Ever since I was little, I always loved lilac syrup.

I still remember the sensation of the sweet syrup as it trickled down my throat the very first time my mother allowed me to try it at the age of ten.

Even among the Estate, the floral syrup was seen as a luxury, and was only made on very special occasions, which is why I often associate it with my happiest memories.

Lilac's were both a very laborious, and expensive flower, because of their very small harvesting window, and during the war, sugarcane was rare, if nonexistant.

Which is why the production of this glorious lilac syrup was a very momentous occasion within the Estate.

There was lilac lemonade at birthdays and balls.

Lilac tea, both hot and iced, when the Estate had important visitors.

Lilac cakes for afternoon tea with nobles.

I liked the taste of these, but the real reason I adored the sweet syrup, was because when my mother and I made it, we were closer to each other.

My fondest memories of the syrup came from the creation of it. A process my mother always oversaw, while I stood nearby.

She would reach over the counter when I was younger, grabbing my wrists and gently guiding my movements as I stirred the sticky substance while it bubbled on the stove.

As my mother stirred the syrup, the steam would billow up, sticking to her skin and creating a sparkling sheen that my wide, childish, eyes would admire as she smiled down towards the pot.

She used to lift me up, allowing my small hands to wipe the steam from her skin with a handkerchief.

My mother was always her happiest in the kitchen, which is probably why my happiness also originates from there.

She used to spend hours there, cooking delicious dishes.

The Estate's halls would be full of spicy sweet aromas.

But that was before my father forbid her from it.

It was after that, that the happy memories ceased.

Leaving me with only those of the times of pure bliss I used to spend making lilac syrup.

-Brianna Cecille Blades