“That’s true for us all, isn’t it?” Obel rubs my shoulder. “We can’t live life hoping we’ll never get it wrong. We’re not made for this world of ink. We’re not made for a place with no fresh starts.”
I look at him, confused.
“Show me your scar,” he says, and I hold up my hand. He raises his eyebrows at the amendments the government inker made. “You made a mistake, right?” I nod. “And here’s your scar – it will be there for ever to tell the world that you can’t even wash up without being a danger to yourself.”
I laugh and rub my hand – it’s still tender.
“But have you ever broken a bone, girl?” I shake my head. Obel holds up his arm. “I broke my wrist when I was nine. Mum told me not to climb the tree, so I did it. She was right.”
He smiles at me.
“You can’t see it any more can you? But it’s there. My body doesn’t tell tales on me for every single mistake. Our bodies heal, our bodies repair. Our bodies are built with redemption running through our veins. We don’t consist of the failures and mistakes. We are made new every morning. The past doesn’t have to define you, Leora. Your mistakes don’t have to be for ever. There’s redemption. There’s always redemption.”
I’m crying now, the broken pieces are fitting back together, and I think I know what I need to do.
Chapter Forty-Five
“How long will it take?” I ask Obel.
“Two, maybe three sittings. With healing time in between. You’ll be ready in a month at best.”
“Well, in that case we had better start.”
In the darkness as I leave the studio I hear her call my name and I think I must be dreaming.
“Leora. Don’t walk away.”
I turn around and it’s really her. She looks pink and freezing, as though she’s been waiting for me for a while.
“Are you coming for a walk, then?” she says. And she turns away. I scamper over to catch her up and walk with her, trying to keep in step with her long paces.
“Did you think about me at all, Leora?” She turns her head for just a second. “For so long everything I’ve done has been about you. You realize that, right?” I nod, but she doesn’t see me. “I believed in your dad.” I try to reply but she turns a corner and my words are lost.
“We were in it together. I would have fought for you till the end. But then at the weighing you just – gave up.”
I interrupt, “No Verity…” But she shakes her head and continues.
“You just let them destroy everything that we had worked for.” She stops and turns to me, hands still in her pockets, her cheeks pink and her eyes shining with angry tears. “Burn him.” She mimics me, spitting the words out. “You might as well have burned my entire career that day. Do you know how much I risked for you? Do you have any idea how close I came to losing my job?”
I reach towards her but she takes a step back. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about you,” I admit. Verity raises her eyebrows, challenging me to say more. “There was no space for anything else in my mind except what he’d done and all that he had hidden. I’m sorry.”
She just looks at me coldly. I’m losing her.
“I’ve hurt everyone who loves me and everyone who loved him, Verity. Everything broke when they threw him in the flames, but at the time it seemed like the only thing, the only possible thing to do.” Verity turns and starts to walk again and I call after her. “They knew anyway.” She stops, her back to me. “The government fed you information to pass on to me to see what I’d do. They even knew when we were stealing the skin.”
Verity turns to me with a rueful smile. “I know. They were testing me as much as you. You passed though,” she says pointedly. “I just look like a rebel. You know, they thought I knew you were half blank?” Her mouth twists in revulsion. “Anyway, you ended up doing what they wanted you to. You’re a hero.” She exhales this last word as though I’m everything that makes her sick. “I’m on probation. I’ve been chucked out of my office and I’m back working with all the other trainees.”
“I owe you so much. I know I do. I always do.”
A tiny smile almost reaches Verity’s mouth. “Understatement of the year, Lor. Is it true you’ve been offered a job?”
I nod.
“What will you do?”
“I’m not sure.” I rest my hand on her arm and she doesn’t move away. “It depends on whether I’ve still got anyone left.”
Verity frowns. “You’ve always had me,” she murmurs. “But do I have you? Are you here for me? Would you fight for me?” And she stands there, freezing hands held out to me.
“I’d like you to let me try,” I whisper. “Let me try to show you I can be as good to you as you’ve been to me.”
Verity doesn’t speak but she doesn’t stop me walking next to her as she makes her way home.
The next few weeks pass at once slowly and unbearably fast. I spend time with Mum – Sophie – finding out as much about the gaps in my history as I can. Julia comes to see us and I quiz her too. She’s my rescuer really. I owe her my life.
I want to be able to resurrect everything I’ve destroyed. I want to bring my broken friendships back to life, but if they rise again I’ll still be able to see the scars. I want to bring Dad back from the dead, but do I really want to know the real him, the one with the past that I can’t read and I still don’t know if I can forgive? Sometimes I wish I could follow this thread back to where I started, rolling it into a neat ball. But if there’s no going back, maybe I can knit these events into something new and beautiful.
My skin is itching. It’s nearly time.
Chapter Forty-Six
The Box
There was once a girl who was cursed by her own beauty. She had been created to be irresistible – to bewitch men and women with her looks and to make almost everyone fall in love with her. When the time came for her to marry she had no lack of suitors; they lined the streets outside her house, eagerly hoping for a glimpse of her face.
One by one she saw them. Each one was handsome and full of charm, but she knew by now that beauty was deceptive. She was looking for something special. She hoped for love.
The girl waited and waited but love never came. The men who visited her thought of her as a prize to be won, a fortress to be breached, a wild garden to subdue. No one noticed the tender heart that she would so readily have given to a true lover. Her hopes dashed, she settled for the one who seemed kind, who had wealth to share and honour to bestow. She married the King and the people celebrated.
On their wedding day, when the festivities lulled, the King whispered to his bride that he had a gift for her. He ushered her to his chamber and presented her with a beautiful, ornate box. She let it rest on her lap as tears came to her eyes. Perhaps, perhaps he could love her? Perhaps, perhaps he had seen beneath her warm skin and noticed the quiet, wild soul that ached for love. She stroked the box and her fingertips played at the lock. She gazed into her new husband’s eyes and smiled.
“The box is yours on one condition, my bride. You must swear never to open it.”
Her tears of joy became bitter, and she knew his love was like the contents of the box – out of her reach. She nodded, thanked him for the gift and locked her heart as tightly as the box.
They lived together in companionable estrangement. The King was not cruel, but his neglect of his young wife soon broke her heart. Her skin grew pale, her hair lank and her body became bent and guarded as though she expected at any moment to need to defend herself. Now and then she would take out the box her husband had given her and gaze at its intricate carvings. Soon she lost sight of the box’s beauty and saw only its forbidding lock.
When the King went on his next voyage to a faraway country she formed a plan. She entered his chambers and searched and hunted until she found the key to the box hidden in the depths of the forever-blazing fire in the hearth. The embers singed her dress and the key burned and blistered her hands, but so determi
ned was she, that she carried the key straight to her box and inserted it, still smoking, into the lock. With one twist the box was open and, with scorched hands, she raised the lid.
Out of the box flew everything evil, everything venomous, everything malevolent, everything ugly, everything vile and repugnant. Into the world crept those pieces of poison and they devoured all that was good in the world. Because of one box the entire world was polluted.
All that was left was hope.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It’s a month later, and it’s time for the speaking ritual. I prepare for it as though it’s my wedding day.
I look at my new mark – the one begun by my own body and finished by Obel. I dress in my traditional garments. It’s the first time I’ve worn them since the party. I rub scented oil over my skin and cover myself in orange and gold. The robe, cloak and shawl hide me. I close my eyes and prepare myself for the evening ahead. Mum and I walk to the speaking of the names in companionable silence. Our arms are linked. The cold is piercing enough to numb your lips and freeze your tears.
The hall of remembrance is misted with wafts of incense. The candles flicker as we close the door. Verity is already in the hall; she didn’t wait for us this time. Mum and I walk to the front and check that the book is on the right page for our evening’s reading and we light some more candles. I get water for each of us in case our voices grow tired.
We look at each other and Mum nods and gives an encouraging smile. We’ll all speak the names even if no one attends to hear them. Verity goes first and I sit at the side of the room, eyes closed listening to each name, relishing the sound of the syllables. I inhale the incense and feel I’m breathing in the souls of the long-passed. I feel the temptation of sleep, enjoying the way it lures me in the warmth and dimness of the hall. I open my eyes and wait while my vision adjusts to the candlelit gloom. I notice a couple of figures sitting down now, but it’s no one I recognize. I move closer to the front in an attempt to stay awake. I need to be alert tonight. It’s too important.
I hear Verity’s gentle but clear voice chanting names as though it’s liturgy or perhaps poetry. I guess we’re recreating tales of old here as we revive the dead and let them dwell with us in this room for one evening. I can almost feel them tonight, all of us gathered here, souls entwined.
Candles flicker as another person comes in. It’s Obel; he looks over at me and sits down. Mum changes places with Verity and her soft voice echoes around.
While I’m sitting I think about that girl. The one with the box. She shoulders the blame – it was all her fault, she was the silly girl who gave in to temptation. She was the one who unleashed the evil. But she didn’t create it, did she? She didn’t ask for the box, she didn’t intend to change everything. Sometimes evil is just waiting and it doesn’t care who lets it loose.
I wonder what she did after it all went wrong? Did she try to gather all the badness, scooping it up in her hands and cramming it back in? Did she give in and accept that all the hate was released and join it? Did she try to fight? Did she just open a window, let the darkness out and hope no one would notice, that no one would realize it was her?
I like to think she kept that box and took it with her wherever she went. And that when she glimpsed evil hiding in the corners of her life, she would gather it up, speak softly to it and tame it. I like to imagine she coaxed the evil back into the box and tended to its sorrows. I like to think she didn’t give in to the evil. I like to believe she didn’t give up on hope.
With a shaking breath I ascend the steps and find my place in the book. The names are beautifully penned – handwritten letters, bones joined by sinews, combining to become a real person. I take a sip of my water and start to read.
Taking my time I turn the page. As I breathe in I look up, to acknowledge the people sharing these names, these moments, these lives. And I see them there: Oscar and Verity, Obel and Sophie, Mel and Jack Minnow. But I can’t look at them for long. I must focus on the names. As I read, I take a piece of paper from my pocket. I hide my hands behind the pulpit and unfold the sheet. I lift it on to the book and smooth it out across the page. Here is a new page of the book and it’s my duty to read it.
Connor Drew – Oscar’s father.
Mel – storyteller.
Miranda Flint – my birth mother.
Joel Flint – my father.
I look up and see them there. Everyone, sitting, watching. I see them smiling – the ones that matter. And I read all the names. All the names of the forgotten Verity grudgingly found for me in the archives. All the names of the deceased blanks Obel gave me. All the names of the dead and gone and never mentioned again.
I pause. There’s a murmur in the hall, people are moving, someone’s coming to the front. I take another sip of water and add one last name to the list.
Leora Flint.
We remember you.
As Mel strides up to where I stand, I close the book. I shut my eyes to the chaos that is beginning to unfurl and I unwrap the shawl from my neck. I remove my cloak and unbutton my robe.
I drop all my outer layers to the ground and stand in my breastplate and skirt. Leaving my robes and my old life at my feet. There are gasps as I walk down the aisle away from everyone and everything. I hear the shock as they see the mark Obel has given me across my chest, skimming my shoulders. The talons clawing at my breast, the tips of its wings fluttering down my arms.
A crow. A crow. The mark is a crow.
I walk outside. Snow falls like feathers. The whole town is blank.
Acknowledgements
I really never thought this would happen. I am the happiest writer in the world and it is all thanks to this astonishing lot:
Jo Unwin. Goodness, how do I thank you? You’ve given me the chance to do my dream job. You’ve had confidence in me when I have had none. You have shown me and so many that kindness really is the best quality a person can have. Thank you for seeing something in me. Thank you for making Ink possible. And thank you to all the very excellent authors at JULA – you are the very sweetest cheerleaders and all so cool, smart and poised. LOVE.
Genevieve Herr. Cripey me, I hit the jackpot. I am the luckiest writer alive to get to work with you. You have such vision, such spark, such a deft and gentle way of working. You have transformed this book and every suggestion you have made has been the right call. You have been patient, gracious and constantly encouraging. You deserve all good things for ever and ever. I just can’t thank you enough. (Plus, my skin has never looked lovelier, you flippin’ genius.)
There are so many kind and lovely people at Scholastic. I particularly want to thank:
Fi Evans, Olivia Horrox, Roisin O’Shea and the publicity team. You work so hard and with such cheerfulness. Thank you so much.
Andrew Biscomb and the design team: the artwork you’ve created for Ink has made me so happy. I absolutely beam when I see my beautiful book.
Emily Landy: you and your rights team are bionic! Thank you.
Pete Matthews and Emma Jobling (copy-editors) for gorgeous editing skills and for not making me feel like an idiot even when you have to ask whether I’ve made words up because I have spelled them so weirdly.
Aimée Felone: thank you for all the ways you look after me and for always being the most positive person in the world. You are completely brilliant.
Sheila Vaughan: you are exceptional. Thank you for taking care of me. You are such a peaceful influence; I really appreciate you.
David Stevens: I suspect you should get paid extra for being nice to nervous authors when they come to visit and for making them laugh. Phew and thank you, you’re a good ’un.
I feel extremely fortunate to be part of Scholastic – you’ve made this whole experience a complete joy.
Dr Gemma Angel, your work inspired me and this book and I am so grateful to you for your wisdom and input. Thank you for sharing your creativity and awesome mind.
Emma Kierzek at Aurora Tattoo Studio in Lancast
er and Anthony and Matt from New Testament Tattoo Studio in Leyland. Thank you for letting me watch, learn and ask stupid questions.
To the group of friends who read the first draft, gave feedback and remained my friends – I salute you. I hope you know how much I love you. Special thanks to Helen Copestake for in-depth feedback and tremendous encouragement. We all have to get matching tattoos now, right?
Tanya Marlow, my skypewriter. You inspire me in ways you will never know. Thanks for being my friend, my therapist and my cyber-bloodsister. Love you for ever.
Julia Holland. Oh, Julia, trusting you with those first 10,000 words was the best thing I ever did. Without your encouragement none of this would have happened. I owe you. How’s that temporary tattoo working out for you? Drinks ahoy, eh?
Love and kisses to the best book group in the world. You are all such glintingly beautiful friends. Third Tuesdays are the best.
Shona Minson + Steffy Bushell – you two are hilarious and inspiring. I am so lucky to have you as my friends. Now, move closer please. The commune starts with us.
Shelley Harris. You were the one who answered a tentative tweet that said, “So, if someone has an idea for a book how might they begin to turn it into a story?” Your advice included coloured pens and total, utter encouragement. The retreat you led was the biggest confidence boost I’ve ever had and I owe you so much.
Anne Booth. I would fill the world with people like you if I could. Thank you for your writing advice and for being someone who inspires me to still have tentative faith in God and humanity.
“Agent twin” Hayley Webster. I wonder if you’ll ever know how precious you are to me? You’re wonderful. High-fives for everrrr.
Keris Stainton. Without your amazing Writing YA course, I would never have had the courage to keep writing. Thank you for being my friend and my personal dealer of handsome boy gifs.
To the Broadways: Mum and Dad and Ruth and Hannah. You are the best, I love you so much. It is a bit impossible not to be inspired by you, and you make me want to be a person of peace in the world. Blimey, you’re a great family to be part of.
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