Chapter 11
Victor called the next morning.
I didn't answer. Ezra did.
Through the phone speaker, Victor's voice was destroyed—hoarse, ragged, nothing left of the commanding patriarch.
"Ezra—please. Tell Iris to drop the charges. Serena's our daughter too—she made mistakes, but she doesn't deserve—"
"She poisoned a child for eighteen years," Ezra said flatly.
"She was young! She didn't understand—"
"She was twelve when she started. She understood perfectly."
Victor tried another angle. Begging. Bargaining.
"The trust—we'll release it immediately. Every cent. Just make this go away."
Ezra looked at me.
I shook my head slowly.
"Tell him," I thought, "that what's mine was always mine. He doesn't get to trade my justice for money he already owed me."
Ezra repeated it verbatim. The line went dead.
The trial took four months.
I spent three of them in Morenvia, at the vocal rehabilitation clinic I'd been trying to reach for six years.
The doctors were cautiously optimistic. "The damage is extensive but not irreversible. With intensive therapy and microsurgery, we can restore partial function. You won't sing opera—but you'll speak."
Every day, I practiced.
Sounds that started as ragged croaks. Consonants that felt like swallowing thorns.
But slowly—painfully—words formed.
First: single syllables. Water. Yes. No.
Then my own name: "I-ris."
Broken. Rough. Barely above a whisper.
But mine.
Ezra called every night. I couldn't speak on the phone yet—but I'd type, and he'd talk.
Sometimes I'd just think at him, testing the distance.
"Can you hear me from here?"
Silence.
Then a text: "No. Only when you're close."
I smiled. Typed: "Good. Some thoughts are private."
His reply: "I have concerns about what you consider 'private.'"
On the last day of treatment, the doctor cleared me.
"Your voice will always be soft. Loud rooms will be difficult. But conversational speech—yes. It's yours now."
I stood in the clinic bathroom. Looked at myself in the mirror.
Opened my mouth.
"My name is Iris Blackwell," I said.
Quiet. Scratchy. Imperfect.
Real.
---
I didn't answer. Ezra did.
Through the phone speaker, Victor's voice was destroyed—hoarse, ragged, nothing left of the commanding patriarch.
"Ezra—please. Tell Iris to drop the charges. Serena's our daughter too—she made mistakes, but she doesn't deserve—"
"She poisoned a child for eighteen years," Ezra said flatly.
"She was young! She didn't understand—"
"She was twelve when she started. She understood perfectly."
Victor tried another angle. Begging. Bargaining.
"The trust—we'll release it immediately. Every cent. Just make this go away."
Ezra looked at me.
I shook my head slowly.
"Tell him," I thought, "that what's mine was always mine. He doesn't get to trade my justice for money he already owed me."
Ezra repeated it verbatim. The line went dead.
The trial took four months.
I spent three of them in Morenvia, at the vocal rehabilitation clinic I'd been trying to reach for six years.
The doctors were cautiously optimistic. "The damage is extensive but not irreversible. With intensive therapy and microsurgery, we can restore partial function. You won't sing opera—but you'll speak."
Every day, I practiced.
Sounds that started as ragged croaks. Consonants that felt like swallowing thorns.
But slowly—painfully—words formed.
First: single syllables. Water. Yes. No.
Then my own name: "I-ris."
Broken. Rough. Barely above a whisper.
But mine.
Ezra called every night. I couldn't speak on the phone yet—but I'd type, and he'd talk.
Sometimes I'd just think at him, testing the distance.
"Can you hear me from here?"
Silence.
Then a text: "No. Only when you're close."
I smiled. Typed: "Good. Some thoughts are private."
His reply: "I have concerns about what you consider 'private.'"
On the last day of treatment, the doctor cleared me.
"Your voice will always be soft. Loud rooms will be difficult. But conversational speech—yes. It's yours now."
I stood in the clinic bathroom. Looked at myself in the mirror.
Opened my mouth.
"My name is Iris Blackwell," I said.
Quiet. Scratchy. Imperfect.
Real.
---