Chapter two from my novella continued

Although we had many servants, I rarely saw them and on the occasion we happened to meet, I was always met with startled and apologetic mumbles and perhaps unremarkable small talk. As a young girl you can understand that this was not interaction enough.
I would dream of meeting other little children, of sharing my stories of adventure and confessing my secrets.
The winters there were harsh and so I was kept inside almost every day, with only my books to accompany me. Curling up by the ground floor fire place I would imagine myself an entire school of playmates. Winter was by far the loneliest time, the snow on the moors reminded me that I had no one to share it with. I recall on one December day I could not stop crying as I watched the heavy freezing snow heap upon the Meavy oak. Now remembering, I am unsure whether my tears were for the oak or because I realised the tree was my only companion.
My parents were from a long line of rich families who had accumulated their wealth at the cost of others, in their world unless you have money your blood is just more oil for the money spitting machine that fuels the nation. Both my parents were young and therefore would rather attend parties and soirees than raise me, but I hold no bitterness for them, it was in their nature; a wild thing cannot be tamed.
My mother was a beautiful woman, she had pale cream skin and dark hair, which she always wore up in an intricate nest of swirls. Her figure was slender and smooth but her silver eyes were severe and in them held an icy cold edge that always made me uneasy, this was reflected in her cool character. My father on the other hand was excitable like a puppy and had large warm green eyes and curled brown hair which framed his smiling face and I remember he was particularly tall. Even his light olive skin seemed to radiate a gentle warmth, and he was constantly laughing or joking. I do not understand how my mother and father could stand each other but I suppose they were the perfect opposites.
Regardless I saw little of them anyway, they spent most seasons in London, Paris or some other fashionable city, wherever there were rich youth and drink they would follow eagerly.
However when I was but ten years old my mother fell gravely ill, she quickly became bed bound and her creamy skin turned grey, her silver eyes now filmed over and dull. My father stopped laughing and his face aged twenty years overnight. Where there once were smile filled creases there were anxious creases. In the autumn her condition worsened, she began to burn from within, her skin was like fire to touch. Ironically I saw her most when she was like this, whilst she was slowly dying she could no longer avoid my existence.

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