Amber holds with her petite hand the satin blue drape covering her little sister’s dormant face. Margaret, sitting on her mother’s lap, contemplates the tiny figure sleeping in the cream and azure crib.
‘It’s like she is sleeping in the sky!’ exclaims Margaret.
Camille looks down on both Amber and her sister without a smile and pensively nods along. Since she married, she has followed the shadow of her own mother’s life. She married and gave birth to two girls she adored, but contrary to Mary-Ellen’s joyful attitude toward life, Camille’s has remained stern.
The dress she wears today, the same kind which fills her wardrobe is made of sumptuous fabrics and delicate ribbons from Paris. The jewellery she never sports are part of a marvellous precious stones collection a Maharajah gifted her during a trip to India and the shiniest gold ornaments, bracelets, and necklaces from Turkey are most of the time enclosed in their box.
Camille altered her hair colour thinking that it would change who she is inside. It used to reflect the golden beams of the sun, now it hides her darkness and her gloom.
The girls and the little one she expects, occasionally spark a smile across her pale face. Marisa, the maid who had to switch her current title to the one of nurse is accustomed to distract the girls when their mother is feeling frail.
‘All right! Let’s go see what we can cook together for Mama this afternoon, girls!’ As she glanced back at Camille while holding Amber and leading Margaret to the door she feels saddened by the woman’s inconsolable countenance.
As Camille picks up a plane leaf that had fallen from the pedestal table, teardrops stream down her face warming her rosy cheeks.