The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  After leaping from his gondola, Roberto secures our boat around a pole.

  ‘I closed the museum to the public and the staff. It is all yours to enjoy, my love,’ Victor says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply as he takes my hand to help me from the gondola.

  ‘May I be bold and say that I thought of you as I drifted off to sleep last night?’ Victor says as he leads me down a frescoed corridor into the museum. Roberto remains outside.

  ‘You can say whatever you like,’ I say in a thin voice.

  Victor chuckles. ‘We will find our way, my love.’

  The room of exhibits reminds me of the V&A in London. Ancient dishes, vases and little ornaments are arranged on shelves and stands. I pass marble statues peppering the room, reading the names Michelangelo and Donatello engraved on plaques.

  ‘You collect human art?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no,’ Victor says, smiling at my ignorance. ‘Only Fae.’

  Mind officially blown. Again.

  He guides me to a framed piece of parchment hanging on the wall. ‘The Veritas,’ he says.

  My mouth drops open when I see the familiar child-like line drawings and the rows of letters forming undecipherable words and sentences.

  ‘This page,’ I say. ‘It’s from the Voynich manuscript.’

  Victor offers me a puzzled look.

  ‘We … humans know it as the Voynich manuscript.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Victor says. ‘What is Voynich?’

  ‘It’s the name of the human book dealer who found the manuscript in an Italian monastery in the early 1900s. Nobody could identify who wrote it, or even what the book was about, so it was just named the Voynich manuscript.’

  And then it occurs to me. The Veritas, the ancient Fae book of secrets, and the human Voynich book of unbreakable code, are one and the same. And a copy that looks remarkably like the original Voynich is sitting on my father’s desk.

  Putting my finger to the glass frame, I trace across the rows and down columns of the letters. I hear a sound on the edge of my consciousness, just out of reach.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ I ask.

  ‘Hear what?’

  I strain my ears to listen. It’s like an intention, the first intake of breath, the promise of song. It’s … calling to me.

  ‘You would like this, no?’ asks Victor, as if reading my thoughts.

  ‘Could I?’

  He regards me for a moment, considering.

  ‘Of course, you shall have what you wish.’ Victor lifts the frame off the wall and pulls the parchment out. He hands it to me as if it’s no more precious than the specials menu at a cafe, before placing the empty frame back on the wall.

  I look at him, shocked.

  ‘That dusty old piece of paper has no value outside of tired legends and the imaginations of docile men like my father. I will show you the real treasures of House Grigio.’

  I roll the parchment as carefully as I can and slip it into the pocket of my gown as Victor leads me to a glass cabinet sparkling with crowns, tiaras, brooches and every other type of jewellery imaginable. He opens the cabinet and reaches for a pair of pink diamond and pearl earrings. He holds them up next to my face. I bite my lip.

  ‘Put them on.’

  ‘Victor, I don’t think —’

  ‘Please, do not refuse me again.’

  I fumble with my gold studs and replace them with Victor’s gift.

  ‘There. See, Bella? It is not so hard to be loved.’

  I’m fuming as Victor paddles back into the Grand Canal. Not at him, but at myself. At what I become when I’m around him. Wearing earrings that I don’t want and certainly don’t need, because I don’t want to upset him. I barely recognise myself. I’m a queen, but I keep acting like a scared little kitten.

  Gladys once told me I need to pick my battles, but what if keeping the peace means I’m the first casualty?

  My hand travels to my pocket containing the page from Voynich manuscript. The Veritas. Nothing is more important than finding my mother. I need to find a way to get back to the villa, to my father’s office.

  I draw in a calming breath as a drop of rain falls from the sky. Victor curses under his breath. I stare at Victor’s paddle as it cuts through the water. I want to suggest that we transfer back to the castle – it seems ridiculous to sit in the rain when we don’t have to – but I’m too worried about how he’ll react. Instead, I sit silently, pointlessly willing Victor to paddle faster.

  I look up as he swings the gondola into a canal called Rio dei Barcaroli. The pack of unicorns flying dutifully through the threatening clouds change direction and follow us. Roberto’s gondolier paddles faster to keep up. I don’t know Serenissima very well but I’m pretty sure that winding canals are not the fastest route back to his speedboat.

  ‘This isn’t the way back, is it?’ I say.

  ‘I have one more treasure to show you, my love, before I take you home.’

  ‘Victor, really, you’ve done enough —’

  ‘Hush, my love.’

  ‘But Victor, the scroll…’

  His face is steely. ‘Is it too much to ask for you to indulge me just a few moments more?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, trying hard to remain calm.

  He stops paddling and stares at me. I can feel a pulsing in my temples as I try to decipher all of the expressions flashing across his face: anger, hurt, resentment, pride, desire. My stomach twists in that way that makes me unsure if I’m anxious or exhilarated or just really hungry.

  The air is thick and crackles as more raindrops fall. I’m unable to hold Victor’s gaze any longer so I lower my vision to his hand. He squeezes the gondola paddle in his fist.

  ‘You are a wildcat,’ he says, eyes flashing with provocation.

  He abruptly turns back to paddling, as if nothing has happened. I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Either way, it’s clear he’s intent on taking me to my next ‘surprise’ and not back to the castle.

  Victor begins whistling a pretty, leisurely tune. I grit my teeth. He paddles past doorways and shopfronts that open directly onto the canal until we come to a dimly lit alleyway, just wide enough for one person to enter at a time.

  Roberto again ties our gondola to a pole and Victor leaps onto the canal bank.

  ‘Come, my love.’ He is all smiles as he reaches for my hand.

  I follow him through an intricate maze of alleyways until we come to a hidden garden with lush green grass and a rainbow of flowers in oversized pots. Behind the garden is one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen. Six storeys high, it’s looped with white marble arches and has an external spiral staircase winding up a tower that reminds me of a wedding cake. I shudder.

  ‘The Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo,’ Victor says, also admiring the architecture. ‘In your tongue it is known as the Palace of the Snail Shell. Come, I’ll show you why.’

  His grip tightens around my hand as he pulls me towards the staircase. I look up through the centre of the tower, the stairs above spiralling around like a snail shell.

  We stop when we reach the top and take in the view over Serenissima. The unicorn guards cut wide circles in the sky and, dotted in crowds and nooks and alleyways, I can pick out the navy uniforms of Victor’s foot guards. As much as I’d prefer to be somewhere else, I have to admit that the view is breathtaking.

  ‘It’s … it’s beautiful,’ I breathe.

  ‘Of course. I know you,’ Victor says, in a tone that makes my hackles rise. He nudges me playfully with his shoulder. ‘But this does not even compare to the treasure that awaits.’

  He leads me into the palazzo before stopping in front of closed double doors. He turns his back to the door.

  ‘This moment belongs just to us, my love.’

  Roberto takes a step backwards to give us privacy.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Victor asks me, barely able to contain his excitement.

  I just nod, fighting the urge to run.

  Victor pus
hes the double doors open before leading the way into a room lit with dim bulbs. Rolls of satin, silk and lace are stacked neatly around the space. Sewing machines, overlockers, embroidering machines and steamers line the back wall. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not this.

  And then I see it at the far end of the room. A mannequin in an explosion of white. I take in the sweetheart neckline at the top of the boned bodice and the enormous meringue of the skirt ballooning down to the floor. The train of the dress spreads out in a semicircle, embroidered with the Grigio insignia in gold thread.

  A wedding gown. My wedding gown.

  I should have run while I had the chance.

  ‘Victor …’ I begin, but stop, not knowing what to say without escalating the situation.

  He regards the dress like a proud parent. ‘I designed it myself. In consultation with my mother. The finest silk from her own wedding gown. What do you think?’ he says, beaming at me as if there is only one possible answer.

  I hesitate.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘it’s not finished yet. I was going to wait until it was finished before I showed you. But then, today … well, I thought this might help matters between us.’

  He stops, thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘Francesca, my love, I wanted to show you, to demonstrate the strength of my commitment to you, to our union. I do not take this lightly.’

  For the briefest moment, I see the vulnerable Victor once more. I don’t want to marry him. Hell, I don’t even want to be with him. But I also don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  ‘Victor,’ I begin again.

  ‘See the beading,’ he says, pointing to tiny diamonds and pearls sewn into the skirt in swirling patterns. ‘I designed that too. Only the best for my bride.’

  ‘Victor —’

  ‘The beading will be complete in five days. Just five more days, my love, and you can be mine.’

  ‘Victor!’

  He looks at me, finally registering my response. His lip drops in what looks dangerously close to a pout.

  ‘You do not like it?’ His tone is disbelief, bordering on devastation. ‘I have put hours of my time into this project. I did it for you.’

  I feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy.

  ‘I do like it,’ I rush. It’s not completely untrue. It is a beautiful dress. As far as big flouncy wedding gowns go, this is a good one.

  ‘Well, then, what is the problem? You make everything so much harder than it has to be. I have admitted that things did not get off to a good start, but I have tried. Tried so hard to make you happy.’

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me agrees with him. When it comes to screwing up relationships, I’m a pro.

  But then he spits, ‘Everything I do, every attempt I make, you poison it. You poison everything.’

  His face distorts with the same look of pure aggression I saw in his eyes this morning when he pushed me up against the wall and I didn’t do what he wanted. His words burn into my mind.

  I poison everything?

  It finally dawns on me. None of this has anything to do with me. This is all about him. He has so little regard for me that not once has he even thought to ask what I want.

  The gifts I didn’t want. The kiss I didn’t ask for. And now the wedding dress.

  When I do make my wishes clear, he brushes them off and plays the victim, leaving me with crushing guilt for not being grateful for what I never asked for in the first place. And then I stupidly feel indebted to him, like I somehow need to make amends for just being me.

  I’ve been so caught up trying not to hurt his feelings, I didn’t see that he has not cared at all about mine. Victor doesn’t want to love me; he only wants to control me.

  ‘I said,’ Victor says, his voice pumping with rage, ‘what is the problem?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me.’

  ‘Is that all?’ he says with a cruel laugh. ‘If I had asked you, then it would hardly be a surprise, would it?’

  He reaches out to wrap his arm around my waist, but I step away from him.

  ‘Why are you always so difficult?’ he seethes.

  I stare at him, speechless.

  ‘I have bent over backwards trying to please you,’ he says, ‘and all you do is push me away. I gave you the finest jewellery of House Grigio. You couldn’t even bring yourself to wear it. You insult my family with your tantrum at the banquet and then get captured like the silly little girl you are. I have to save you from yourself. And don’t think I don’t know about the hydroglyph you stole from me.’

  I watch his face redden with each accusation. He’s been keeping score, a tally of all my transgressions.

  ‘I see through you,’ he says. ‘You tease me and lead me on and then reject me.’

  He steps closer to me, his melted-chocolate eyes looking burned and blackened.

  ‘You have no idea how lucky you are. There are any number of ladies of title, beautiful, grateful, sweet girls, who would do anything for my attentions. And yet I decided to bestow my love and loyalty on you.’

  He reaches out and grabs my upper arm, his fingers digging into my skin. I freeze, completely unable to move. I just stand there, regressing to that little girl in foster care, stunned and powerless and terrified.

  Victor tightens his grip. ‘You will show me the respect I deserve,’ he says through gritted teeth.

  I look up at him but it’s not his face I see. It’s Larry’s. It’s Marshall’s. It’s Damius’s. It’s the Chancellor’s. Victor’s own words come back to me with a clarity I did not see before. I am the wildcat. Untamed. And they – they are all the tamers, trying to control me for their own ends. The realisation ignites rage in every cell in my body, breaking me from my trance.

  With lethal calm I peel Victor’s fingers off my arm one at a time. The force of his grip leaves red marks on my skin. There will be a bruise there tomorrow in the shape of a handprint.

  Deliberately and slowly, I say, ‘If you lay your hands on me again, I will kill you.’

  Then I turn and walk towards the door.

  ‘Enough with the games, my love,’ he says.

  I hear his footsteps behind me; my panic rises.

  ‘I do not mean to be so harsh, Bella. It’s just because I care for you so deeply. You intoxicate me. My feelings for you – they make me crazy. We can work this out. I’m trying to love you.’

  I raise my arm, still red from his grip. ‘You call this love? Pressuring me, making decisions for me, making me walk on eggshells for fear of setting you off? If that’s love, then I don’t want it.’

  His eyes narrow, his lips curl. And I know that he has finally heard what I’ve said to him.

  ‘You were never good enough for me,’ he says. ‘With your mongrel blood and your incivility. You have done me a favour. Now I don’t have to lower myself and spend the rest of my life trying to polish a lump of coal.’

  I keep walking, my pace quickening as I pass Roberto. I reach the staircase and don’t look back as I sprint down the flights of stairs. When I reach the courtyard, I stop. I have nowhere to go. The Grigio castle isn’t an option. And I’m not sure I can trust the mermaids.

  I’m utterly friendless. Powerless. Alone.

  And then I notice three griffins swooping towards me.

  They land with a thud, claws scraping the stone, throwing up dust and debris. I step back, but I’m not nearly fast enough. The front one leaps at me, its enormous claw slicing my cheek while its other massive stone paw knocks me to the ground. Flat on my back, head spinning from being slammed onto hard tiles, I stare up at three sets of hungry feline eyes.

  Instinctively I reach down to my well of Art to incinerate the trio of flying lions. But it’s still not there. Pathetic blue embers dance along my fingers before petering out. But it’s enough to fool the griffins. They must have learned from our last encounter because they leap back into the air, their wings pumping.

  And then they do something completel
y unexpected.

  Two of them crash back down to the ground on either side of me, each pinning one arm and hand to the ground under their massvie stone bodies. Blinding pain streaks through my arms. I hear cracks from my bones breaking. I scream, my lungs burning as I try to wrench my arms from under them. But I can’t. My mouth fills with bile.

  The third griffin leans over my head, hissing and sniffing like I’m its plaything, its teeth only millimetres from my face. A drop of drool plops onto my neck.

  ‘Help!’ I choke. ‘Help me, please!’ I look around desperately for Jules. But Jules is gone. My Protectorate guards are back at the island. Where is Victor? Why hasn’t he ordered his guards to attack the griffins? I strain to lift my head off the ground and see him leaning against the spiral staircase, as if watching a show. A distasteful show.

  His guards have formed a protective barrier around him, and his unicorns are still circling overhead.

  ‘Victor,’ I groan.

  He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Why don’t you save yourself, Francesca the great and powerful? Or was that just another one of your deceptions?’

  ‘You’re refusing to help me because I hurt your feelings?’

  ‘You can’t, can you? Your power – you really are worthless.’

  ‘Victor,’ I plead.

  ‘This is nothing to do with me,’ he says. He looks at the griffins. ‘Do what you wish with her. That lying mongrel has polluted my city enough already.’

  Victor storms straight past me and back through the alleyway towards the canal, his guards behind him.

  I hear a laugh coming from a window above the courtyard. Looking up, I see familiar rust-coloured hair and gold earrings. Wynstar, my uncle’s lieutenant. The mermaid-killer. Standing next to him is Loxley, another of the defectors.

  A frosty shiver slithers up my spine.

  Chains wrap around their knuckles and snake up their wrists before disappearing under the cuffs of studded leather jackets. Quite a different look from the clean and pressed black, red and gold kilt suit of the Protectorate uniform.

  I struggle to free my hands from under the griffins but each attempt triggers another spike of excruciating pain.