A Wounded Name (Fiction - Young Adult)

by Hutchison, Dot

  Horatio once spent all night walking me around the gardens and grounds because honesty spilled from my lips in broken shards that cut too deeply. I’d let too many days pass without pills. I can’t be disingenuous without the chemicals to teach me how to lie. It’s the reason Father locks me away in the cold place until they can find the right balance of lies to make me question my truths, until they find the combinations that veil another world. I couldn’t lie about why Mama took us into the lake that evening, couldn’t conceal the promises she’d made.

  And now Dane, too clever for the rest of us, for himself. This is why he plays his long, terrible game. When they finally believe he’s mad, he can say things no one else could get away with, the things that aren’t polite or fit for company. He can use his words as weapons and watch the truth bleed from their eyes.

  If he can get that far.

  For the first time, Claudius pins that cold stare on me and studies me from head to toe. His thoughts are uncharacteristically near the surface. Who is this creature? Who is she that Dane could ever lose himself in her? What game is she trying to play? “I think, Polonius, your plan may well be the right one.”

  I can object, but no one will listen. Not even Gertrude, who believes in the difference between the concerns of men and the duties of women. No one asks me if I’ll do this thing, no one asks for my opinions, and no one will hear it even if I offer it.

  The star burns in my chest. A little brighter. A little hotter. A little larger. It expands into my lungs with tongues of flame that scald my breath into nothingness, not even ash to mark that it once existed. Heat blazes behind my eyes, dries them out to keep the tears from forming. I am a ghost, a bruise, a whisper.

  And now …

  Claudius nods once, a sharp, decisive gesture. “We will try it.”

  … now I’m a blade that kisses with death on my lips.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sleep eludes me and I’m grateful for it, grateful for the dry and burning eyes that stare at the painted-over holes in my ceiling because the pain is so much easier than the dreams that await me. Every time I close my eyes, even for a moment, blood and blades battle against an endless spill of ice blue, cold blue, drowned skin blue. The star spins with a steady murmur of danedanedanedanedane, but the bells from the lake toll in a different rhythm; none of it matches the laughter of the morgens as they play through the dark, frigid waters that blaze with thousands of candles of a forgotten city.

  When the morning comes, I look like I haven’t slept, so Father lays the hoarseness of my voice to fatigue and not to the dark ring of bruises I hide beneath a turtleneck sweater. He accepts my silence through early Mass and even puts his hand to my shoulder several times through the service. From him, this is effusive affection indeed. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. A headmaster gave his blessing to a plan he constructed, and Father does love a vote of confidence. Cheerful and oblivious, he can indulge in this expansive mood. He even gives Horatio a magnanimous smile when my friend asks to escort me back to Headmaster’s House.

  I know Dane doesn’t tell Horatio everything that passes between us, but I’ve always thought he must say something. Now I know he does, because Horatio walks so slowly that the distance stretches easily between us and everyone else. When the others are out of sight, he stops on the path and turns to face me. His hazel eyes are darker than they should be. His hand trembles finely as he gestures to the neck of the sweater. “May I?”

  I tug the fabric down without a word.

  His breath hisses through his teeth, making me wonder how bad the bruises look. His fingertips gently brush against my throat. “I went to check on you, after he told me. You weren’t there.”

  “Father.”

  “He saw?”

  I shake my head and adjust the fabric so it conceals everything it should. “Something else. They’re springing a trap, Horatio.”

  “I saw the Toms crossing to the south guesthouse last night.”

  Easier to nod than to speak. We resume our progress up the path, each step slow and carefully placed to give us as much time as possible. With each forward motion, the syringe sways in the pocket of my skirt to tap against my thigh. I clutched it through the night to help keep myself awake, the glass cold in my palm, and brought it down with me to church for the same purpose. The touch of it makes my skin crawl, pushes the exhaustion just a little farther away.

  “Just the one trap?” he asks finally.

  I shake my head again. The Toms are one trap; I am another.

  I am the blade that sings silver in the moonlight.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so scared as last night.”

  “I could have pushed him away.”

  “Could you?”

  No, of course not. The ability to speak the words is always there. It’s the will that’s lacking.

  But he doesn’t press me on it because he already knows the honest answer. He’s heard the truths that taste of blood and tears.

  “What happens if you let him go too far?” He puts an arm around my shoulders like the touch comforts him. “If he hurt you that badly, Ophelia … it would destroy him.”

  “I trust him.”

  “He doesn’t trust himself.” We stop outside the door for another moment of peace before all the games and the traps resume. He glances around, then presses a gentle kiss against my temple. “Promise me you won’t let him choke you again.”

  “Horatio—”

  “Please. It’ll make me feel better, and it’ll make Dane feel better. You bruise easily, Ophelia, we’ve always known that, so the marks on your wrists, on your arms … you have those pretty frequently. Don’t let him put a hand to your throat again.”

  “He scared you last night.”

  He gives a short, humorless laugh. Autumn cold leeches the color from his skin. “I think he scared everyone last night, except you.”

  “And that scares you most of all.”

  “Yes.” He sighs and a plume of grey trails from his chapped lips. It’s unexpectedly lovely, like the words have an image, a shape. “Ophelia … I am never scared of you. But more and more, I’m scared for you.”

  An important distinction, and one I can understand. I wrap both my arms around one of his to borrow some of his warmth and bury my face in the thick knitted scarf with its panels of school colors. “He’s in so much pain.”

  “It’s one thing to help someone bear their pain. What he does to you …” His other hand rises to press so very gently against the bruises on one side of my neck. “This is unacceptable, no matter how much pain he’s in, and even you know that. You cannot let him do this to you again.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stay outside until I start to shiver in my coat, goose bumps stabbing my skin through my tights. Weather like this usually makes me plead with Gertrude for at least one set of trousers because I freeze in the skirts, but she insists that it’s inappropriate for women to wear them. I have no allowance, no money of my own to spend, so I can’t even purchase them on my own. When my shivers grow obvious, Horatio turns away to open the door and hold it for me.

  In the front hall, Dane sits on the fourth step of the staircase, all in black. I can hardly remember what he looks like in color. Black is all he’s worn since his father’s death, an entire wardrobe of grief and recrimination. He attended Mass that morning but left before the benediction; I wouldn’t have expected him to come to the house. He’s waiting for something, but I don’t think it’s us. He looks up when we enter, his eyes wide and horror-struck at the sight of me. I would offer him comfort, but I don’t know that he would believe it from me.

  But Horatio sits beside him and nudges his arm with an elbow. “She’s fine, Dane. Promise.”

  “Ophelia?”

  Shucking out of my coat, I sit to his other side and lean my head against his shoulder. “I’m fine,” I whisper. “Promise.”

  “Would you lie to protect me, Ophelia?”r />
  “Do you think I could?”

  He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know? Or because he doesn’t think it needs to be said?

  Horatio’s stomach growls in the sudden silence. It startles a laugh out of all of us; just for a moment, we feel like we used to. “Is there a reason you haven’t gone into breakfast yet?” he asks, the words distorted by a chuckle.

  “Keith was supposed to meet me here, but he’s late.”

  “Keith … Keith Hunter?”

  “The one and only.”

  Horatio and I trade a look, identical expressions of confusion on our faces. Though he’s a senior like the boys, Keith Hunter isn’t someone they spend much time with. Theatre has never been one of the prize jewels of Elsinore Academy, and those who pursue it tend to keep to their own kind. There’s something almost menacing about watching them slide in and out of character, their effortless falsehoods that feel so real. They don’t rely solely on words to lie; they lie with everything they are.

  Horatio licks his lips, wetting them to speak, and winces at the sting. I can see the question take shape on his lips, but before he can give it voice, the door opens again. All three of us look up. Dane’s astonishment shakes his entire body.

  “Toms!”

  Gertrude asked them to find her son last night, to start immediately on their mission, but Dane’s shock is real. Whatever they did last night, it didn’t involve finding Dane. They shiver in clothing unsuited for the swiftly approaching winter. Guil’s dark skin is ashy from the cold. Ros swallows hard and looks to his companion to take the lead.

  “What are you two doing here?” Dane asks and lurches from the step to shake their hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be off faking classes, deflowering freshmen, and making your parents thoroughly ashamed of you?”

  “We’re taking a break from all that; your uncle was kind enough to let us crash-land here for a few weeks.”

  “Flunked out already?”

  “Recharging our batteries.”

  “Then what’s new with you, that you need to be recharged?”

  “Nothing at all, Dane; the world’s grown honest!”

  “Did the Rapture happen and I missed it?” laughs Dane. He looks so genuinely happy it makes my heart hurt. He grips both men by the shoulders, shares his smile between them. “But seriously. Why are you here?”

  “We’re here to see you, Dane,” Guil tells him. He almost seems sincere until his hand rises to twirl the gold stud in his ear, a nervous habit he’s had as long as I’ve known him. “I don’t much like my old man, but I can’t imagine losing him, and you and your pop … you two were close. You must be having a rough time.”

  His words do what his appearance did not. Dane’s eyes narrow, study the men he calls friends. Ros sways back and forth, ever so slightly, shifting his weight between his feet. After a moment, Dane glances back over his shoulder and meets my eye.

  I don’t know what he sees in my face. Perhaps the dread that tracks the fidgets of the Toms. Perhaps the pain that comes from being forged into a blade. We learned in one of our history classes how swords are made, how they’re softened and beaten and folded again and again and again until the shape is right and the red-hot steel plunged into water.

  “Come on,” he says too lightly, his eyes still on my face. “You were sent for.”

  “Dane—”

  “Your faces are your own confession. Claudius and Mother sent for you.”

  “To do what?” Guil asks with a laugh. “What could they possibly—”

  “That you must tell me.” He turns back to them, but despite the mild smile, all the joy is gone from his body. Every muscle is written over in tension, a wound spring about to explode with violence. “But please. We have been friends for so long, and if we have meant anything to each other, if our friendship is as important to you as it is to me, then I beg you. Just tell me the truth: were you sent for or not?”

  Ros gives a nervous little titter. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you need to tell me the Goddamn truth. Were you sent for?”

  “Yes, Dane, we were sent for,” Guil snaps. He rubs a hand over his closely shaven head. “Your mother and uncle were concerned; they thought … they thought you’d appreciate a visit. They made it possible for us to come.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure they were very concerned.” Dane returns to his space between me and Horatio and leans back on his elbows on the step behind. It isn’t just his voice; everything about him mocks them, from his casual pose to the half smile that teases about his lips. “Shall I tell you exactly what makes them so concerned?”

  Claudius meant to spring a trap; now he’s just given the cat new mice to torment.

  Of course, cats have a way of eating the mice they play with. What that promises for the Toms probably doesn’t bear thinking of.

  “I have lately—though I have no idea why—left off all my normal hobbies,” Dane continues. “Nothing’s funny, nothing’s light.” Guil fidgets with his phone, and in one seamless motion, Dane snatches it from him. He launches the browser and types as he talks. “Everything is bleak and depressing, like the whole Earth is just sterile. And it should be an odd thing, right? Look around you, this beautiful place with as many lights as Heaven, as much gold as Midas’ hall, but to my mind it’s nothing but a foul pit of stench and disease.” A page loads on the phone’s screen, and Dane holds up a choice bit of pornography that makes Horatio close his eyes. Tapping the back of the phone for emphasis, he continues. “What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason, how infinite in ability, in form and motion how admirable, in action how like an angel, in understanding how like a god, and yet—so much value do we lay on dust. No, I have no delight in my fellow man.” He glances at the screen. “Nor woman, either, though your smiles say differently.”

  His sour look makes them quickly swallow their leering laughter. Ros shakes his head so hard his neck pops. “We weren’t thinking any such thing!”

  “No?” Dane arches a dark eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t change his disapproving study. “Why did you laugh then?”

  “Well …” Ros gives his partner a panicked look, then forges ahead. “It’s just that, well … if you have no delight in your fellow man, the theatre geeks won’t get much thanks from you, and we bumped into Keith Hunter on our way here. He wanted us to tell you that he’d be late; his sister isn’t feeling well so he’s taking her to the nurse.”

  “But he’s still intrigued by whatever you wanted to discuss,” adds Guil, because he can’t stand to not be part of a conversation.

  Dane gives him a tight, feral smile. “I see my patience will be rewarded. How like my uncle I am after all.”

  Despite the well-concealed dismay on his face, Horatio can barely hold back a laugh. I bite my lip against the same impulse. Dane can be cruel when he puts his mind to it, but oh, what a wonder it is to watch him play.

  There’s a knock against the door, solid and confident.

  Guil seizes upon the sound with relief. “That must be Keith.”

  Dane pushes gracefully to his feet. “Gentlemen, you are welcome again to Elsinore, but my uncle-father and aunt-mother have brought you here needlessly.”

  “How so?”

  He actually grins at them, but there’s something bitter and hateful beneath it. “I’m only mad north-north-west. When the wind is from the south, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

  Dane unmutes Guil’s phone just as the piece of work on the video reaches a very vocal climax, tossing the groaning device back to its owner.

  Horatio loses the battle with his restraint and laughs softly into his hands to muffle the sound.

  The knock sounds again, and this time my father appears from the door of the dining room, his mug of murky coffee still in hand. Guil tries frantically to kill the sound on his phone. “Five of you standing here, and none capable of answering the door?” he grumbles, but he shakes his head with an almost smile and crosses towards the main door.<
br />
  Dane’s eyes track his progress. “Look, Guil, and you too—that great baby you see there is not yet out of his diapers.”

  Ros and Guil have no particular love for my father; he can give them no advantage. Guil smirks and wedges his hands into tootight pockets. “Perhaps he is just in them again. They do say old age is like a second childhood.”

  Father ignores him with grave dignity and pulls open the heavy door. It frames a young man of average height, his ashy blond hair slightly messy around his face. His brown eyes flick over each face in turn, identifying each person present. He’s the type of boy you notice when you pass but don’t look back over your shoulder to see again. Normally, at any rate. When he’s in a role, it’s impossible to look away from him.

  Keith gives Father a polite nod. “Hello, Dean Castellan. Dane asked me to come up.”

  “Dane, you have a guest.”

  “Dane, you have a guest,” Dane echoes. “O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!”

  Horatio straightens abruptly, reaches behind Dane’s knees to touch my shoulder.

  But I recognize the allusion, as Father doesn’t, as the Toms do not. But Jephthah … somehow it doesn’t surprise me that Dane uses this name. He must feel a great connection with a man who made such a foolish vow.

  Dane swore revenge.

  Jephthah swore sacrifice.

  Judges 11:31. Every girl, sophomore and up, would understand Dane.

  For victory over the Ammonites, Jephthah swore to honor God with the burned sacrifice of the first person he saw upon returning home. The soldiers entered the town of Mizpah greeted by music, and drawn by the sound of tambourines, his daughter danced from the house in joy.

  A vow is a vow, a promise, especially when made to God.

  At Horatio’s small sound of question, I look down and realize that my hand is pressed against my chest, fingertips over the star of my heart and palm over the place where two months has yet to take away the phantom feeling of Dane’s class ring.

  Because what Horatio may not remember—but I think Dane does—is that his daughter accepts that an oath must be fulfilled. His oath was foolish, given without thought to the consequences. Her love was real.