I’m not sure I like Rosary.
Well, no, that’s not true. I like her just fine, I suppose.
But she’s just… kind of annoying.
I get it, she watched her dad die. I won’t make that mistake again—I’ll lock the kids out of the room once the Grim Reaper arrives, because I can’t deal with this much moodiness in the house—it’s distracting them from my carefully laid romance and reproduction plans. But at least Juniper still knows how to get herself together enough to be productive and do as she’s meant to. But Rosary?
She’s just a little… weak willed, I suppose.
And, you know, that’s fine. She’s not going to be the next baby mama—I don’t have to worry about her over-sensitive, non-believing genes being spread to the rest of my Chosen ones. But I worry that her presence might corrupt any new life I bring—Juniper brings—into this house.
She’s against me, you see. If she were just a wet blanket, I could deal with that. She’d grow up and move out and Juniper would be proud of her—she loves her children immensely, no matter how annoying they might be—and that would be that. But she’s just impertinent enough, heretical enough that whatever influence she might have might extend past the crying and the whimpering and the staring off into space like a ninny without thoughts in her head.
Leave your mother alone, idiot. She’s busy.
Impertinent little brat. You should listen to me.
You don’t get a new daddy, silly little girl. You have a mommy, and a string of daddies who won’t stay over until they’re ready to die. You’ll get a lot of siblings though.
No. You can’t have a big brother, time doesn’t work that way.
I mean, really. What kind of child behaves in that way? Joaquin and Juniper were getting along great until Rosary came along to stick her nose in it and ruin it all. Nightshade never acts this ridiculously. She plays with her sister and keeps to herself.
No, Rosary. You’ll see. He’s definitely not going to be your daddy.
What on earth are you doing in there?
Um, no. He still won’t be your daddy. You’d die before we even tried to kill him, first of all. And second of all, we don’t need the pool to get rid of him. It’s simply the most effective means at the moment.
Do you see? Half the time she seems like she barely has a thought in her head—crying like an imbecile, hiding under bed covers.
No, Rosary. I am your Creator. And you are one of my Chosen. I will never go away.
Impertinent. Ungrateful. And downright odd, with her willingness to swim in the water her “daddy” died in. Not that he was much of a daddy. Maybe this is just a learning curve. She is a child, after all.
But if she doesn’t at least start cleaning herself, we’re going to have problems. I don’t care how sad you are, you should take a bath. And swimming in the Pool of Death doesn’t count.
No. Let her talk to you. She has some things to tell you about me—maybe she’ll help you understand.
Or maybe not.
Don’t think this is over, Rosary. We’re not finished yet.