Remembered

by Caroline Hanson

  Subtle, I wanted to say sarcastically, but I didn’t. Once upon a time she would have told me that I shouldn’t either, but she was done with that now. Done with trying to convince me of things and with trying to help me. Now our relationship was strictly professional…and occasionally laced with veiled insults. It grieved me. Truly it did. But I don’t need to dwell on the tears and conversations, the pleading and frantic begging that went on for years as she kept her heart hard against me.

  She couldn’t let me back in, I don’t think. And over time I became bitter that she couldn’t find her way back to caring for me. That she had so little faith in me that she wouldn’t even try any longer, just because of a conversation I couldn’t even remember!

  “Now if you do contact him and he doesn’t answer, leave a message after the long tone. It’s like a protracted bell, but doesn’t sound quite right. There will be silence, and that is when you are to speak. Then you press this button and the call ends.”

  “What happens then?” My voice came out in a fascinated whisper.

  “Put the phone back where you got it, floorboard over the top, and he will either arrive or he won’t.”

  “So he can’t communicate with us in return?” I asked. I wanted to touch it again, run my fingers over the cool, smooth surface. How peculiar it was!

  She blinked. “Well, I couldn’t say.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed by her lack of knowledge. “Did he tell you anything else about it?”

  “No. Just that it must stay plugged in. This cord goes here. And don’t get it wet!”

  Interesting.

  “I use my best judgment, only contacting him for emergencies or when we are dangerously low on supplies of one kind or another. That way he knows what to bring to us.”

  “You don’t tell him what’s going on here?”

  “Like what, you daft girl? That the Infinite all want to kill each other and are plotting against each other? That a faction of them—including his sister—are pushing for Blood Rights? He knows what happens here better than you or I.”

  “I suppose,” I pasted a smile on my face. Every time the rumors of Blood Rights came up, I felt sick. Some of the Lords and Ladies wanted a lottery done whereby they would be given a certain number of people every year to do with as they pleased. Tensions were high because it had been mentioned in church last week during sermon. A recitation of the old ways, including a story of a young woman whose family grew in prominence and health because of Blood Rights and how devoted it made her Lord to her. We were told that the outright ownership of a human by an Infinite invoked a responsibility in the Lord, like a parent to a child.

  No one believed that. If Blood Rights were allowed, it would be outright slavery. And the first step to us all becoming slaves, disposed of at will.

  The light of the phone blinked out.

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to show me that.”

  A sharp nod. “You’re a smart girl…” Whatever she was going to say, she didn’t. She patted me on the arm a little too hard and began to move away, leaving me to put the phone back in the hole the way she’d shown me.

  “What if I swear to never see him again? To never be alone with him? He’s only here once or twice a year. Can’t things go back to the way we were? I swear, I promise, I’ll do anything you tell me. Just—” My breath wavered as I hauled it into my chest. I didn’t have enough pride to let things be, and what was the point in pride? What would it get me, besides the nothing of a relationship we already had?

  She didn’t answer but kept going to the door, wanting to get away from me.

  “He doesn’t even know I exist! I’m nothing to him! Why does it matter if I think he’s beautiful? Every girl fancies him! We’re supposed to admire them! You’re punishing me for no reason,” I said, but my eyes filled with tears, and I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I blinked hard as I knelt to the ground, putting the phone back in its dark hole, replacing the piece of wood to cover it up. I dusted my hands and stood, a lump in my throat. Maybe I’d go for a walk along the beach, let the pure sea air take away a piece of my sadness if it could.

  To my surprise, she was still standing in the doorway when I stood up again. There were tears on her face, and I couldn’t help but watch a single drop of liquid navigate the grooves of her face. Another reminder of how little time I might have left with her.“Maybe I wasn’t clear before, and I guess I should have been. Your feelings are not wise, but they’re normal, cultivated even. Of course you idolize him,” she said, with a bob of her head.

  “But I wouldn’t act on it!” I said, and she held up a hand to stop me from arguing further.

  “I know. I believe you. You’re a strong girl, a fighter. That’s the only reason you survived all those years ago. It’s why I loved you so much. Because I knew you were a survivor. You were smart, not so attractive that one of them would take you from me…it was safe to love you. As old as I am, it’s a hard thing to love someone again when one knows the outcome,” she said, and drew in a deep breath.

  She closed her eyes and opened them again, blinking rapidly. “I’m an old woman, Rebecca, and I’ve outlived everyone I’ve ever known. It’s a hard thing, that. I thought you were safe.” She put a hand to her chest, like it hurt. “But that night when he was here and he asked you those questions…” She looked down at the ground, as if she were embarrassed for me. “You won’t resist him, Rebecca. Because you don’t want to. And even if you could, he won’t let you. I don’t know what it was, what chemistry ignited between the two of you, but I felt him respond to you, felt his interest sharpen. Even if you’re not the prettiest girl or the most charming…He’s got you now, you’re in his nose, like the scent of a rabbit to a hound. It’s not you, Rebecca, it’s him.”

  Her words shocked me, made my breath catch and my stomach clench in a peculiar feeling of anticipation and dread, like being tossed in the air and jerked back to ground with a lead weight. “I know he’s one of them, but he won’t pursue me. He doesn’t pursue any of the girls. And he wouldn’t kill me.”

  A brittle laugh. “It’s what they do, and you know it. How many times have we seen the throats ripped out of the humans who care for them? They lose control and we die. The price is paid by us.”

  “He wouldn’t.” I knew the truth of it deep inside of me. Maybe it was stupid to defend him, I mean what did I really know? On an intellectual level, I had no reason to trust him, to think that even if he wanted me, felt passion for me, that he wouldn’t lose control and harm me.

  “Then what’s left to say?” she said. “You have your truth, and I have mine.” She looked around the room, the beds all lined up in two long rows, the gleaming stone floor and white-washed walls. “I think we need a good scrubbing in here, don’t you?”

  No, I didn’t. The cleaners came in every day, and between them and us the place was spotless. “What did I say that night?” I ask. I’m sure whatever I said was perfectly mortifying, and what she’s told me has only strengthened that conviction, but still. To have it be so awful that she no longer cared for me, so enticing that she thought he’d be unable to control himself and kill me?

  She opened the door, unwilling to answer. “I’m going to have a cup of tea and check the herbal medicines while you take care of this,” she said, trying to change the conversation.

  “Hetty, wait,” I begged. She pretended that she didn’t hear me, and left me there.

  And that was that.

  I swept the floors and agonized all over again about what I might have said that would have been so enticing. That I’d sleep with him? Give him my blood directly from the vein? That I had this fantasy, this terrible, dark, and unspeakable fantasy of both at the same time? What was more taboo than that?

  Not just because their bite spread disease, but also because the Infinite Council preached separation between us and them. It helped maintain the fear, this idea of them being quasi-deities, while we were alive to serve them.

 
; But when it was late and I was lying in my little bed with the blankets pulled up tight and trying to sleep…well, of course I thought about it.

  A lot. I knew it was wrong to be excited by those things….Was I really the only girl who thought about it?

  Apparently I was.

  5

  They’d brought all the girls to the amphitheater so we could watch the Infinite’s prowess. It was lovely to be outdoors with nothing to do but be entertained. And I had the great pleasure of watching Lord Marchant,

  The sun glinting off his sword, blinding me for a moment so that I had to shade my eyes and squint in order to see him. A gust of wind rolled in off the water, bringing the smell of jasmine and clean life with it, and I remember distinctly thinking that I could die right then and there and it would be a good moment. Because that’s what we are taught—to want to die in a good moment. Infinite Council Doctrine. Was I smart enough to see through it for the ruse it was?

  Nah.

  On this day, when I was almost eighteen, I was sitting with the other older girls watching a display arranged by the Council. Think of it as Infinite propaganda. And while there was a vocal minority that urged against idolatry, the majority of the Council members were all for it.

  On this day, Lord Marchant was back on the island. He was being dragged into a mock fight with his best friend, Lord Dalmaine, and the excitement of the other girls around me was infectious. It’s a beautiful thing to watch the Infinite spar. Their strokes are fast, their bearing regal. They’ve trained for centuries, so everything is grace and artifice. There is no desperation or uncertainty but pure, choreographed perfection. It’s almost like a dance, and it still makes my heart beat fast to see it.

  Typically the Lords spar until blood is drawn, because that’s what the island is about: blood. And it was a cheap way for them to show that they bled for us too…so long as it was carefully prescribed in a certain context with lots of witnesses.

  Showmanship.

  The Infinite are all about perception. As Lord Marchant and Lord Dalmaine laughed and took off their clothing down to their linen undershirts on that warm day, I felt my mouth go dry and my hands clench my skirts with tension. My focus was on Lord Marchant, and I was trying to memorize every movement. This is how he takes his shirt off, I thought, searing it into my mind, this is how his fingers look when they undo buttons, this is how he looks when he laughs: the strong column of his neck revealed, his teeth white and straight, eyes slightly squinted against the sun, revealing laugh lines that made him look human.

  Disrobed down to their breeches and linen shirts, they strode into the center of the ring, joking too softly for me to hear. But Lord Dalmaine threw back his golden head and laughed at something Lord Marchant said, and I probably would have given up food for a week to know what had made him laugh. I wanted to hear Lord Marchant make a joke.

  All the girls over the age of fourteen had been given wine to drink, and we were encouraged to be merry and admire our betters. It was a fine line the Infinite walked, wanting to promote our adoration and yet keep the two species from intermingling. I was by no means the only girl who had a crush on a Lord. There were a lot of us who had that quality (let’s call it “risk-taking stupidity”) that made us think that we were somehow able to tame them, that we would be special to one of them. And the rewards for being chosen by one of the Infinite were vast. I now know that everything was designed for that purpose, to make us want them, to have it be an honor. They were other, and we were human. They were beauty, and we were the beasts that fed them.

  I’d heard Alistair, Lord Dalmaine, say more than once that people were better pets than dogs or cats. Because you couldn’t fuck a dog. It seemed a rather shocking sentiment, although I suppose it was apt as well.

  So as I watched the two Lords circle each other, looking for a hint of weakness, on that bright and beautiful day with the excitement of the other girls around me like a contagious disease, I thought this, this is a good moment to die.

  And I swear, I swear that Lord Marchant looked at me then, as if he could hear the thoughts in my heart and my soul, that sudden yearning or acceptance of death, and our gazes clashed. I wanted him. He was death, and I wanted him. I blushed and licked my lips, unable to look away from him. See me, I silently begged him. See the real me and how much I would sacrifice for you.

  I’m not sure my thoughts were quite so precise, but the feeling was there, the yearning.

  I wasn’t one of the beautiful girls who were already being groomed by some of the Lords and Ladies. Wooed, given presents and treats, their families gifted with dowry money and fine houses that were designed to take the sting out of literally losing one’s child if they were chosen as primary blood donor.

  Everyone, especially me, knew I wasn’t one of those girls. I was the girl who got sent to the sick and dying. The girls gave me a lot of space when we had to mingle. They were worried that I was contagious (little did they know I was probably the healthiest girl on the island), and Hetty also said that avoiding healers was almost a form of superstition: Don’t seek out death, and it won’t seek you out.

  Anyway, no one would ever believe that I would attract the attention of a Lord, let alone Lord Marchant, or of any of the men in the inner circle, and they’d be right. That’s not what I’m saying, I’m saying that for that fraction of a second where our eyes met across the crowd of girls, I thought he connected with me: my feeling of peace and a willingness to die and him…well, maybe he decided right then and there that if I was willing to die, then he was willing to give it to me.

  Even now, writing this after everything has happened, I don’t know the true moment. I wish I could ask him: When did you know for sure that I’d let you kill me? I can imagine how much he wouldn’t like the question.

  His gaze left mine, went back to the fight and Lord Dalmaine. The girls were particularly rowdy today because most of the Lords didn’t want to spar with Lord Dalmaine if they could avoid it. He was too large, too good at fighting, and he had a tendency to lose patience and end the fight in a spectacularly bloody way so he could go have a glass of claret and a glass of blood.

  No one wanted to go into the ring with him, except Lord Marchant. They assumed fighting stances, and with a grin and a nod from Lord Marchant they started sparring with their swords. They weren’t broadswords or rapiers, but more of a dueling sword, what the men called small swords, if you’re familiar with old-fashioned weaponry.

  They moved slowly at first, testing each other out, just warming up. And suddenly they were alert, aggressive, the match in earnest as their blades rang out through the courtyard like peals of laughter. I held my breath from the excitement of it all, watching them move and block and strike in perfect harmony.

  I don’t know how long it went on for. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour, but there could never be enough, never be a moment where I got bored and thought, ‘when’s this thing going to end?’ I could have watched him do anything for hours.

  Lord Dalmaine suddenly grinned, pulled back, and with exaggerated motions, threw his sword to the side, crouched down, and made a ‘come at me’ gesture. There was lots of tittering from us girls in the audience and Claudia, the girl next to me, even grabbed my hand in the thrill of the moment.

  Lord Marchant threw back his head and laughed, his dark hair glinting in the light, a dash of a breeze molding his shirt to his lean torso. Most of the Lords had good physiques, honed over time to perfection, but where Lord Dalmaine was bulk, Lord Marchant was sinewy grace. A Bastard sword versus a rapier, if you don’t mind me keeping with the theme.

  “Come on, Lee. Like the olden days. Let’s give the girls something to see,” he said, and he winked at the audience.

  “That’s not a fair fight!” Lord Marchant said, a trace of laughter in his voice. “I’d be a fool to fight you bare-handed,” he said, his voice full of mock indignation and joy. He was happy to be here, I realized, and that seemed strange to me, sinc
e he spent so much time away from the island. If he liked it here, then why leave?

  Which shows how little I knew about business. And why would I? It wasn’t like we had start-ups or new shops. You did what you were born to do, you learned a trade or served in the big houses, and if you were exceptional then you were hand-picked to be close to them and feed them.

  Lord Dalmaine straightened, making a show of it, like an actor. “Should we just quit then?” he asked, and several of the girls called out to them in protest, urging them on, even clapping to encourage the match to continue.

  A heavy sigh. “And I’m sure I’ll regret this,” Lord Marchant said, just loud enough for us to hear, his acting over-exaggerated in a way that was somehow charming and self-deprecating. He tossed his sword to the side, and it landed in the sand with a solid thunk, the pommel juddering at the impact of wedging into the ground point-first.

  And then they squared off again, closer to each other now, a few feinted jabs, much trading of insults that had all of us trying to giggle in silence so we didn’t miss a word. Some of the bolder girls called out things to them, encouraging them. Claudia was the loudest, and my ear rang as she shouted, “I love you!” to Lord Dalmaine.

  “I love you, too.” His response was instant, practiced. That of a man used to female adoration.

  Lord Marchant took advantage of Lord Dalmaine’s sudden distraction and punched him in the stomach. Lord Dalmaine righted himself instantly and went for Lord Marchant’s beautiful face, which made my heart nearly stop beating in fear.

  And then suddenly they stopped, both panting lightly as they shaded their eyes against the sun and looked at something behind us. Was this part of the show? Was something else going to happen? I prayed they’d go back to fighting. It would be an odd place to end it.

  “Do not turn around,” Lord Marchant commanded, and we all froze. If a Lord gave an order, one listened. Any instinct we had to turn and see what we were not supposed to was gone. Obedience was bred into us. Or perhaps I should say that disobedience was bred out of us, for those who disobeyed didn’t live long.