When I was very small, my mother would let me play on the blue mosaic tiles of her dressing room, while she sat at an elegant writing desk and signed decrees and proclamations, issued invitations and death warrants, wrote reprieves and tax notifications...
      She had a number of small items that I could play with there, and only there... they were not really toys, of course, but small fragile things that Mother held dear, but not too dear: a glass unicorn, a coral necklace, a pearl-handled letter opener. When I came in to play in the calm waters of this room, she would pull open a drawer of the writing desk and take a small shell box that contained these trinkets. She would hand the box to me, and say, "Be careful with them, dearest." I would take them from her with all due reverence, and spend a quiet half-hour with them, before my attention would wane...
      One day, Mother left me alone while she went to consult with her advisors on some tricky matter of state. I had tired of prancing the unicorn around the show-ring of the necklace, and I had no interest in having a duel twixt myself bearing the letter opener and the unicorn's wicked horn. I wondered if mother did not have other treasures buried in the drawers of the writing desk.
      I opened the bottom drawer, and there was a small, shell box, much like the toy box. I opened it; inside was a deck of playing cards. Each card seemed to be of a different suit, and each card illustrated a person or a place that seemed almost alive. I spread all the cards out on the floor, and marveled over them, stroking them and whispering made-up names for them.
      I did not hear my mother come in; I only felt her hands lift me to my feet, and the sudden sting as she slapped me hard across the face. It was the only time she struck me. I never forgot it... and never stopped wondering why.
                                                                  --Rhiannon