by Amy McNulty
“I … I think so.” The specters appeared day after day at twilight. If I walked near the carriage, they gestured inside. I’d never once stepped foot in it since that first night it had brought me home.
“She should go visit him,” said Father. “It’s rude of her not to. He ought to be able to see her.”
“Gideon, no.” Mother cupped Father’s cheek in her hand. “How many times have I told you? You can’t rush these things. Let her be.”
It was odd how I’d finally gotten a man of my own as she wanted, and here she was, the only one to counsel patience. I ran the chisel over Arrow’s wooden rump too hard, nicking it. Tossing the figure and the chisel down on the ground in frustration, I sighed and cradled my knees against my chest.
“Aubree—”
Mother put her finger over Father’s mouth to stop him. “Go tell them she’s not coming today.”
He may not have been compelled to follow her orders, but he did anyway. I poked my head out from my knees. “Thank you.”
Mother pulled one of my hands away from my knees to squeeze it. She cradled her wooden lily with her other fingers. “I just want you to be happy. I need to know you’re happy.”
Would I ever be happy again? “Don’t.” I squeezed her back and did my best to smile. “Don’t talk like that.”
Mother pulled her hand out of mine and placed it over her wooden flower. We sat quietly for a moment. The specters crawled back into the carriage, never once opening their mouths to respond to Father. The driver flicked his wrists, and the horses turned around by crossing the grass. They’d done that so often over the past few months, the lilies were crushed and broken in that small patch of grass in front of our home.
“Noll,” said Mother, her voice quiet. She coughed a few times. “Let love find you.”
“It did.” I clutched my knees even tighter. “And I don’t want it.” Not from anyone but Jurij.
Mother patted the flower in her lap. “I won’t rush you. It’s not fair that it took so long for love to find you. You haven’t had enough of a chance to get used to it.”
“You mean like Elfriede got used to Jurij?” Until she tires of him. If she hasn’t already.
Mother nodded weakly. “You were right, you know. She used to be so cold to him. One day, she stood inside the house, helping me wipe the dishes. She looked out the window in the kitchen, at you two running off to play beyond the hills. When she saw you whap him across the side with your tree branch—”
“Elgar.”
Mother smiled. “Right. She asked me, ‘What if I never Return Jurij’s love? What if he’s doomed to walk around with his face hidden forever? What if I send him to the commune?’”
So I was right. She only forced herself to fall in love so she wouldn’t feel guilty.
With a grunt, Mother placed her wooden flower in my lap. “I told her that love, even when you didn’t expect to find it, can prove a beautiful thing.”
And what of the love that never came from where you hoped to find it?
Father kneeled down beside Mother, sliding his arm around her back. I carefully set the wooden lily beside my attempt at a dog and did the same, reaching across her shoulders to support her other side. Father grimaced as I did; he probably hoped to support his goddess all on his own. I wasn’t sorry to disappoint him.
The three of us walked across the knoll and back into the house, a distance that might have taken either Father or I a tenth of the time on our own. Neither of us minded the pace, though, and for once, it was peaceful, with the tepid breeze that rustled the lilies all around us.
I tucked a strand of golden hair behind Mother’s ear just as we reached the door. Father nodded toward it. “Open that, will you?”
As I did so, I got a fairly good view of the figure seated at our table, lit by the small lantern on the table before him. His hand, still clutching the lantern, trembled.
“Luuk? Jurij isn’t here. He and Elfriede—”
“It’s Nissa.” Luuk’s muffled voice was shakier than ever. “Her mother’s dead.”
***
Mother was the last one living. The illness had claimed the lives of three women in the village, one by one.
And because life without a goddess is apparently too much for men to handle, three men died shortly thereafter. Vanished, out of grief. Poor Nissa had no one left but Luuk, and because she was his goddess, Mistress Tailor decided to let her live with them.
Because she was his goddess. I need to see him. I need to ask him to save Mother. It was ridiculous. What would I do, command the lord to save her? Why would he be able to save her? But you have to try.
I let it go four more days after Luuk came looking for Jurij. Four more days of women and men dying. Four more days Mother moved closer to death.
Four days I’d clung to my woodcarving and felt sick to my stomach and let my stubbornness stop me from acting. Ask him. And then you can tell Father how ridiculous it was to hope for anything.
When the carriage came down the path as the fourth day shifted to evening, I was ready. When the specters opened the door and one extended a hand, I took it.
I clutched my shawl and felt the sweat pour off my palm in waves. The black leather seat beneath me felt hot. The air was stifling. But I had to try. I had to breathe.
Halfway through the woods I felt queasy—my mind playing tricks, that whisper of my full name in my ears—but it soon passed. I straightened my shoulders. What am I so afraid of? He’s my man. He’ll be happy to see me. But that was just it. By going, I was acknowledging he was my man.
You can’t run away from this forever. I’d spent long enough trying.
The carriage ground to a halt too soon, the short trip made even shorter with the horses’ assistance. The door opened and I took a specter’s outstretched palm with my own trembling hand. It was cold, so cold, and I wondered not for the first time how these men could seem so lifeless and still be among the living.
The gates and then the castle doors opened as the specters approached, and I stumbled inside the thunderously shaking castle. Only once I was indoors did the earth settle. The castle wasn’t dark this time. Torches lit the entryway, revealing an empty room, the scene of our first meeting. Even with the slight warmth of the air outside, it felt cold in the castle, like a gust of frigid wind encircled it forever.
I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder. Shivering, I turned, expecting to come face to mask with the lord at last, but it was one of the specters. He stepped back and gestured up the nearby staircase. Other specters lined the stairway, each gesturing upward. I cringed at the strange, inviting yet somehow unappealing sight. But I straightened my shoulders, clutched my shawl tighter around my throat, and ascended the stairs.
The line of specters continued onto the second floor and up another stairway to a third. I lost count of how many specters there were, perhaps a hundred, red eyes bearing down on me, red eyes watching from the edge of the light, each with one foot in the darkness. By the time I reached the top of the second flight of stairs, I exhaled, relieved there were no more steps awaiting me. Instead, a line of specters gestured down a hallway, their red eyes watching. I followed the path set out for me, stopping halfway when a line of specters blocked my way.
“I’m here to see the lord.” Who are these men?
The four specters before me nodded and gestured to an open doorway. I let go of my shawl, rubbed my palms against my skirt to dry them, and stepped in.
The room was huge—far greater even than the cavernous entryway two floors below. But it was practically empty. I followed a long, thin, and threadbare black carpet thrown down over cobblestone flooring. At the edge of the carpet against the wall was a large black chair—a throne, no doubt, like something out of the myths about rulers called kings and queens, only they would have kept their throne rooms on the lower floors of their castles. Above the throne was a sword that glowed violet. A sword. Something I’d only seen in drawings for made-up tales about the kings
and queens who wielded them. Something there was no use for in everyday life, so there simply was no need for our blacksmith to forge. Axes were for chopping wood. Knives were for butchering and cooking. But a sword? The kings and queens of tales used them to battle, and once men found their goddesses, they simply lost all interest in swordfights and adventure. And most women never had such interests to begin with.
Most women besides me.
This sword glowed brighter than the flames of the torches lighting the way. I’d never heard anyone mention that swords glowed in stories. There were no windows, so the glowing could hardly be a trick of the light. The only other thing in the room was a bookstand with a single, large tome closed atop it. The book of Returning, perhaps? Always conveniently in the Great Hall on a Returning Day.
“Well, Olivière. Welcome. I am glad to see you chose to make yourself so comfortable.”
I dropped my hand immediately, not even realizing I was leaning against the throne, reaching up toward the sword. I didn’t even remember walking those last few paces.
“Please. Do turn around. I assure you I am now prepared for your visits.”
I turned, the sword somehow forgotten. His presence drew my eyes with such force I couldn’t bear to look at anything else until I’d absorbed all of him.
He was cloaked entirely in black. Not only was his embossed leather jacket darker than a shadow, his folded hands were covered with what appeared to be smooth, black leather gloves. Instead of a mask or a beautiful face, a gauze veil dark as ink covered his head, the corners of the material tied closed with a somber broach on his left shoulder. Were it not for the wide-brimmed hat he wore atop the veil—which was just as dark as the rest of his attire, if perhaps a little more resplendent—he might have very well sucked all of the light from the room. As it was, the hat—a sort of metal, pointed hat—was glossy enough that it reflected the flicker of the torches’ firelight in small, spectacular movements.
He walked past me before I could speak, his close stride rustling my skirt. I moved back to give him room, and he sank into the black throne, crossing one black boot over and resting it on his knee. He brought the tips of his gloves together, his elbows resting comfortably on the armrests. “I had hoped to see you again much sooner.”
I swallowed and ran a shaky hand through my hair, tucking a chunk of it behind my ear. “I figured. I—I saw the carriages. I just needed some time.”
“Time? Time for what?”
I clutched my shawl again, as if that would somehow save me from the chill that hung over every room of the castle. I formed my words carefully. “I’m not yet old enough for a Returning.” It was true, and I wasn’t saying there was going to be a Returning. Not the moment I turned seventeen, anyway.
The lord dropped his fingers and gestured around him to the empty room. “Since when does that stop a man from seeing his goddess?”
“It doesn’t. Usually. But you didn’t come to see me, either.”
The lord scoffed. I could hear the sound clearly even through his veil. “You expect me to visit you?”
I blinked. This wasn’t going at all how I expected. “No, I … ” I was quite happy not to have to think about you, I wanted to say. But there was no need to tell him that. A man could crumble at even the slightest hint of harshness from his goddess. “It’s just that … that’s the way it’s normally done. Men visiting their goddesses.”
The lord tossed his head and cradled what must have been his chin with his thumb and forefinger. His face seemed turned a bit sideways, like he wasn’t going to look at me, although I couldn’t be sure. “I cannot leave the castle.” His voice broke a little, and I was almost unsure I’d heard him right.
I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like I’d wanted him to come anyway. And arranging courtship was hardly the first thing on my mind. “Um, sir, Lordship … ” The lord dropped his hand back to his lap. “My mother is unwell. Women have been ill these past four months, and they started dying this week. I thought … we all thought they’d get better, but now that doesn’t seem to be the case, and … ” I didn’t know what else to say.
The lord tossed his hand in the air with a flourish, gesturing for me to go on. “And?”
I felt something snap in my chest, like the one word from him, the callous tone of his voice, was enough to stomp all hope I’d managed to muster. The hope that had gotten me to accept that carriage ride at last and face the fact that I was somebody’s goddess, and that somebody wasn’t who I wanted.
“And you’re our lord. Isn’t there something you can do?”
The lord drummed his fingers on one of the throne’s armrests. “You have tried all the herbs?”
“Yes!” I regretted the tone of my voice the moment I said it. But it was obvious we’d tried that much, wasn’t it? I tried to soften my voice. “I mean, of course. It seems to help with the pain a bit, but they’re still—that is, my mother now, just her, she still has no strength.”
The lord’s fingers stopped tapping at once. “You say women have died?”
“Yes!” I squeezed my shawl tighter. Wasn’t he listening? Wasn’t he paying attention at all to the people he ruled over? Why, then, do people say he’s always watching?
“There is no typical sign of illness? No rash? No sores?”
“No … ” I bit my lip, thinking about Ingrith and her “healer” man. “I knew a woman, who … well.” I swallowed, struggling to summon my courage to face this man. “She said there was once a family of healers in the village.”
The lord’s head snapped forward slightly. “Healers? I thought they had all been forgotten.”
“They have. That is, if they existed at all in the first place.”
“No matter. They are gone. They cannot help.” The lord held a hand out to silence me before I could inquire further. He leaned his veiled face into his other palm. Neither of us spoke. Then he straightened in his throne. “Four months they have been ill?”
“About that, yes.” I dropped my hand from my shawl and let my arms hang limply at my sides. Even without seeing his eyes, I felt them boring into me. I didn’t know how very much I’d hate the attention. “They got ill the day after I first came here.”
The lord jumped out of his throne so quickly I almost fell backward to the ground as my feet scrambled to give him ample room to pace. He walked to his bookstand and flung the heavy tome open, flipping through pages as if his life depended on it. Maybe my mother’s actually did.
Can he read through his veil?
As if hearing my thoughts, the lord sighed and slammed the book shut with a grunt of frustration, sending dust into the air. “You will have to leave!”
I took a step back before I could even think. “Pardon?”
“Leave. Now.” He gestured toward the door and flicked his fingers, summoning four specters from behind me. They held their arms out, leading me toward the door.
My head spun from one specter to the next, to the pacing lord before the throne. “What about my mother?”
The lord slowed his pace, but he didn’t stop moving. He waved a hand absently at me. “I will do what I can, of course. She will live to perform our Returning.”
If his first statement offered me a bit of comfort, his second was a kick to the stomach. “What do you mean? Is she going to die of this after that?”
The lord stopped and sighed, quite audibly. He positioned both hands on his hips. “I cannot tell you. I do not know.”
“But you know something, obviously.”
The lord took a few steps forward, closing the distance between us. “Olivière,” he said, grabbing one of my hands. He squeezed it and brought it up between our chests. “I will do what I can. Please worry instead about preparing yourself for my Returning.”
I ripped my hand out from his grip. “Your Returning? How can you speak to me about a Returning when my mother might be dead tomorrow?”
The lord leaned forward, trying to reach for me. I took a step back. “Oliv
ière, the timing of your mother’s illness is unfortunate, but—”
“The timing?”
“If you knew how long I waited. If you knew how hard this is for me, to accept your love.”
“Accept my love?” I crossed my arms tight against my chest, all timidity forgotten. “What love? I don’t even know you.”
“A fact that could be remedied if only you would accept my invitation more often.”
“And what do you mean, how hard it is for you? Do you think I want to be the lord’s goddess?” I threw my hands in the air at him. “That I have any interest in this black void of a man who stays locked up inside this monstrosity of a castle, ignoring the needs of his people, a heartless monster who doesn’t care if they’re dying?”
The lord straightened his shoulders and clenched his hands into fists. “A heartless monster?”
“I was wondering what it meant. But now I know. You think nothing of your people.”
“And whose fault is that?” His tone was so accusatory, I flinched. He started pacing again before his throne, back and forth, back and forth. “I cannot leave this castle, Olivière! I do not know one person in this village from the next. I blink and they die. I die and they would not know—they could not imagine the depth of the pain I feel.”
I sighed heavily. He was making no sense. Leave it to me to wind up with the recluse with little grip on his sanity. “Don’t talk to me about a Returning until my mother’s health improves.”
The lord stiffened, and I realized, far more clearly than I had the first time we’d met, that my words had power over him.
I decided to test it. I pointed above the throne. “And give me that sword.”
I’d had to ask for the scabbard, too. And he gave them to me. Without a word. Thrusting them at me like he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. Or of me.
The scabbard rested now around my waist. I hoped I wore it right; we’d used our sashes to hold our stick blades. I held the sword out in front of me like a violet torch that lit my way down the path that ran between the castle and my home.
