by Shana Abe
You must not die. Not yet.
When it first begins, you’ll feel a sense of tearing within; I can think of no better word to describe it. Tearing. Renting, your skin from muscles, your muscles from bone. It will be a pain at once so exquisite and so horrifying that it will devour you whole. And it will be swift. You won’t even have the dubious relief of opening your mouth to scream.
You will no longer have a mouth.
Nor eyes, nor face, nor limbs. You will no longer have a human body. You will exist as nothing but smoke and pain.
I require that you hold on to one single, final thought during this agony: I will live.
Without it, every bit of you, every last lingering essence, will merely evaporate. Your parents will have nothing left to bury.
I wish I might be there for you when it happens. I wish I might be a better guide for you, my beloved girl. You are my great-great-grandchild. You have my husband’s eyes. And yet I remain trapped, old and blind, at this miserable distance, countries away, mired in my worry.
The first Turn has destroyed so many of our kind. Do not become one more early death.
All my love,
—Rue
Chapter 9
I walked along the outer walls of Iverson, looking for other doors, a cracked window, anything that might let me slip back inside without having to brave the flock of girls that still jostled about the main entrance. I walked at first without really seeing where I was going. I just needed to get away. The memory of Armand’s cold, empty eyes followed me like a cloud above my head.
There were no other unsecured entrances, but I found several windows out of reach and four oddly elfin wooden doors set back deep in stone arches. These were so small I’d have to stoop through them and so old the wood had blackened. They were also locked.
By then I was very much alone. I no longer heard anything but a solitary blackbird way off, testing out the notes of an amorous invitation. And the wind through the branches of the oaks and elms, a low rustling sibilance that swirled around me in a language I almost understood.
Still no drumbeat of the sea.
I discovered why soon enough. I’d been walking and walking, and even though the day was brisk, I’d begun to perspire. I reckoned I’d covered about a half mile of wall by then, or so it seemed. When I looked up, I saw the tip-top of what might have been my tower past the crenellations; the diamond window was still open. I was squinting up at that, wondering idly if anyone had ever thought to scale that high—a medieval prince, perhaps, determined to steal through the window to claim his princess—when I rounded another corner and found myself at the end of the isle.
The forest cut short. The sea was visible but far away, a sparkling smudge against the horizon, dusky flecks of boats sprinkled upon it. The ground I’d been treading tapered from grass to rocks, lots of rocks, until that was all there was. Huge tan and cream boulders sloughed down a cliff, strewn along a beach far below.
The bridge to the mainland stood on dry, spindly legs. There was no seawater beneath it, only sand laid out in ripples.
I stopped, confused. I closed my eyes and opened them again.
No water.
The brownish-gold sand surrounding the island gleamed with isolated puddles. Silvery shimmers bent the air above each, fairy air, dancing in mirage.
I edged closer to the rim of the cliff. The scent of earth and brine washed up and over me, raw in my lungs. My first step upon the nearest of the boulders roused it into a growling hum.
I set my teeth. I would ignore it. I’d come all this way, and I wanted to see the beach. I wanted to climb down there and dig my fingers into that sand, because it looked damp to me. And I had seen the water last night. It was not another delusion.
My boots were sturdy but not especially meant for climbing; the soles had worn slick. As I crept down, long strands of hair blew across my eyes, stuck in my lashes. My fingers groped for purchase among the pits and crags.
Still, I was halfway down before I fell. It was simple, stupid. I had my weight on a loose stone and then I didn’t. The stone pushed free of the pile and I was careening backward and downward with a hand still clenched in my skirt, too astonished even to shriek.
There was a second of suspension, that tiny fraction of time when you’re weightless and doomed and you know that everything is about to crash down hard and hurt—but then an unyielding force cinched around my shoulders. I was yanked back to the rocks, arms and legs flying.
I landed against something soft, something that gave a grunt as we hit the boulders. I heard the stone that had slipped smacking end over end down the pile, loosening others, a showery rainfall sound that ended with wet thuds against the beach below. But even all that was nearly drowned beneath the song of Jesse, who held me fast against his chest.
I didn’t have to twist around to confirm it. The strange bliss of his touch was already spreading through me, so sweet and acute I might dissolve with it. I tried to jerk free, and his arm cinched tighter, a stranglehold at the base of my neck.
“Don’t be daft, Lora. Unless you’re ready to fly.”
Not mute. I tugged at his arm with both hands until it relaxed slightly.
“Let go,” I choked out.
He did, slowly, his palm dragging flat along my collarbone until he gripped my shoulder—oh, heavens, so sweet—holding me steady as I wobbled upright and inched around to face him.
As soon as his hand fell away, the bliss subsided. I was aching without it, angry without it. Our shadows mingled down the rocks like lovers still entwined.
So, this was Jesse:
Colors, brilliant and glimmering. Music. A good height, and a country boy’s tan and muscled strength. An easy, inviting smile and eyes long-lashed and green as sultry summer. He was probably just seventeen or eighteen but already beautiful in that severe way men sometimes could be, and I knew exactly why Malinda and the rest followed him with their eyes even while they disparaged him with their words. If Armand was the darkened ruby, then Jesse was pure, vibrant gold. His hair was gold, and his skin was gold, and his touch lit gold inside me, a torch that burned still in places I’d never considered.
The fiend in my heart had come awake, as well, basking in his song. It radiated hunger, keen as a bayonet blade.
What I felt was rather more like … agitation. Or fear.
“It’s a long fall,” Jesse said. “Worse at low tide.”
“Thank you,” I managed, begrudging. Then his words sank in. “Is that what this is?” I motioned to the beach. “The tide is out?”
“The tide rides high, and we’re an island. The tide pulls low, and we’re one with the mainland again. You could walk there from here, if you wanted. But you’ve only got a few hours. Then you’d have to take the bridge back, or else swim.”
“You do speak.” It came out as an accusation.
“When there’s someone around worth speaking to.” He turned about, began to scale the boulders behind us. Big hands, callused hands, going from rock to rock. “It’s too dangerous here, Lora. Come with me.”
I stood for a moment, debating, but even as I thought about climbing down instead of up, a new shower of rubble broke free below. The combined song of the boulders rose in pitch, sounding remarkably like an alarm.
I followed Jesse. I wanted to avoid the hand he held out to me for those last few vertical feet, but he said, impatient, “Grab on,” so I did. The scrubby grass growing at the top of the cliff felt like a godsend, wonderfully firm.
Again, I pulled free as soon as I could. Again, every part of me tingled, and that made me defensive.
“What were you doing here? Were you following me?”
“Yes,” he said.
No denial, no excuses. I blinked up at him, and his smile widened.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer, not at first. The green of his eyes seemed to shift, growing darker, a summer storm rolling in. It was pulling me with it, too, spellbinding. I stared up at him and
felt a fresh heat wash over me, dry lightning charging the atmosphere. Everything around us glowed brighter and brighter, as if we ourselves were caught in an electric strand. I smelled cinnamon and vanilla and rain, a combination so delicious I nearly licked my lips.
I took a sustained breath instead. I looked away to the unclouded sky, and the spell unraveled.
“I wanted to make sure you’d be safe,” Jesse was saying, but something in his tone was tinged with a lie.
“Was it you who left the orange in my room last night?”
“You were hungry. And I thought you’d be up before Gladys arrived.”
Hungry, echoed the fiend, almost a moan.
“I wasn’t!” I barked, wanting to stifle them both—and then the shock of his admission hit. I’d thought about it but hadn’t truly thought about it: the moonlight spread along the blankets on the bed, the thin flannel of my nightgown pulled tight against my breasts. The small rounded room, the sensation of a caress. He’d been there, with me—
Jesse lifted his open palms, a gesture of surrender.
“I meant no harm. You’re a deep sleeper, Lora, heavy dreams that carry you deep. Beyond memory, I’d guess. I’ll wake you next time.”
My cheeks began to burn. “Are you insane?” I hissed. “You’re not to go into my room, not at night or any other time! Do you think I don’t know how to defend myself? I’m from bloody St. Giles! Do you think I’ve never been in a fight before?”
“No,” he said, unsmiling. “I don’t think any of that.”
“Look,” I said, and now my anger was a fine weapon zinging through me, putting power behind the finger I jabbed into his chest. “I don’t know what you’re about, and I don’t care. I’ve dealt with boys like you for as long as I can remember, and I’m not interested. Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean I’m weak. The next time you try something like that, I swear to God I’ll make you sorry.” I had no idea what I could do to make him sorry that wouldn’t also land me in the soup, so I gave him another jab for good measure. “Got it?”
“I apologize,” Jesse said. He’d made no move to defend himself, although he was taller than I. And older. And a boy. His hands remained lax at his sides. “I just … didn’t want you to be hungry.”
And there was something in his tone again, something unsaid, only this time I swore I nearly heard it. The beast in me heard it, gathered it near.
It became: beloved.
I closed my mouth with a snap. I backed away from him, letting the wind push me sideways until I met the cool, scoured wall of Iverson. Then I turned around and ran.
I never heard him follow.
• • •
Sunday was Visitors’ Day at the school. It was the one day of the week outsiders were permitted inside the halls … but only some of the halls. And only some outsiders. I doubted that anyone I knew from the Home, for example, would have made it as far as the prickly hedges, much less found themselves escorted into the shining sophistication of the castle’s front parlor.
Most of the girls had families that lived too far away for regular visits. For all its bucolic charm, this part of Wessex wasn’t in any danger of becoming a serious social destination. It seemed no one of any real consequence—barring the Duke of Idylling and his irritating son, of course—lived nearby.
But a few girls did have guests on my first Sunday at Iverson: mothers and fathers, a scattering of boys in jackets and tight collars who might have been brothers. Or beaux. The rest of the students sat in softly chattering circles, ankles crossed, drinking tea and eating tiny morsels of food without spilling a drop or a crumb. Without even, I noticed, seeming to part their lips.
I sat alone, naturally. I hadn’t wanted to come, but the scent of cold smoked salmon and dill wafting from the doorway had been too much to resist. After everything that happened that afternoon, I’d missed lunch entirely.
I’d claimed a solitary chair wedged into a corner. It was horsehair, old, wretchedly uncomfortable. I sat with my plate of finger sandwiches balanced on my knees and tried to chew as the other girls did, teensy bites followed by short, dainty sips of liquid, a process that could easily consume ten minutes for a single sandwich. Perhaps that was why no one had sprigs of dill in their teeth.
At the orphanage we’d had one meal a day, plus tea. Tea at Blisshaven was old chipped teapots filled with twice-used leaves and a platter of stale sliced bread. If yours wasn’t one of the first hands groping for the bread, all you got was tea.
The pots here were of silver. The china had cherubs and gilded trim. The tea was flawlessly steeped, possibly my first ever from virgin leaves. And there were enough salvers of miniature sandwiches and iced cakes to satisfy even me—although after I had served myself thirds, Mrs. Westcliffe sent me a fixed, frigid smile from across the room that had me slinking back to my chair.
Lady Sophia held court in the corner opposite mine, reclining on a chaise longue, letting her jackals do all the talking. I pretended not to hear, but the parlor sported mirrors on all the walls. Everything reflected.
“… so ridiculous. I mean, of course she has no money, but does that mean she has to dress like some woeful matchstick girl? You know the ones I mean, Stella, those deplorable little rags one sees at Drury Lane, bleating for coins after the shows.”
“Quite.”
“And her hair. Gracious.”
“Perhaps someone might lend her a proper comb. You’ve got an old one, Caro, don’t you? That ugly one your auntie gave you, carved from a camel bone or something?”
“I’d rather throw it away, really. I doubt she’d even know what to do with it. Look at her. Did no one tell her this was Sunday tea?”
Chew, chew, chew, chew. Swallow. Sip.
“Is that a hole in her skirt? Look, look—oh, Mittie, don’t be such a fishwife! With your eyes, not your entire torso! But just there, at her knee.”
“It is!”
“Yes!”
“Now, that is truly pathetic. Truly.”
“Pathetic!”
Chew, chew, chew, chew. The salmon turned to mush in my mouth.
“What on earth do you suppose Lord Armand had to say to her?”
That was from Lillian, sounding genuinely baffled. I took my sip of tea in the midst of their silence, washing down the mush.
“Well, she’s the new charity girl, isn’t she?” said Mittie. “So most likely he was merely saying hello. All the charity girls have to meet the duke. To make certain they’re appropriate and everything. He was probably only saying hello. For his father.”
“He never did before,” said Lillian, still baffled.
“Of course he did. You just never knew.”
“It didn’t seem Chloe thought it a mere hello.”
“No,” agreed Sophia thoughtfully, speaking at last. “It didn’t.”
My cup and plate were empty. I rose, placed them on the sideboard with the other lovely dirty things, and walked off. The mirrors all around showed me images of a phantom girl, shadowy and gray.
I left her behind me. I was careful not to look too closely at her face.
• • •
And that was the sum of my first day at Iverson.
The worst part of it all was that Jesse was right. I was hungry. I was definitely too hungry not to eat his orange.
If it was Dark, it didn’t matter. I was already doomed, because every Dark cell of my being already hungered to see him again.
I stood by my window that night and dropped the peeling through bit by bit, flickers of white and orange that tumbled down to the grass, became swallowed by the moonlit green.
Chapter 10
Proper young ladies of the British Empire were, apparently, expected to know how to dance, to organize a supper of up to twenty courses, to embroider, to speak a foreign language—not German—to play the piano, and to paint.
We were not expected to wrestle with mathematics, beyond what might be required for common household management. We need not bother with
horticulture but were encouraged to learn to arrange cut flowers artfully in vases. We studied history because, I supposed, it was dry and full of the dead and therefore mostly harmless. But science was a subject fixed absolutely within the realm of men. So was literature of the darker sort; no Dante or John Ford for us. We read books about moral forbearance. Or else poems, the fluffy sort that rhapsodized over windmills and kings and kittens and good girls who liked to sit by the fire and knit.
I could not dance. I could not reliably position forks on a dinner table for a prince. When I embroidered, the needle buzzed so loudly in my hand that I pricked myself with it, and my first attempt at a sampler ended up stippled with blood.
I understood no other language but my own and that of the metals and stones.
I’d never held a paintbrush.
But something happened on my first day of piano class.
Something magical.
“Middle C, if you please, Miss Jones.”
Monsieur Vachon lurked behind me, unseen, but I knew exactly how he would appear, anyway: tall and lanky, with a spine bent at the neck like a shepherd’s crook, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles, his hands clasped together at the small of his back. He wore a black jacket and waistcoat and pristine spats over his shoes. He looked like an undertaker but for his hair. It was tawny and unruly, a lion’s mane framing his face.
And he fully expected that I, seated for the very first time in my life before a piano, would know what middle C might be. Perhaps all the girls in France were born with sonatas bubbling through their veins.
The sheet music in front of me swam with dots and lines. It might as well have been penned in ancient Etruscan.
