“What’s going on?” said Christian, stumbling back in.
“Belle, what’s wrong?” said Bicé with a worried tone and her usual nervous scan as she followed Christian into the living room.
Everyone was standing in the living room, staring at one another. Belle was already shaking, the way she did before she wept.
Bicé sensed that something horrible had just happened. She resisted the urge to cower behind Christian and said, “We’re going to redo all this, aren’t we? Valentin, whatever just happened, fix it!” Her eyes darted from Belle to Victoria to Thomas.
But Valentin didn’t have time to respond. Madame Vileroy suddenly lunged out toward Thomas. Her black dress flapped behind her like wings. For a second, Belle thought she saw her make a face like a gargoyle — she had seen it before, once. In that instant, Madame Vileroy almost enveloped Thomas, and Belle couldn’t be sure of what she saw. She shrieked. Victoria was knocked out of the way. Bicé put down the vase and rushed to Belle’s side.
Thomas stopped midexclamation. His entire body wilted and fell lifeless on the couch. Like a cub whose mother has just brought home a carcass, Victoria pounced. She arranged Thomas’s legs so that he was sitting upright on the couch.
Belle was seething with anger and paralyzed with the fear that she had caused all this. After all that scheming from afar, all that research into what perfumes he liked best, what kind of hairstyles caught his attention — somehow — Belle had actually met the real Thomas Goodman-Brown and, believe it or not, she had begun to like him. Now she was staring as Victoria ran to the back of the couch and pulled him up by his sweater so he wouldn’t slump.
Madame Vileroy moved back to the dining room table and poured herself a glass of wine. Valentin, who had finally lost his power of speech, was watching Victoria with awe.
“A glass of wine, my dear?” Madame Vileroy offered Valentin, as if nothing were going on in her living room.
“Sure,” he said. They clinked their crystal glasses and drank. They almost seemed to disappear into the corner of the room.
“What are you going to do?” cried Belle. “You can’t hurt him.”
“Shh,” said Victoria. She pulled up a chair across from the couch. She moved her face close to Thomas’s, at first only reading the thoughts on the surface. There wasn’t really much there since he was unconscious. She began boring deeper and deeper into his subconscious. It was invigorating to move so deeply into someone’s mind without having them flail and fight and yell at her to stop. She didn’t have to worry about Thomas feeling violated or losing his mind.
“No, tell me now,” Belle interrupted.
Victoria couldn’t keep her focus with Belle talking to her. She looked up. Belle looked like she was about to attack. Bicé had moved next to her for support. Christian was behind her in case she wanted to look away, or cry on a shoulder, or something like that.
“I’m getting the information I need,” said Victoria. “Stay out of my way.”
“I don’t want to do this. I never agreed to this.”
“Yes, you did. You agreed to bring him.”
“But — but I was forced. I don’t want to —”
Victoria hated that weak prissy debutante crap. She had hated Belle from the day they met — when all five children were only ten. She hated all her dainty airs covering her disgusting stench. She turned on Belle and began to shout.
“First of all, shut the hell up. Second of all, stop pretending. You agreed to all of this, just like me. You’re not some pretty-pretty princess with all us ogres. You’re one of us. You signed the deal Vileroy offered, you sold your soul, and now you owe the devil her due. So back up, let me search this idiot’s head, and we’ll all be back to pretending you’re the good little prom queen you wish you were.”
Christian groaned. Victoria whipped around and seemed to realize for the first time that Christian and Bicé were in the room. For a moment, she looked taken aback, as if she had let something valuable get away and didn’t know what to do now. She whispered a curse to herself and then turned her back to finish what she had come to do.
Madame Vileroy and Valentin became visible in the room again. The air was sucked from the room. Bicé stood motionless. Suddenly she understood so much more. Belle began to swing her arm in a wild slap at Victoria, but Christian caught her by the wrist. She struggled to get free but felt a twinge of pain, a loss of strength so delicate that she just felt a little sleepy. She rested her tired head on Christian’s shoulder. Christian just stood there, shaking a little, his mouth open, his shoulders aching, his mind bursting with questions.
Later that night, after Victoria had learned more than she could ever find out from the moths, Vileroy adjusted Thomas’s memories so that he thought he had had a wonderful time. Bicé sat in the chair in Christian’s room. “Why don’t we remember?” said Christian.
“What, selling our souls? Being adopted into the house of the devil? Charging into the world as agents of the fallen angel? I have no idea, Christian. I don’t have a clue. Stop asking stupid questions,” Bicé said hysterically.
“We have to figure out what to do.”
“Are you crazy? This is the end. It’s all over.” Christian had never seen Bicé so agitated. She was darting back and forth, wringing her hands as if they had betrayed her, and throwing wild glances all over the room.
“No. You and I didn’t know . . . We didn’t . . .” Christian said, feeling almost certain.
“I don’t know,” said Bicé, wrinkling her brow, worried for the others and for herself. “I don’t know what we did.”
Bicé sat cross-legged on the floor and put her face in her hands. Christian came and sat at her feet. “We’ve known we have ‘gifts.’ We’ve known we’re completely different than everyone at school. And we’ve even known we’re not family.”
“Yeah.” For a moment Bicé got her hysteria under control and looked reflective, like someone looking for a hopeful sign. “We’ve known it, but it’s never occurred to us. It’s almost like we’ve been ignoring the truth, and it’s been in our face the whole time.”
Christian nodded.
“But why does Vic remember it and we don’t?” Bicé asked.
“I think because we didn’t do it.”
“Then why are we here? Why are we living with her? And when did they find out who she is so they could make this deal? I mean, we never found out who she was, did we? Even though we’ve been living with her for fifteen years . . .”
Christian put his head in Bicé’s lap like a child. She stroked his curly red hair. She didn’t have a single hair on her head that color. Christian thought for a moment and then said, “Thomas went home thinking he had dinner with all of us.”
Bicé stopped stroking his hair and put her hand over her mouth. “So, I guess Vileroy can give false memories. She could make us forget things . . . like selling our souls . . .”
She thought hard about this possibility. Somehow, it was easier to think that Vileroy had made her forget selling her soul than to even fathom the possibility that she had not always lived here, that she had forgotten something entirely different.
“But again, she didn’t make Vic or Belle forget, so that can’t be it,” said Christian. “They must have found out who she was and made the deal . . . and we didn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she adopt us all in the first place? Why would she tell them who she was and not us? Why would she give us these ‘gifts’? Why keep us . . .”
“Nothing’s keeping us here anymore. Let’s just leave.”
“No . . .” Bicé mumbled something to herself in a language Christian didn’t understand.
“Why not? What else can she do?”
“I think anything somebody wants. Thomas wanted to have a great time with all of us.”
Christian shook, like a terrified little boy, quivering under a mother’s touch.
“What does she want with us?”
“I don’t k
now, Christian. Maybe she wants a relationship. Maybe selling your soul is something you do every day.”
“But my black mark is gone,” protested Christian. “That means we’re safe, right?”
“I don’t know, Christian. I have no idea what it means.”
They were silent for a while. Then Christian spoke.
“You really think we sold our souls and don’t remember, Bicé?”
“Think hard. Did you ever want to?”
“If I did, I don’t anymore.”
Simon sat at the windowsill of the plantation house and watched their heads bob up and down in the fields like umber lures on a green-and-white lake. It was busy season, and some of the house workers had had to go outside. Simon could see them having a harder time. Their hands had not yet calloused to the cotton spurs. They hummed to keep their minds off the heat. Simon felt nothing for them because, after all, they were property. And he had his rights. He turned back to his book, wondered about earnings and afternoon cake.
Belle woke up with her eyes glued shut. She had never fully fallen asleep that night. Every time she came close, something jolted her awake. What have I done? She sat up in bed and noticed that Bicé was sitting at the foot of her bed.
“Sleep well?” Bicé asked with a ghostly look in her eye.
Belle pulled her covers up higher over herself. What was Bicé doing up? Bicé just watched her. She was waiting, as if she thought Belle would just come out and tell her everything; explain why she had done such an unforgivable thing. But Belle didn’t say anything. So many thoughts flooded Bicé’s mind. Belle’s change, the deals, the mark. What did that mark mean? And how had they come to live here — with her — for fifteen years? The adoption story didn’t make sense anymore. How had Belle come to find out who Madame Vileroy was? And when had she taken the deal? Was it when they were ten — when she started changing her face? That must have been it. Before that, in Bicé’s false memories of their childhood, Madame Vileroy had never given Belle anything. But Madame Vileroy had never made such an offer to Bicé or Christian. Had she made the deal with Valentin? Belle didn’t look like she was about to volunteer anything. She just got up and started to get ready. What’s happened to her? Bicé said to herself. Doesn’t she realize what she’s done?
“You OK?” Belle asked. Bicé’s face was white as a sheet. There were bags under her eyes and she was fidgeting more than usual.
“Belle, you have to tell me . . .”
“I’m tired now.”
The week before the Debate and Drama Tournament passed like a whirlwind. Christian and Bicé had spent the last week hidden away, talking in secret. Victoria continued with her life as if nothing were wrong. In fact, everything was going brilliantly for Victoria, who now had Thomas’s entire strategy at her disposal and was building a solid countercase. After that Sunday night, Belle was sure that Thomas would never want to speak to her again. Or maybe he wouldn’t even be the same person. Maybe he would lose his mind or have a meltdown or something. But nothing like that happened. Thomas was completely oblivious to what had happened, and he was happier than ever to be with Belle. He was still sweet, still awkwardly charming, and still too shy to make a move. But he did ask her to the spring dance, which was the day after the Debate Tournament. She said yes, but Belle wasn’t so sure anymore. Sometimes, when she saw him quiver around her or tap his feet involuntarily or count on his fingers as if he had OCD, the guilt of that Sunday night would wash over her. Being with Belle was changing him, and the more time Belle spent with Thomas, the less she wanted him to change.
Belle walked into her bedroom to get ready for the tournament. She had promised Thomas she would come to watch. Christian and Bicé were already in there, looking around her room, whispering about something.
“I just don’t get it. Why not just go . . .” Christian was saying.
“Just trust me, I need time . . .” Bicé whispered back.
They looked up when Belle walked in. Christian left without saying hello. Bicé glanced in Belle’s direction, and then she left too. Belle tried to ignore them, but she felt sick to her stomach. She felt utterly alone. They had been ignoring her for a week, and Belle was so sorry that they knew what she had done. But they didn’t know everything.
“Are you going like that?” It was Madame Vileroy. Belle turned around. “Not leaving much time for a bath . . .”
“I was going to take one.” She sighed. She hadn’t really planned on it.
“Guilt is a useless feeling. It’s never enough to make you change direction — only enough to paralyze you and make you . . . well, useless.”
“I don’t feel guilty.”
“But you aren’t happy for Victoria. She’s getting what she wanted. You’re getting what you wanted. You should be happy.”
“Maybe I want something different now,” Belle muttered.
“That’s a waste, after everything you gave up.”
“The problem is, every time I give something up, you use it to benefit Victoria.”
“No, dear. I do it for you. It’s just like last time. It’s to teach you a lesson, so you can do great things. So you don’t waste your one chance with someone like Thomas at just the wrong time. So you take what is yours at precisely the most useful moment.”
“He deserves a chance to win.”
“It’s too late. You can’t ruin things for Victoria. She has great potential, like you used to have.”
“Thomas has potential.”
“You’re not Thomas’s keeper,” Madame Vileroy snapped in a low voice. Belle stepped back. The governess slid around to face her. “Belle, dear, I have a proposition . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I can help Thomas win . . . if you really want.”
“What about Victoria?”
“Don’t worry too much about her, dear.”
“Well, I still don’t want to hear it.”
“I’ll let you have Thomas. I’ll let you do it your way. He can win, and you can be together . . . if you want it badly enough.”
Even though she didn’t want to, Belle had to listen. She looked Vileroy straight in the eyes and waited.
Vileroy spoke softly, her words carefully measured. “I want to know about your parents.”
For a moment, Belle was stunned. Vileroy had never asked about their parents before. She had never mentioned them.
“I know that your mother told you . . . about a particular language. An ancient one . . .”
Belle couldn’t move. Her hands were moist with sweat, her throat was dry.
“I know you know about it, Belle. About that old, forgotten tongue. The one your mother and her friends spent so many years researching?”
“So?” Belle managed to croak.
“I want to know what she told you. What she told you and Bicé,” the governess crooned, softly, gently, her voice sweet and hoarse at the same time. “Try to remember, Belle. Try to remember what your mother said, all those years ago. What do you know? What does Bicé know?”
With each word, the governess moved, inching closer and closer to Belle, until she could feel her cold breath on her face, could see her shattered eye move with anticipation.
“No.” Belle pulled away.
There was a moment. An angry beat.
A broken flash of a broken eye.
Belle recoiled. “Go away — I don’t care if Thomas wins.”
Madame Vileroy wasn’t angry. She was calm and smiling. She cupped Belle’s face in her cold hand. “I’ll see you in the car, dear,” she said, and shut the door behind her.
Half an hour later, Belle was dressed and ready to leave. She hadn’t taken a bath since the day before. She felt tired and dirty and unattractive. She grabbed her purse and reached for the door, but it didn’t open. She pulled and jiggled the doorknob. Nothing. She yanked harder. Still nothing. The door was locked. She banged on the door, yelling for someone to come and get her. But the house was empty. Thomas would think she
had abandoned him. Lucy would spend the whole day by his side. Belle slumped on her bed and buried her pretty face in her hands.
What have I done? I really have become her daughter.
Bicé was searching around the house, looking for Christian. She was ready to leave for the tournament, but these days, she wouldn’t go anywhere without Christian. He was the only one she trusted — though not with everything.
“Christian, are you in here?” She poked her head into his room — the room he used to rejuvenate and practice. Bicé noticed Buddy sitting alone in a corner, his back turned to the entrance. When he heard the door open, his broad shoulders rose in anticipation. She looked around, but Christian wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she say hello? She turned to leave, but before she could go, Buddy had turned from what he was doing and spotted her.
Timidly, he nodded hello.
“Hi, Buddy. Remember me? I’m Bicé.”
He had a blank look. She said her name again, slowly this time. “Bee . . . cheh.”
Buddy stood up and something caught Bicé’s eye. He was holding a piece of paper.
“What do you have there?” Bicé asked.
He hid the paper behind his back and shook his head.
Bicé stepped closer. “It’s OK, Buddy. You can tell me. Christian and I are friends.”
Buddy’s eyes flicked toward the door, and Bicé knew why he was afraid.
“I won’t tell her,” she said. “You don’t have to worry.”
Buddy stepped back into his corner. “I promise I won’t tell,” said Bicé. “I know she makes people do things. But not me. You can trust me.”
Buddy held up the paper for Bicé to see. It was a letter, a tattered old letter from a long time ago. She took it from him. The words were big and shaky, a child’s handwriting. It was addressed to a guy named Phineas the Fence. She read it over. To: Phineas the Fence, Celtic 31. From: Christian W.
Christian W.? Bicé’s heart raced. A clue to Christian’s past. His name before it was Faust. Reading over the letter, Bicé felt the tears trickle down her face. She let them fall and drip onto the paper, smudging the ink. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Christian had done it too. I’m gonna handle things. For the sake of him and me. He was just a desperate kid who couldn’t think of anything else.
Another Faust Page 24
