by Camilla Monk
When a second figure steps out right behind him, I can’t contain a wince. Even from here, I recognize the usual leather jacket, the shorter, slender build. I know that prejudice is the child of ignorance and all that, but . . . I don’t like the pirate. He has a real name, by the way—Alexander Morgan. He’s some kind of assistant to my father, and to be honest, I’ve never actually heard him say “aargh” or sing “Drunken Sailor.” It’s not his fault; I mean, I’m sorry that he’s missing his right eye, and honestly, apart from that, he’s like any guy my age. Not even bad looking, with his brown curls and soft—well, one soft—cinnamon eye. He’s always nice to me, which makes me feel even worse for being creeped out like that.
Speaking of which . . . he too gazes in our direction. His face lights up. Dammit. Busted.
Next to me, Stiles acts like he didn’t notice the pirate’s grin and tips his head toward the window. “Let’s go greet them?”
“Okay.”
By the time we’ve covered the miles of hallway separating us from the entrance hall, I hear the heavy oak doors creak and slam closed. Cold seeps through my slippers as I come down the stone stairs alongside Stiles.
My father removes his coat and drops it in the awaiting arms of a maid he barely acknowledges. He’s wearing his usual black mandarin suit underneath—he avoids white shirts, probably because otherwise people would ask to confess their sins to him. When he sees me, his features relax, an odd metamorphosis that smooths the sharp angles of his face and lessens the stern lines creasing the corners of his mouth. I wouldn’t quite call it a smile, but it’s an expression reserved for me solely; I know that much.
“You look radiant, Island,” he says, his peculiar accent betraying his South African roots.
I respond with an awkward thumbs-up as he pulls me to him. I allow the embrace even if I don’t fully return it. This is another bridge that collapsed, and that’ll take time to rebuild. To be honest, I wonder if we were ever that close before my accident. I lost my mother when I was only fifteen, but when he showed me his old pictures of her, with her flaming-red locks and those features in which I could find a little bit of myself, I had this instinctual certainty—literally a gut feeling—that she was important, that our bond was important.
On the other hand, ever since I blinked awake for the first time at the clinic and found myself staring into those hazel eyes that mirrored mine, I’ve been grappling with whatever daughterly instinct was left in me in the absence of any memory of this man. I’ve learned again his calm, inscrutable mask, his brief hugs, or the peculiar smoky, peppery scent of his Vetiver cologne—I read the plant makes a great bug repellent, but I don’t think it influenced my father’s choice.
“I guess I’m doing better,” I say when he releases me.
A dry cough shakes his frame as he replies, “I can see that.”
“How have you been, Island?”
A prickle down my spine alerts me to the pirate’s close proximity before I’ve even turned. I really need to get over that. He’s a human being. With an eye patch. It’s not the end of the world. I force a grin on my face. “Great, thanks!”
He steps forward, carrying with him a whiff of leather and outdoors. I didn’t notice the box in his hands until now. He hands it to me with an easy grin. Tightly wrapped in a golden ribbon is a box of Italian gianduiotti.
“Early Christmas present,” he explains.
“Um . . . wow. Thanks.”
I’m torn. I don’t want any gift from him—I’m not even sure I should accept it—but my mouth is watering already, and I know that I’m gonna hit that candy like Floyd Mayweather Jr. as soon as I’m alone. Morgan takes another step forward, right into what I deem my personal space, and my uneasiness returns full force. He always looms too close; I think that’s why I have a problem with this guy.
“I’m really glad to see you like this, Island,” he croons, plunging his gaze into mine.
I recoil with an unsteady smile that I fear is closer to a grimace. Part of me suspects that Morgan is hitting on me, while another counters that all he’s really doing is sucking up to my father with his suave game and his candy. Either way, I could do without the attention.
“Island is delighted. Thank you.” At last, my father’s icy tone slices through the awkward silence. I let out a silent breath of relief as Morgan puts some distance between us.
On my father’s face, the usual impassive mask has fallen back into place as he instructs Morgan. “Contact Jorge. I want a full report on the incident in Rio.”
Morgan ducks his head. “Understood.”
He strides past us with one last glance my way before disappearing behind the doors leading to the east wing. I’m not eating those gianduiotti. I’m strong enough for that.
Behind me, Stiles steps forward to greet my father. “Welcome back. Satisfying trip?”
My father’s lips quirk briefly. “Very much so.”
“Dr. Bentsen was hoping to speak to you. Would you like me to schedule a call?” Stiles asks.
A jolt of anxiety travels down all the way to my toes at the sound of her name. I had almost forgotten about that minor formality. She’s going to report to my father on my progress, and how that meeting plays out will determine whether I can hope for a one-way ticket to New York in the weeks to come . . .
My father’s eyes are on me, kind and keen, as he replies, “I’ll call her now.” He pauses, bestowing his full attention on Stiles. “Once I’m done, you’ll join Island and me for dinner, broer.”
I blink. It’s not the first time I hear my father call Stiles “brother,” but an invitation to the dinner table is certainly something new. I shake my head with a secret smile. Stiles . . . ever the employee of the month.
•••
My father joined us after he was done with his phone call, and if I had a left nut to give, I’d trade it for a detailed recap of their conversation. Right now. But last time I checked, I was still a girl, and he won’t talk until he’s decided to. So instead I joined him with Stiles in the reception hall for what is shaping to be the longest dinner of my life.
My father sits alone at one end of the mile-long oak table, as usual, while I inwardly fret in a giant renaissance chair at the other, dwarfed by the massive chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling. I watch a stiff butler place three plates of beef tataki and julienned vegetables in front of us and dig in under the disapproving scrutiny of the giant portraits lining the walls—not ancestors, just paintings my father collected over the years. He doesn’t like to discuss his hobby: I asked once, and he basically brushed me off and said they were forgotten warriors, no one history remembers.
I’d been hoping that Stiles’s addition in the chair next to mine would bring a little life to this party, but the only sound in the hall is the soft clink of cutlery as we finish our plates. I still haven’t fully adjusted to this strange ritual: my father always eats in complete silence. No use in trying to strike up conversation until dessert is finished: the best I can hope for is a nod, perhaps even a monosyllabic reply if he’s in a particularly jolly mood.
Gwennaël earns a nod, by the way. My father loves crêpes Suzette, and they certainly taste even better when you have an actual Frenchman to flambé them right before you. I watch in amazement as the splash of Grand Marnier he pours over the crêpes ignites, and he serves us the flaming plates.
As expected, when the last bite of dessert has been gobbled and the plates are gone, my father rises from his chair and, at last, speaks. “We’ll have a drink in the salon.”
I bite back a sigh. “We” actually means “I”: Bentsen doesn’t want me to drink while I’m—supposedly—under treatment, and Stiles never drinks on the job. As we make our way across the lobby and to the east wing, I muse that sometimes my father reminds me of Louis XIV, “the Sun King.” It’s the way he orchestrates, ritualizes things around himself: the perfectly tailored mandarin suits or how he bestows his rare smiles like favors. Ice cold when business doe
sn’t move fast enough, solar to those he deems deserving of his light.
I plop back in my favorite armchair while my father sits in his own, facing me. Behind the bar, Stiles begins yet another carefully choreographed ritual, setting a crystal glass and a flat, perforated silver spoon on the counter. Next is the bottle, which he frees from a lacquered box. He pours an ounce of the greenish liquid in the glass before he balances the spoon on top of it. Then the sugar cube, placed at the center of the spoon. Last is the fountain, an antique glass vessel resting on top of a finely engraved silver stand, with a silver tap designed to drip ice-cold water onto the spoon. Stiles checks that the glass is perfectly positioned and opens the tap. Drop after drop, the water hits the sugar and trickles in the absinthe glass with soft splattering sounds. My father watches as pale swirls form in the liquid and it turns milky. Another coughing fit shakes him, thunderous in this silent room.
Every time I witness this, I wonder if I should say something. He hasn’t been well lately, and I doubt absinthe’s legendary healing properties will do him much good. I glance at the spotted brownish label. Actually, I’m not even sure anyone should drink something that was bottled in 1907 . . . Once again, I respect the ritual though and sit still while Stiles serves him the glass. He raises it, toasting no one in particular—something common with him. “To Odysseus’s journey,” he says before taking the first sip, his eyes closed.
That too, I won’t try to overanalyze. My father is nothing but cryptic, probably by nature rather than choice. Often, he’ll throw half a dozen words my way and be done, certain that his meaning and intent have been stated with absolute clarity. And I’ll just blink, wondering what he was even talking about in the first place . . .
Once he’s done and the bottle is back in its box, my father lets out a contented sigh. “Dr. Bentsen is pleased with your recovery.”
My breath catches in my windpipe; I sit a little straighter.
“But she told me you’ve become restless and expressed boredom.” He arches an elegant gray eyebrow. “Are you bored here in Ingolvinlinna, Island?”
If there’s something I’ve learned over the past months, it’s that litotes and diplomacy will get me nowhere. So, I look at him straight in the eye and say, “Yes.”
“Have you visited the entirety of the island?”
“No . . .”
“Well then—”
“Dad.” My voice catches as I utter the simple and oddly foreign word, but I trudge on. “I want—I need my life back. I need to see people, to move, to work. I honestly think I’ve done all the recovering I can here.” I try to smother the flicker of guilt at the back of my mind as I claim this. How pathetic is it that even I am not entirely convinced I’m stable?
At first, he remains silent, appraising me with unreadable eyes. When his lips part, I wrench my hands on my lap, hanging on to each word. “I suppose I can’t keep you here forever, can I?” It doesn’t sound like an actual question—because it isn’t—I bite my tongue and allow him to go on uninterrupted. “Perhaps Mr. Stiles could start by taking you to Hamina for some Christmas shopping tomorrow.”
A fist pump would certainly be inappropriate in this refined atmosphere. I go for an expression of sober wonderment. “Oh, I’d love that.”
“Then that’s settled.”
Stiles watches our exchange from behind the bar. His mouth twitches, and his right eyelid flutters in the briefest wink. I fight the urge to wink back at him.
My father’s fingers rap on his armrest, and I almost think he’s bored already and will leave for the night, but his gaze lights up in renewed interest. “I have a gift for you, Island.”
I shake my head. “You need to stop spoiling me.”
Not that he will . . . I’m not really worried about the money—obviously—rather, I’m kind of uneasy at the notion that he’s offering me all that extravagant jewelry I won’t wear anyway as a means to connect with me, to make up for everything I’ve lost. I don’t need any of that, and it actually makes me feel a little guilty for not being able to return his affection on a deeper, more instinctive level.
Meanwhile, my father flicks his wrist to Stiles, who leaves the room and returns a few seconds later with a black leather box wrapped in a white satin bow.
He rises from his armchair to take it from him and places it in my lap. “I think you’ll like it.”
I tug at the delicate ribbon hesitantly. That stuff screams expensive again . . . but no. The box doesn’t reveal the flare of an emerald necklace, like last time, but a simple pendant, held by a thin blue silk cord. At first glance, it looks like some kind of orange glass design, but when I take it out to examine it against the fireplace light, the translucent disc reveals veins and microscopic bubbles surrounding a delicate butterfly—trapped in amber, I realize.
I caress the cool surface with a mixture of awe and curiosity, inspecting the spotted wings, forever preserved. “Is it old?”
“Paleocene, a little over fifty million years old.”
My mouth falls open in amazement. The longer I stare at it though, the more I struggle with a growing sense of discomfort, like a weight inside me, whose location I can’t pinpoint. Maybe because it’s basically wearing a dead insect around my neck.
Of course, my lack of enthusiasm doesn’t go unnoticed. My father tilts his head. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I do . . . Of course, I do. I guess it’s just a little sad that it’s dead,” I muse, even as my mind pictures the butterfly being slowly trapped in the golden resin, struggling, and eventually giving up the fight.
He takes the pendant from my hand and holds it out against the light in his turn. “I prefer to think it’s saved. Safe from predators that would have crushed its wings, freed from pain”—he bends toward me and, with careful gestures, secures it around my neck—“its beauty forever preserved.”
And yet, I can’t stop thinking that the butterfly is dead. I shiver. “Yes. You’re right . . . Where did it come from, by the way?”
“Ecuador.”
My ears perk up. “Where your factory is? Is that where you went this time?”
He lets his fingers trail in my hair, stroking it. “Yes. I’ll tell you about it later, if you want. For now, you and I need some rest. Good night, Island. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I don’t take offense at this abrupt dismissal: this isn’t the first time he’s shut down on me when I want to hear about his business, and I know my father has been tired lately. That damn absinthe probably doesn’t help either. “Okay, sleep well.”
Stiles walks me back to my room, as usual. When I’m about to close the door, I hesitate before turning around to face him. My father’s words echo in my ears. Brother . . . I wonder if this is all just a job to Stiles. How can he not see what’s going on? I clench my fists. “You shouldn’t give it to him. Even if he asks.”
He tilts his head, as if waiting for the rest. We both know better; there’s no misunderstanding between us at the moment.
“The absinthe,” I insist. “It’s shit, and you know it.”
His lips curve in an apologetic pout. “Island, it’s not my place to say anything.”
“Then who will? You know he’ll brush me off.”
“Unlike me?” he asks—the undercurrent of irony is not lost on me.
My shoulders slump. “It’s different for you . . .” I hate to admit it, but Stiles has a lot more reach than me, whom everyone around these walls regards as some kind of handicapped kid.
He inches closer, at the edge of my personal space, and places his hand on my shoulder. I can feel the heat of his palm through the light wool of my sweater, not quite intimate—no longer casual either. I’m wondering if I should say something, but then his head dips toward mine. My pulse picks up as his face draws closer, until his mouth hovers millimeters from my ear and his cheek grazes my hair. “I’ll see what I can do,” he murmurs.
After he’s left and closed the door to my bedroom at last, I just stand th
ere for several seconds in a state of mild shock, contemplating this new “incident.” Maybe I need to tell him I’m not interested . . .
FOUR
PERILINEN
“Biscuit . . . wake up.”
I jackknife up and shove the comforter away, its weight suddenly unbearable. Under me, the mattress feels like quicksand. It takes me a few seconds to figure that my good ol’ canopy bed won’t swallow me and that I haven’t gone blind; it’s just dark in here. My hair is matted to my neck by an uncomfortable sheen of sweat; my cheeks are hot. I will my heart to calm down with deep, slow breaths.
The sun hasn’t risen yet. I squint at the window to my left and the dull, smooth immensity beyond—it’s been snowing again. I glance at the glowing digits of the clock on my nightstand. 6:27. Stiles won’t start the pancakes until 7. I hope we’re getting normal ones today. The chocolate and chorizo ones he tried last week probably fit the legal definition of cruel and unusual punishment. I rub my eyes and fall back on my pillows. Okay, I’m living a lie. I don’t give a damn about the pancakes.
I stretch, sigh. I don’t want to move just yet; my skin is still tingling—the dream lingers in my body in a warm, buzzing sensation. I’ve had dreams before—nightmares too—but never so vivid and not for three nights in a row like that. A little voice at the back of my mind quips that my new and questionable habit of throwing up my meds as soon as Stiles looks away might have something to do with it . . .
The biggest frustration is that I can never see his face. That fantasy guy of mine isn’t really anyone I could identify. Similarly, there’s no logic, no scenario to these dreams: it’s not me being swept up by a brooding model and ravished on silk sheets. It’s more like a patchwork of sensations, things I glimpse under a strobe light—hot skin, lips that search mine in the dark, and under my fingertips, a rug of chest hair so warm, so silky, so curly that I wish I could shrink to a microscopic size and live in there for the rest of my life. Kinda like a louse, technically.
