Gilded Ashes

by Rosamund Hodge

  “They haven’t hurt me,” I say reflexively.

  “But they said they would, if you didn’t let your stepsister marry me.” His hand squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t you understand? I’m the duke’s heir. They can’t touch my betrothed. Walk out this door with me, and you’ll never have to be afraid again.”

  I will always, always be afraid.

  “I want you to marry her,” I say. “I told you and I told you, but you were so stupid that finally I had to lie and make you promise.”

  He goes still. His hand stays on my shoulder, but I can feel it, the moment when he starts to wish he wasn’t touching me.

  “No,” he says. “You asked me to promise I’d marry you.”

  “The girl who holds this mask! No matter who she is in the morning!” I plunge ahead. If I must be cruel to him, I’ll be so horrible that he’ll never look at me or care about me again. “Can you really think I trudged down to that palace and listened to your whining day after day just so I could marry you? You see how I’m almost a slave here. Koré promised me money and freedom if I got you for her. So go back into that parlor, keep your promise, and make us all happy.”

  His face is utterly blank. I summon up the smile I use for my mother. “Didn’t you decide you cared about whether the girls you kissed were happy or not?”

  His hand drops from my shoulder. “I’m beginning to reconsider it.” There’s no anger in his voice and none of his polished, defensive boredom either; just dazed, hollow curiosity.

  “Then don’t care,” I say. “Marry the one you promised to marry. She’s pretty and you won’t have to lie to her.”

  He stares at me. “No,” he says finally.

  Panic spikes in my chest. “You must—”

  “I’m the duke’s son. I’m pretty sure I can do as I please.” Still he watches me.

  “If you don’t,” I say desperately, “I’ll tell them about Lydia.”

  He flinches. Then he says quietly, “Tell them what you like,” and turns away. The boredom is back in his voice, and I know that I have finally and completely killed what was between us. “I am going home. You and your lady can stay here and rot. Or have a tea party. I really don’t care.”

  “You’ll keep your oath or Zeus and Hera will know you for an oath breaker,” I call after him.

  “You forget, madam, you are not the only one with wit.” He doesn’t look back at me. “I swore I’d have you or none, and after this morning, I will gladly choose none.”

  He’s safe. It’s all that matters. I tell myself it is all that matters as Stepmother rages at me, as she rages at Koré, as she slaps us and shakes us and drags us down the stairs to lock us in the cellar.

  Anax is safe, and I cannot stop thinking of his eyes and his voice as I betrayed him, but he is safe. He walked away from this house and he will never, never come back to it.

  Invisible fingers stroke my hair. I lean back, and curve my lips upward, and whisper, “I’m so happy to stay here, Mother.”

  “What?” Koré says, and I flinch, remembering she is here with me. I have never been locked in the cellar with anyone else before.

  “I said, I’m so glad I can stay here,” I say. “I talk to my mother whenever I feel lonely. Don’t they say that the dead watch over us?”

  Koré looks over my shoulder, and then her eyes meet mine. I can see she’s guessing, and recklessly, I go on, “That’s why I’m always cheerful. Because she’s watching over me. And I know she’d want me to be happy.”

  The air trembles around me with affectionate, inaudible laughter.

  Koré’s eyes widen slightly. I can see she’s putting together my smiles and the rumors of demons and coming up with the truth, and I feel a sudden twist of fear because if she panics—

  But she just nods slightly and straightens her shoulders. Even crouched in the cellar with a bruise on her cheek, she looks like an artwork: a princess of Troy, perhaps, mourning and yet stately among the ashes of her people.

  For the first time, I don’t think of her poise and her beauty as a lie. She’s lived for years among demons and the ashes of her mother’s love without weeping. Now she knows about my mother’s ghost, and she doesn’t even blink.

  In truth, she is as brave as a princess. And she deserves better than this house.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “that it didn’t work.”

  “I will find another way to save Thea,” says Koré, and I believe her.

  The air around me is still, clammy, and cold. I realize suddenly that my mother is worried—that she thinks I have been thwarted, disappointed. Fear sets my heart thudding and my voice chattering.

  “But it was so amusing,” I say brightly, “to see Stepmother angry over such a little, little thing. And then she locked us down here, as if she thought we wouldn’t enjoy it. It makes me love her more than ever.”

  Koré meets my eyes. And then she smiles, the perfect image of a gentle girl with a happy secret. “She’s never understood how sweet and quiet it is down here,” she says, in the same elegant, modulated voice that she uses to practice making small talk with the guests who never come.

  Nobody has ever conspired with me before, and it’s a thrill almost as drunkenly delightful as telling the truth.

  I will never leave this house, and I will never be free, and Anax will hate me forever. But my eyes meet Koré’s, and for a moment our smiles are almost real, and a wisp of happiness curls in my throat.

  Locked away belowground, our only light the steady, dim glow of a Hermetic lamp, it’s hard to mark the passage of time. But I’m sure it’s hours later that Thea knocks on the door and says waveringly, “Koré? Are you there?”

  Koré, who had leaned drowsing against the wall, bolts upright. “Thea,” she says, and for the first time I hear the urgency under her expressionless calm.

  “I’m— Mother’s locked in her room now, she’s talking to herself—I’m going to let you out.”

  “No,” says Koré. “Let it be. We’re all right in here, and Mother will calm soon enough.”

  She stands by the door, not touching it, but her head tilts an infinite, yearning fraction toward her sister, and I wonder how all these years I never saw the desperate care in every line of her movement. I saw that she loved Stepmother, foolishly and without hope, but not how much she loved her sister.

  “I’ve never seen her like this,” says Thea.

  “She’s always angry,” says Koré, “and she’s always all right.”

  “She’s not angry anymore,” says Thea. “I don’t think she’s just talking to herself. She’s . . . talking to Stepfather.” I hear a little wavering gasp; she’s nearly crying. “I’m scared.”

  “Then go to your room and lock the door,” says Koré. “But Mother won’t hurt you. Don’t you realize you’re the favorite right now?” There’s a wry slant to her voice.

  “Please let me get you out,” says Thea.

  “No,” says Koré. “I am having a tea party with Maia and I can’t be bothered. Come back tomorrow morning.”

  There’s a little thump that I am sure is Thea leaning her forehead against the door. “Maia?” she asks wistfully. “Can I get you out?”

  And I wonder what is happening to my heart, because I hear the wistful longing in her voice and I don’t despise her; instead I think of Koré’s chill poise, and Stepmother’s heartlessness, and my own silences, and I realize how long she has been hoping that anyone, anyone would turn to her and smile.

  “Tomorrow,” I say. “And then we’ll all have tea together in the garden.”

  Koré’s gaze snaps to me, but she only says, “Yes. Now go.”

  With a snuffle and a sigh, Thea leaves. Koré stays on her feet, looking down at me.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asks.

  “I’m going to have tea in the garden,” I say. “Stepmother won’t get angry at her for that.”

  “Halfway kindness,” she says flatly, “is worse than none.”

  I ha
ve known for years that Thea longed to be friends with me, that it vexed her I would only obey her orders. But now I realize I might have actually hurt her. Koré’s hatred of me might have more than one reason.

  Of course, it does not matter. Not when it’s so dangerous for anyone to love me. Koré, at last, understands how much.

  “I’m only going to pour her tea like an obedient sister,” I say. “And, I hope, dance at her wedding.”

  “If she comes to love you any more,” says Koré, “she will miss you far too much.”

  “She’ll have you,” I say, and so it is settled between us that I will be kind to Thea but not encourage her, and together Koré and I will scheme a way for them to escape, and when my stepsisters are gone, they will never look back.

  Then I will be utterly alone, except for my mother and the demons. It is the happiest ending I could ever wish, and thinking of it no longer makes me happy.

  But for now, Koré is sitting down beside me and huddling against my shoulder for warmth. For now, there is the promise of tea in the garden and sly half-truths understood. For now, I have sisters, just a little, and that is far too comforting as I fall asleep.

  The screaming wakes us.

  For the first few moments, I think it is a dream. Nobody has been hurt in so long. I have been so careful. Mother, I am so very, very happy—

  Then I realize that Koré is on her feet and flinging herself against the door and this is real. Thea’s screams are real.

  It’s too late. Nobody has ever healed from seeing a demon, and as I think this, the screams die away.

  If Thea’s lucky, she is dead now.

  But Koré is still trying to batter down the door, and I can’t sit still and watch her desperation. Together we pound at the door until the old, rusty lock gives way and we stumble out into the hall.

  I lean against the wall, gasping for breath, but Koré immediately bolts up the steps. She will only find Thea dead—or worse, clawing her face open while her eyes stare in silent, ceaseless agony. I should warn her, but she probably knows, and anyway, nothing will hold her back.

  I was happy, I think. I was always happy with Thea. How can Mother have turned on her?

  Perhaps it was an accident. And it doesn’t matter, because there is only one reason there are demons in the house, and that is me. Stomach roiling, mouth dry, I stagger after Koré.

  I catch up with her on the second floor. Stepmother’s voice echoes from her room in a high, querulous rant. It does not sound like she is talking to herself, and we push our way into her room together.

  “Koré,” says Stepmother, “maybe you can talk sense into the silly girl.”

  But neither of us can speak.

  Because I am lying huddled at Stepmother’s feet.

  In the hallway of the duke’s palace was a mirror, and I caught a candlelit glance of myself in it as I walked into the ball. It’s as if that glance fell out of the mirror at Stepmother’s feet. Those are my thin, chapped hands; those are the sharp lines of my collarbones. That is how the demons pinned up my hair, taming the wavy brown mess into loops and curls; that is the shimmering gold dress they wove around my body; that is the red ribbon of the mask they gave me to tie around my face.

  The girl raises her head, and that is my pointed chin, those are my thin, pale lips. Blood oozes down the side of her face from the edge of the mask.

  “Koré,” she whispers hoarsely in my voice. But the way she shapes the word with desperate longing—

  It’s Thea.

  “The mask is stuck and she won’t hold still while I tear it off,” Stepmother says. “It can’t hurt that much.”

  Blood drips from Thea’s face to the floor. One drop. Two.

  “You bargained with the Gentle Lord,” says Koré, in the same lifeless, cultured voice that she says, I do like the weather lately.

  “Now she’s exactly the same as that chit was when Lord Anax fell in love with her,” says Stepmother. “He can’t fail to marry her once the mask is off, but she won’t stop screaming. I did it all for her and the honor of our house, but she’s so ungrateful.”

  Thea hunches away from her. But she doesn’t run, because she knows that would only make the punishment worse, and my throat closes up with horror. We should have saved her before she learned to cringe like that.

  Koré tilts her head as if wanting to examine the room from every angle. Then she seizes my arm, and before I can get my balance back to resist, shoves me into Stepmother’s wardrobe and slams the doors shut on me. The latch goes click.

  “Koré!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by hers, loud and terrible and lovely:

  “O Prince of Air and Darkness. O Silver-Tongued Deceiver. O Gentle Lord of all Arcadia! Let me make you a bargain.”

  And he is there. I cannot see him—the darkness is absolute around me, except for one thread of dim light where the doors meet—but I know he is there from the way the air goes still around me, the way it burns cold against my skin.

  “No,” says Thea, “Koré, don’t—”

  At the same time, Stepmother begins, “What are you doing, you—”

  “Silence,” says the Gentle Lord.

  And there is silence. I cannot move my tongue, nor my fingers, nor shift my head from where it leans against the door, because his power has wrapped all around me, binding me in place until Koré completes her bargain.

  “So,” he says after an endless moment. “Koré Alastorides. Are you ready to be your mother’s daughter?”

  His voice is not a terrifying roar, nor a chilling hiss. It is warm and salt and sweet, like butter and blood and honey, and laughter trembles at the edges of his words.

  “Let’s play no games,” says Koré. Her voice sounds like a statue that’s stood a thousand years, worn and weary but unbowed. “I want you to take back what my mother did to Thea.”

  “Haven’t you heard the stories? I cannot ever ungrant a wish.”

  “Then,” says Koré, “let me steal it.”

  “How do you imagine that will work?” asks the Gentle Lord.

  There’s a short silence. I know better than to hope that it’s because Koré is reconsidering. She already knows how this bargain will work. She’s seen her mother; she’s seen me. She knows what she is calling down on us, but she’s willing anyway.

  There is always somebody willing.

  “Set Thea free from this family.” Koré’s voice is low, deliberate. “Let her walk away healthy and whole and sane, never to be trapped in this house again. And for my price, give me the mask and the body Stepmother bought her. I’ll wear them to the end of my days.”

  The Gentle Lord laughs softly. “Your price will be half of your dearest wish? That’s a clever equivocation. But it’s not enough. If you want me to grant that wish, you must pay with your sight as well.”

  “Gladly,” says Koré.

  “Then kiss my ring,” says the Gentle Lord, “and it will be so.”

  I hear footsteps. A rustle of movement. And then he says, “Good-bye, Koré Alastorides.”

  The air all around us sighs. I shudder and gasp as my body is my own to move again. Somebody falls to the ground.

  Stepmother speaks up again, her voice jarringly shrill and human: “What have you done?”

  There’s a little gasping noise. Like somebody choking on the sudden sensation of a new mouth and throat.

  Then I hear Thea say in her real voice, “Who—who are you?”

  A voice like mine says weakly, “It’s me. Koré. Your sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister. I don’t—I don’t have a family.” Thea’s voice is high and panicked. “Where am I? Who are you?”

  He’s taken her memories. He’s set her free from our family.

  My throat clenches as I batter at the door of the wardrobe. I don’t know why my heart is pounding with this awful, tearing feeling. Thea has forgotten us all. She’s stopped her stupid yearning to be loved, the idiot desire that kept her trapped with us. I should be glad
.

  The latch gives way and I tumble out of the wardrobe onto the floor. Thea is at the doorway, struggling with Stepmother; when she sees me, she gives a little shriek and breaks free. Her footsteps echo as she flees down the hall.

  Stepmother wobbles, then sits down heavily by Koré, who is still crouched on the floor.

  “She didn’t deserve the honor of our name,” she says, her voice quiet and vicious. “She never deserved it. Any more than that woman’s brat does.” She shoots me a poisonous look; then her hand drops down to Koré’s shoulder. “But you’re true to me, darling. You were brave enough to take the face Lord Anax wants. You’ll come with me to the palace and—”

  “No.” Koré pushes her mother’s hand aside. Her voice is low and dull. “I won’t marry him.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, young miss.”

  “Thea isn’t here to save anymore.” Koré’s eyes are hidden by the mask, but I can see her mouth twist into a helpless parody of a smile. “I don’t have to do anything.”

  And I realize she means to do nothing else, not even live. Koré isn’t as strong as I am. I know this; I think I have always known. She can live with pain, but not without hope. She won’t survive this loss.

  Stepmother seizes the sides of the mask and hauls Koré up to her knees, drawing a little gasp of pain from her throat.

  “You’re my daughter,” she says.

  “You’re dead,” says Koré. “You died seven years ago. Just like me.”

  I am silent. I am the wallpaper. I am smiling. I am exactly the same as every other time Stepmother has raged at us, but I feel like I am made of cobwebs and broken crockery. Because I remember Koré’s eyes meeting mine in the cellar and Thea’s voice through the door—the promise of tea on the lawn—and I realize only now that I love them. Now that Thea is gone and Koré is dying, I think I may have always loved them, and always wanted them to turn to me. And now it is too late.

  “You died very bravely,” Koré whispers. “I’m sorry, Mother. I should have stopped you. But I was afraid.”

  Stepmother snarls and shakes her by the mask; blood dribbles from the seam where flesh meets gold, but Koré doesn’t make any noise except short little gasps.