Nascentes morimur, finisque ab origine pendet.
Severine had once heard that phrase from Isabella.
She had been too young to pronounce the words properly without stumbling over them. Yet now, as she gazed at the blurring shadows of the trees along the roadside, she found herself caged in that memory.
"Mothel, what doesh that mean?" she had asked in her broken tongue, hoping to keep the conversation going.
Isabella sat by the window, gazing at the flowers outside with a fond smile.
In a rare moment of softness, she answered, "When we are born, we begin to die, and the end depends upon the beginning."
"I shee," Severine babbled. She tried to keep her face neutral, impersonating her mother as she was told by her teacher.
Perhaps her demeanor pleased Isabella, or maybe she liked how she looked dressed in knee-length brown skirt. She chuckled.
Her hand lifted, inching toward the tiny black head.
