“Because you wanted me to,” he says, his voice harsher now. “You told Morgana everything. About our spot behind the guesthouse, about my poetry. It was all a game, one of your little practice tests. And I fell for it.”
My mouth drops open as he accuses me, those warm brown eyes turning cold, his jaw set in defiance. As if he’s facing an enemy. I scramble to understand his words, my mind sprinting to re-create the past. How could he see me as an enemy when all I did was fall in love with him?
“I’m sorry,” he says, and all of a sudden, the Arthur I’ve come to know in these last couple of days is back. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I know she made you into that person. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you laughing about me with her. It was real for me, no matter how much of a joke it was for you.”
I shake my head, my thoughts clearing as I figure out exactly what Morgana did. “She played you. And me. I didn’t tell her that we’d fallen in love, or anything about us. She must have been spying on us, letting us get close so she could rip us apart.” It’s all so clear now, and I wonder how I could have missed it. Morgana, the woman who taught me how to manipulate everyone around me, had done the same to me so easily. She raised me with a boy I was never supposed to talk to, but she made him my whipping boy because she knew hurting him would hurt me. She made me care for him. And then she sent him away so I would know the pain of a broken heart, so I would use that pain to become the weapon she wanted. I was a fool.
I step closer to him so that he can see the truth in my eyes. “It was never a game for me.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You really loved me?” he asks.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He pulls me in for a hug, and I bury my head in his chest. His heart is beating as loudly as mine. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
We stay locked together for several lingering moments, his arm securely around my waist, our pulses racing. “Viv?” he asks, pulling back so he can look me in the eye. “What do you want to do now?”
What do I want? The words taste strange as I swirl them around my mouth, feeling their edges with my tongue. I can do what I want. But what exactly is that?
“I want to graduate,” I say finally. “I want to get to know my real mother. And then I want to see the world.” I don’t know exactly what I want from the world. College, maybe, or to sell my art on the banks of a river somewhere. Something. And I can do it. I can make a life for myself, a life all my own.
I am not dangerous anymore. I’m not some avatar. I’m whatever I want to be.
Arthur nods, like he was expecting that answer.
I look at him seriously, making sure he’s listening. It takes everything I have to ignore the sudden weakness in my knees, the dryness of my throat. I have to say this. I know that with every particle of my being, though the strength of the knowledge shocks me.
I clear my throat and force the words out. “I want you to come with me.”
He definitely wasn’t expecting that. He shifts to face me full-on and stares into my eyes, searching. As I watch his brown eyes grow even darker, my breath catches in my throat. My lips part, and before I realize what’s happening, he has stepped forward, wrapped his arms tightly around me, and is pressing his lips against mine.
It feels like sunrise. Like that moment when bolts of golden light shoot through the gray haze of the world. When the sky turns pink and red and orange—a riot of color over the bleakness of the moors.
I kiss him back, pressing my lips against his with a desperation I can’t measure. My arms are around his neck, pulling him as close to me as I possibly can.
I open my mouth wider, deepening the kiss, and the image of the golden circle of the sun rising above the world fills my mind.
We pull away only when we have to catch our breath, and I lean my head against his chest. I’m still not close enough.
“I’ve tried—all these years, I’ve tried to fall out of love with you.” His voice is uneven, his breath ragged. “I tried to tell myself that you used me, that I was nothing but a plaything to you. I tried to hate you.”
“You certainly seemed to, when I came here,” I murmur into his shirt.
“It was a good show. But really, my plan was to help you run away, to escape. I got us fake passports when I went to London, just in case. I’ve been trying to save you ever since you got here, but I could never figure out a way.” With my ear against his chest, I feel his heart beat faster. “I love you, Vivian. I always have.”
There’s a pause, and I try to sort out what I am feeling. “I don’t know if I can love as other people love. Not anymore,” I say slowly. “I don’t know if I can give you back everything that you need.”
He draws back and looks me in the eyes. “We’ll take it slow,” he assures me. “I think you’ll be surprised, Viv.”
I like that idea. I like the idea that I can surprise myself, that I can grow into someone different, someone better.
“Call me Sarah,” I tell him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First off, thanks so much to my family. Mom, you always, always encouraged me to work hard for my dreams, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Dad, you’ve shown me unconditional love and support. Thank you for everything.
To Greg, for telling everyone you’ve ever met about your writer sister. I love you, and I’m so proud of you, too. And to Jenn, for being more like a true sister than just a sister-in-law. And, of course, to Lucy and Jimmy, for being the absolute cutest niece and nephew in the world.
To my incomparable grandmother, Liz Ghrist, for being a perfect example of a smart, well-traveled, strong woman. And to Lahoma Moore, Granny, the sweetest woman I ever knew.
Thanks so much to Denise Delaney and Ross Netherway for putting me up in London every year so I could traipse around the city. Denise, thank you for having your hen party in York so that I could go visit the Yorkshire moors and be inspired to set the book there. Without you, this book wouldn’t have happened.
And to my wonderful critique group: Angélique Jamail, Shirley Redwine, Brenda Liebling-Goldberg, Lucie Scott Smith, and Gabrielle Hale. You’ve rooted for this book from the beginning, and I’m so grateful for the helpful comments and critiques you’ve given me along the way. Extra thanks to Angélique and my other high school creative writing teacher, Carolyn McCarthy, for teaching me all the rules of writing. And how to break them.
I have to thank all of the friends who’ve cheered me on, even when I couldn’t go out because I was revising or researching what happens when you get arrested in England: Nic Buckley, Karan Lodha, Allison Maffitt, Valerie Grainger Henderson, Jen Chang, Curtis Sullivan, Jenn Richards, Drew Rossi, Adam Yock, Lee Mimms, and Erin Nelsen Parekh.
I’m also indebted to the YA community in Houston and online. All of you readers, writers, and bloggers have been so supportive, hilarious, and wise. Thanks for all of the book recommendations, encouragement, and commiseration.
Thanks to my agent, Alexandra Machinist, for being so excited about this book that you pitched it out the next day. You’ve helped make my dream come true.
And thanks to my fabulous editor, Elizabeth Tingue, for the critiques that have made I Am Her Revenge so much stronger. You’ve understood this story from the very beginning, and you actually made me excited to revise it, which has to be a first. And to Ben Schrank and everyone at Razorbill and Penguin for believing in this book.
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