not even noticing that I've stopped in front of the wizard's store. As usual, Mother is oblivious to how the rich and poor surround us in nearly equal measure. Of course, the poor outnumber the rich. They always have.

Mother's voice echoes in my head: only the best for us. I tear my eyes away from the reflective windows, crossing over to my sister and mother. They haven't even noticed I was ever separated from them as usual. Despite what I feel for the poor around me, I keep my gaze straight ahead as we walk. As much as I would like to help them, there is only so much I can do while under my parents' guardianship.

At the same time, though, there are times when I can see the glint of guilt in Mother's eyes; the terror hidden beneath when her gaze darts around. Almost as though she is afraid. Almost as though she is ashamed for standing by with so much while the poor are forced to beg for scraps, in a place where she cannot ignore them as easily as she does in our home... But that isn't the case. Only I know the secret that she keeps – but this I'll never tell.

When my thirteenth birthday arrives, I have only one request: "I want to study magic at the Royal Academy."

It is all I've thought about for years; getting into the Royal Academy has been an ambition of mine ever since I was young. The Royal Academy is incredibly prestigious, and even just being accepted is considered a mark of high importance.

Father looks up at me, surprised at this apparent interest of mine. "Magic? Whatever for?"

"Wouldn't you rather attend finishing school, like your sister?" Mother asks, her voice carefully steady. She appears calm, but I know her too well to believe what I see – or hear. The way she puts down her napkin, even the way she folds her hands, are far too controlled for her to truly be calm.

Side-eyeing my sister, I answer, "I'd rather do something useful."

My sister makes a scandalized noise at that, but she is quickly distracted by our brother snickering at her reaction.

"The Royal Academy of the Magical Arts is a very tough school to get into, my dear girl," Father tells me, perhaps trying to dissuade me – or perhaps trying to let me know what I was in for.

"I know, Father."

"I'd have to hire the best magical tutors in the city..."

"I know."

"Oh, but think!" Mother interjects in a fussy tone. "You would have to study night and day to catch up. There'd be no time for anything else! And you've not gone to school for young en—"

"Mother," I interrupt her, "I know."

A stricken look passes over her face. "Well...your father has the final say," she concedes. Mother has never liked us to do things that were improper, and in her mind, I'm sure magic was one of those things that young ladies simply weren't supposed to get involved in.

Father relents eventually, although it wasn't like he took much convincing in the first place. Fortunately, the prestige of having a daughter in the Academy wins out over whatever impropriety being a magician may bring. Not even my mother can deny the advantage that an Academy education will give me. With renewed vigor, I have my goal in sight.

From then on, tutoring and studying take up nearly all of my time. Magic itself comes easily to me; magical theory not so much. I spend hours poring over texts until I can recite them from memory. My peers invite me to every place imaginable, but I decline every time until eventually, they stop asking. It doesn't bother me the way it would the rest of my family, though. I had never valued 'making connections' the same way that my family did.

When I finally gain admission into the Academy, it still comes as a surprise despite all the work I put in. The thick paper and the embossed seal seem unreal, as if from a dream. Father puffs up in pride, eager to brag about how he has a daughter enrolled in the Royal Academy – and not only that, but a daughter who wasn't raised to join it. Mother says nothing of my admission, wearing a placid smile on her face, but only I seem to notice the emptiness behind it.

The Academy is as regal as its name suggests. The white marble and gilded columns are obviously styled after the palace, marking it as a place fit for royalty and nobility alike. Then again, it wasn't called the Royal Academy for nothing. The students matched the name, their chins as high as their status. Even those on scholarship carried themselves this way.

Even though I was one of many who came from a rich family, I still felt out of place. These were people who spent their entire lives preparing to attend. I couldn't help but feel like I was a child at play in this finery, even more so than in the clothes my mother bought for me.

I suppose there is only one reason that Mother gave in to this wish of mine: only the best for us. Her mantra, her life's motto... But not mine.

Even here, both my study and social habits persist. I make few acquaintances and even fewer friends, although my mother pesters me about making connections as she always does. The archives smell of incense and ink, and soon enough, the smell clings to me as well. My eyes become more adjusted to the dim candlelight of the archives, to the point that my classmates joke that it wouldn't be surprising if I were a vampire.

My classmates know better than to invite me anywhere, knowing how relentless I am in my studies. They often joke about how they could never lose me, as I only ever spend time in two places: my own dorm and the archives.

If I were my sister, I would probably be appalled, but fortunately, I am not my sister. She was always much flightier and vainer; more of a socialite than an academic, much like our mother. I could hardly begrudge her for it, though.

It is another day in the archives when one of my classmates happens to catch sight of me, her face lighting up in anticipation. Not that I paid her much mind; whatever she would invite me too, I was already going to say no.

"Hey! Today's no day to hide your nose in the books!" she says brightly, stopping by my table. "It's the Feast of the Witch King! Come join us!"

If I were friends with her, I might have felt guilty about having to decline. But as it was, I didn't have time for socializing, nor did I have the energy.

"Oh, just leave it," her companion says as he turns away, another classmate of ours: a bespectacled blonde boy whose skin seemed like marble in the sun. The pair walks away, but their voices still carry. With how quiet the archives are, it's impossible to not hear every little sound. "All she does is study."

"But she isn't on a scholarship... Isn't her family rich?"

"She's determined to get top placement. Something about apprenticing for that wizard on Guildelyne Court."

"Him?! But he doesn't apprentice anyone!"

"Try telling her that..."

A fashionable wizard with a fashionable shop... It is as good a reason as any. However, it is not the reason – but this I'll never tell.

In the end, I graduate top of my class, just as I worked for. My father is immeasurably proud as always, boasting about it to anyone who would stop long enough to listen. Even before I've officially left campus as a graduate, my father is already preparing a party in my honor.

My house has never been my home. There, I have always felt ill at ease, always on edge. Only the best for us, Mother always says, but at what cost? I can see the guilt in her eyes, the sheen of terror hidden beneath it. Even now, five years after my request to attend the Academy, I still see it. This look of hers resurfaces like clockwork.

Looking into the vanity mirror, all I can see is a girl playing dress-up. A version of me who has never been me. A girl dressed in the latest fashion with pearls in her hair, to all the world an ideal daughter. What a lie that is.

Anger rises in me, not just at my mother, but at this secret of hers that I have kept all these years – a secret that she does not even know I am aware of.

On impulse, I grab the scissors in front of me, sawing them through the flaxen hair that my mother insisted I grow out throughout my childhood. The pearls clatter to the floor, as fake as the image I used to portray. The sound is drowned out in a burst of laughter from the next room over. I trade the gown for a dress shirt and pants, the heels for fine leather boots that would last far longer.

The room falls into a shocked silence when I walk in, but as always, it is Father who breaks it, letting out a hearty laugh. Mother looks as stricken as the day I said I wanted to attend the Royal Academy, too shocked for her to wipe it off quickly enough to hide it.

If they knew what I know...

No. This is not my truth to tell.

I leave home the next morning, slipping out without so much as a goodbye. Instead, I leave a simple note in my place. I know Father will not begrudge me this, but Mother might. As if I have ever cared what she thought of me.

My plan is flimsy, the connection I feel threadbare. I stand in front of the wizard's shop in Guildelyne Court, gathering up the courage to walk inside. The calling card I have kept all these years seems to burn a hole in my pocket. But if there is a chance...

The bell above the door dings when I finally enter. The place is quaint, but out of place on a street meant for the rich. Yet somehow, it is also still renowned, if not notorious among magicians for the way its owner refuses to take on apprentices.

Vials line the oaken shelves, all of them filled with the rawest form of emotion. Most are the dark colors of negativity, but there are the rare bottles of positivity, shining as bright as the sun. The latter vials are a bright spot among the darker emotions – I catch sight of the joy's bright yellow; optimism's sky blue; even the soft pink of love. Briefly, I wonder who could ever want to remove what makes us human.

"Sorry, miss, we're closed today." The man speaking is not the one I remember. This one is wavy-haired and dusky-skinned; broader-shouldered, even. I hadn't even noticed him among the shop's contents until he spoke.

"I've come looking to apprentice, sir," I say before I can lose my nerve.

"Ah– I don't know if–"

"I– I'm a recent graduate of the Royal Academy! I received top marks!" I blurt out, desperate to not get kicked out as soon as I've walked in. "And I have several letters of recommen–"

"Whoa, okay!" he interrupts, holding up his hands in a gesture for me to slow down. "As impressive as all that sounds, this is my husband's shop. The decision is up to him. I'll go get him; it will only take a moment."

Hope bubbles up in me, but that could just be the pull of bottled joy. Or maybe an actual bottle of hope, if there even is one of those in here.

The man is already heading up the stairs, calling out, "Dear? There's a girl in here about a job!"

I hear a barely audible, drawn-out sigh, then the sound of a door shutting and footsteps coming down.

"Look, I truly do appreciate you coming out, but I'm just not–" He stops in his tracks at the sight of me. Even when I no longer wear the dresses Mother so loved to put me in and even when the long hair of my youth is gone, he recognizes me.

But while I undoubtedly look different, he looks the same: rose-golden hair, hazel eyes, and tawny skin on a lean frame. If I didn't know any better, I would think him a much younger man.

In an instant, a memory flashes before my eyes: Mother sobbing on the floor, crumpled in a heap; us, hovering by the doorway, hidden from her sight. He had almost looked guilty then – and then he looked like he wanted to extract the feeling from himself. A moment of poignant silence had hung between us. Then he'd turned to me, holding out a calling card – the very same that I now held out to him – and said, "If... If you should ever need anything. Anything at all."

It hangs between us, an unspoken truth.

...An unspoken truce?

He takes the card from my outstretched hand, the paper worn soft from how often I had run it through my fingers. The stricken look on his face mirrors the look on Mother's when she gave in to my wish to attend the Academy. He takes a deep breath and turns to head back up the stairs.

Fear cuts through me. Is this a rejection...?

"Come along, then," he says, looking back, and a sigh of relief escapes me.

I am my mother's daughter. He is my mother's son. Only we know this – but perhaps in time we'll tell.