Triquetra

by Kirstyn McDermott

  It is said.

  More than he desires you. The voice of the mirror swells and gloats. Beware, child, and tread carefully; your position in this household grows precarious.

  With that it departs, leaving me as empty as a pumpkin shell scraped for seeds—or nearly so. My stepmother’s list drifts from my memory like smoke from a snuffed candle, her words wispy and thin but persistent nevertheless. I shake my head. Will my mind ever be my own again? The glow from the mirror is gone; the chamber is pitch black. “Come back,” I call out. “I have more to ask of you.” There’s no reply, no sense that the mirror is even listening. The chill in the room deepens; beneath my sleeves, gooseflesh shivers across my skin. The audience is over. I have been dismissed.

  I turn and retrace my steps to the door. But my outstretched hands find nothing more than bare, unbroken stone. No smooth, polished wood or jutting handle of brass, nor any crack or join that might suggest an exit. Frantic, I pace the short length of the wall, palms slapping against stone, as the gorge rises in my throat and the taste of spoiled milk coats my mouth. By what devilry has the mirror trapped me here? For what purpose, and for how long? I thump at the wall with balled hands, demanding to be released, for the door to be restored. I will not rot in this wretched chamber, in darkness and silence behind this newly solid facade, while my husband and my daughter—

  Behind me: the creak of a hinge, a shard of yellow light, and a timid voice calling, “Mama? Mama, are you there?”

  For a strange, disorienting moment, I can’t make sense of it. Then my daughter’s head pokes around the edge of the door she has opened—the door! on the wall adjacent! so ridiculously close!—and my cheeks burn with foolishness. I stalk over and, snatching her by the arm, jerk her into the hall beyond. She cries out, the thin, high-pitched squeal of a snared rabbit that sets my teeth to grating, and I give her a rough shake as I pull the door shut behind us.

  “You don’t ever go into that room! Not ever!”

  The girl is starting to snivel, her green eyes wet and bright with shock, and there’s a part of me whose heart breaks to see it—but that part feels so very far away, so very small and distant and powerless in the face of the fury that boils in my breast, and I shake her again. “Stop it! You’re not an infant anymore. You need to start acting like a lady.”

  She tries to swallow her tears, she does, but her thin shoulders hitch and her mouth contorts with the effort and my fingers dig deeper into her flesh. I want to—I want to—

  Nearby, a throat is cleared. “Your Grace?”

  Startled, I look up to see Lady Heron standing but a few paces away, hands clasped at her waist. She stares at me in an odd manner, an expression shaded somewhere between pity and fear, before nodding towards my daughter. “Do not berate the lass too harshly, Your Grace. I asked her to bring me here, after you were not to be found.” The woman taps the linen bag that hangs from her belt. “I wished another visit.”

  Releasing my daughter, I straighten. “Go to your room,” I tell the girl. “Stay there.” She obeys, walking as fast as she possibly can without breaking into a run, and I wait until she has turned the corner at the end of the hall before informing Lady Heron that she can expect no visit today. Not today and possibly not ever again. For which she should be grateful.

  “Have you stood before the mirror, Your Grace?”

  “You have no right to question me.”

  “Shall I instead advise? Do not accept the counsel of the glass. Do not stand before it again.”

  The laughter that bursts from my throat is coarse and ugly. “Shall I rather take the counsel of a hypocrite? Why do you not heed your own words, Lady Heron, be they so wise?”

  The woman bows her head. “I am weak. I wish I were not.”

  I open my mouth to tell her to go but the words that trip forth are my stepmother’s—the wretched list with which she spelled me.

  Lady Heron tilts her head. “Your Grace?”

  I repeat the list and she echoes me, her grey eyes flat and glazed. There’s a curious satisfaction in speaking the words aloud, the feeling of tumblers falling into place, a sense of being unlocked—and yet I cannot find any pleasure in it. The manipulations of my stepmother and her mirror have left me drained and shaken, my stomach subjected to sour swells of nausea the results of which I have no desire for Lady Heron to witness.

  “Leave,” I snap, once my tongue feels again my own. “You’re not welcome here.” Without waiting to see that she obeys, I turn and march off down the corridor. Bile prickles at the back of my throat and I swallow, hard and hot, with one hand pressed close against my lips.

  one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three

  I cannot keep more count than that, but it doesn’t matter. Three is the safest number, after all, and it’s a simple thing to match my steps to its calm, protective rhythm. The parlour is closer than my bedchamber; I’ll draw the drapes and sit awhile in my favourite chair.

  one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three

  I pass my daughter’s room without pause. Pass, almost, without notice. The door is closed. All is quiet beyond. I’ll speak with her once I am rested. I love my daughter, with her green eyes and golden hair. My position is not precarious. I love my daughter.

  one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three

  I will bring you before the mirror; let it tell the hard and glassy truth of your death.

  When there comes a gentle rapping at the parlour door, I expect it to be the housekeeper with a fresh bottle of wine. Wine and, perhaps, a plate of cured meats or a bowl of stew, along with yet more earnest supplications for me to eat, eat, eat. But I’ve had no appetite for food these past two days, not since speaking with the mirror; the mere thought of eating anything, of chewing and swallowing anything, makes me feel ill. But the wine—oh!—so red and sweet on my tongue. It helps me to sleep, it helps me not to think.

  My head is heavy with all that I do not wish to think upon.

  But it’s not the housekeeper who marches into the room at my summons, stern of face and bearing nought but a small calico sack. Sketching a curtsy so shallow it might nearly be an insult, Lady Heron at least keeps her gaze averted until I have risen from the chair by the window where I have been sitting. My embroidery hoop, forgotten, falls with a clatter to the floor. Neither of us acknowledge it.

  “H-how dare you intrude upon me here!” My cheeks feel hot, my knees unsteady.

  The woman curtsies once again. “Forgiveness, Your Grace—I have your price.”

  Frowning, I stare at the lumpy, cream-coloured sack in her outstretched hand.

  “It is everything you requested,” she says. “May I visit now?”

  Even as I back away from her, Lady Heron steps forward, pressing her price into my grasp and bidding me to look. I don’t wish to touch the sack, let alone peer inside of it. I can no longer remember the specifics of my stepmother’s list and have no desire to invite it into my mind once more. Hastily, I drop the thing onto the little table where my sewing basket sits, then wipe my hands on my skirts. My mouth is dry; I wish my wine goblet were not so empty.

  “Why—why do you keep returning here?” I demand of Lady Heron.

  She smiles, thin and sharp. “You have stood before it, Your Grace. Do you not hear its whisper? Do you not feel its pull?”

  No, I want to retort. No, I am stronger than that. I am stronger than you. But the woman is not a fool; she would see the lie in my face as quick as blinking. Last night I woke to find myself huddled against the door to the mirror’s chamber, fingernails scratching at the wood. I didn’t recognise the sounds that came from my own throat—pathetic mewlings like those a starving kitten might make before its head is pushed beneath the water—and it took all my will to force myself back down the hall.

  I remember stopping at my daughter’s bedroom, easing open the door and slipping inside to stand in the shadows. Like the Night Man. (Like my husband?) I watched her sleep, the swelling moon lighting her face through t
he window, all those golden curls turned to frost. Her mouth lolled open, a gentle snore easing between her lips. Did she dream of Klaus and of fairies? Or did she dream of becoming queen?

  Your position in this household grows precarious.

  I remember taking a step towards my daughter’s bed. I remember the surge of malice in my breast. And I remember running, horror rising with the bile in my throat as my daughter’s confused, sleep-bleared voice called out in my wake—Mama? Mama, is that you?

  This morning, I found my fingernails broken and split, with a narrow splinter of wood lodged beneath my left thumb. I still haven’t spoken to my daughter—I’m frightened to look upon her face. Frightened of what I might feel when I do.

  He loves your daughter. More than he loves you.

  “What does it say?” I asked Lady Heron. “What does the mirror tell you?”

  “Words that are mine alone to hear, Your Grace.” She straightens her spine. “As, having received your own private counsel, you must surely understand.”

  I hold her gaze for one long, difficult moment before reaching for the keys on my belt. “One final visit, then, Lady Heron, after which you may never return. If you have any sense left in your head, you will thank me for it.”

  “And who shall keep the key from you, Your Grace?” Her smile twists nearer to a smirk. “Who shall protect you when the mirror whispers in the night?”

  Making no reply, I stride past the woman and out of the parlour. My footsteps echo in the empty halls; Lady Heron’s come half a beat behind, her skirts rustling as she hurries after me. Once this visit is done, no one will come near the chamber again—she can spread the word among all the sorry women who scuttle up to the castle, coin in hand, eyes brimming with hopeful despair.

  Whatever words the mirror chooses to speak, they will be mine alone to hear.

  I shall grind glass so fine that it glitters like drifts of moonlit sand and then I will use it to salt your supper. The grains will grind through your innards, scouring your tender, secret parts until each movement is torture and you beg to be released from the agony that is breathing.

  Lady Heron has been in the chamber for less time than it takes me to pace the length of the hall and back—fifty-nine steps all told—and my palms are sweaty and warm from rubbing too vigorously against one another. I should not have allowed the woman this visit. I should not have left her alone with the mirror. For what if the choice is not mine to make? What if the mirror decides that she will be its favoured confidante? What if—

  Enough. Enough.

  I fling open the door, demanding that Lady Heron take her leave right this instant, but my voice falters and I stop barely two steps inside the chamber, unable to properly comprehend the scene before me. The woman is hunched like an old fishwife, mouth contorting in fierce silence as the glow from the mirror grooves deep shadows into her face. In her right hand she wields a small hammer—though wields is perhaps too strong a term for the shaken, struggling manner in which she lifts it, lowers it, lifts it again.

  “Lady Heron, what—”

  Child, leave us.

  The mirror’s voice slides into me, fills me, and I stagger forward with arms outstretched. “No,” I whisper. “No, please. I must stay. I have questions.”

  They will not spoil for waiting.

  Sensing its imminent withdrawal, I pounce on the first words to trip across my tongue. “Am I safe here in this castle? Am I safe from my—my husband?”

  You are safe from nothing, child. And if you do not leave now, you will never again call this castle your home.

  The voice burns with fury; the pain is so great that I sink to my knees, hands pressed uselessly to my ears. Before I can beg forgiveness, there comes a great bellowing and a crash so loud it might be cannon fire exploding in my skull, and then

  all the world

  is dizzy

  and dark.

  Gradually, I become aware of two things: the cold, hard stone of the floor beneath my shoulderblades, and a strange sputtering noise from nearby. Opening my eyes, I roll over. Something cracks beneath my hip and, in the dim light filtering in from the hall, I can see shards of broken glass littering the chamber floor. On the wall, the mirror frame hangs barren. A few feet away, Lady Heron sits propped in a corner, breathing heavily. She sees me staring and grins with gleaming, dark-stained teeth before sputtering again. Mindful of the wreckage, I crawl over to the woman. Her grey dress is stained and wet, and a pool of blood has formed beneath her. She has a hand pressed to her side, pressed to the place where a sharp and glittering edge protrudes.

  “What have—what have you done?”

  “It is over,” Lady Heron croaks. “She’ll rest now.”

  “Here, let me help.” Carefully, I take hold of the shard in her side and pull it loose. More blood bubbles up through the wound and she groans, catching my free hand in hers. Squeezes hard. Coughs. I wad up some of her skirt and hold it against her side but it soaks red in a heartbeat and Lady Heron is making that sputtering sound—laughing. She is laughing! Though her life now must surely be measured in breaths.

  “Thank you,” she says, shaking her head when I try to hush her. “Tried so many times. Each time, it held me. But couldn’t hold us both. Not together. Couldn’t hold me. With you there.” She’s lifting her right hand, curled in an empty fist. Bringing it down, lifting it again. “Couldn’t hold me.”

  Taking her hand, I press it between my own. The hammer is over on the far side of the chamber, I see now, most likely flung from her grasp once she struck the mirror. My stomach clenches; my cheeks flush with anger.

  “No more whispers,” Lady Heron says. Though her voice is weak, her speech slick with blood, her eyes are clear. “No more whispers, Your Grace.”

  “You had no right,” I snap. “It was not your place.”

  She smiles. “You would not remember her.”

  “Remember who?”

  “My niece, my darling. Stood before the mirror.” Another cough, harsher this time, and the woman’s smile fades. “Drowned herself, my darling.” Her shoulders stiffen, then relax. “But it couldn’t hold me. Tell my sister. Couldn’t hold me.”

  Her gaze is locked with mine when she dies.

  Shakily, I push myself to my feet. I try to wipe my hands on my skirts but they are no cleaner, no drier. Everywhere is blood and broken glass. I wouldn’t have thought the mirror so large as to produce so many glittering shards—nor Lady Heron capable of containing all that red mess. Have I as much in my own small body? If my throat were slit, would such an ocean surge forth?

  You will take the blame for this, child.

  No, it was—it was an accident.

  The wife of Lord Heron lies slaughtered in a room to which you hold the only key.

  No, I—

  You are soaked to the skin with her blood.

  But—

  And a sack of witchcraft left in your parlour for any passing housekeeper to find.

  I—

  See how well you have furnished your husband with your own death warrant.

  “Stop! Please, stop!” The voice falls silent but doesn’t depart; my head might burst from the pressure of it. I stamp down on the nearest shard, a strange satisfaction rippling along my spine at the sound of cracking glass. I break another piece beneath my heel, and another. But even as I do, a sick terror begins to curdle in my belly. Damn Lady Heron to all the unknown hells for her treachery! Damn Lady Heron and—and—

  Is there another, child? One who might wear the noose destined for your pretty neck?

  Dizzy, I lean my back against the wall. All at once, everything draws together. It has been her from the beginning, marking out the pattern, tying off the threads, and how doltish I have been not to see it. “Stepmother,” I whisper.

  Oh yes, child. Oh yes and at last. Stepmother.

  I will bury you alive. Not in a coffin or wooden box. Not even wrapped in a shroud. Bound, on your knees, you will feel the dirt scrape against your
skin as I shovel it upon you. And when you are buried, I will salt the earth where you lie so that you might be shunned by each and every living thing.

  The old crone looks up, aghast, as I storm into the room. Fumbling with her canes, she starts to rise from her chair but I’m upon her too quickly, grasping her bony shoulders and shoving her back down. She gives a soft, startled gasp and, for the first time I can remember, those brown eyes kindle with fear. “Fairest, whose blood is this?”

  “None of it mine,” I snap. “As much as you wish it were.”

  She pushes her face closer, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air. “I would not be so sure. You are cut—”

  I slap her hand away as it reaches for my cheek. “Never touch me again!”

  “What has happened?” She touches her chest, hand hovering over the place where her heart would dwell, had she ever possessed such a fine organ. “I felt … I felt…”

  Do not listen, child. This wretch would have you banished from this place. From your home.

  “I see you, witch. I see you now for what you are. For what you have always been.”

  Her gaze sharpens. “You have spoken to the mirror.”

  It would have been better to have let her die.

  “You failed to destroy me once before. You will fail again.”

  It would be better to kill her now.

  “Fairest, I beg you. You must not listen—”

  No more, no more of her evil, insidious words, fighting even now to free themselves, even as my hands clutch her pale, wizened throat and squeeze. Eyes wide, she struggles against me, fingers scratching at mine in an effort to loosen my grip. But her nails are as old and brittle as her soul, snapping before they can hope to break the skin, and the pitiful manner in which she writhes only serves to stoke my wrath. I will end this. Now. I will end her—

  My hands close around air.