Liyana felt her mummy tense. And although Isisa said nothing, not then nor later, Liyana knew her fears were being confirmed. And even when her mummy put the cards away and turned the subject to something else entirely, Liyana felt a disturbance that hung heavy in the air for days after.
Liyana snuck into her mummy’s bedroom several times in the following week. She shuffled the pack as best she could, then picked three cards. But no matter how many times she shuffled or how many times she picked, the three cards were the same. Every time. Sometimes they appeared in a different order. But they always told the same story.
Bea
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh, go on,” her mamá said. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.”
“I’m not,” Bea said. “I just don’t want to.”
With a sigh, Cleo picked up the rock and smashed it onto the snail. Bea flinched at the crack. Her mamá lifted the rock to reveal the squashed remnants—the splintered shell, the soft sticky body now oozing across the flagstone.
Bea wanted to say sorry to the snail, since it’d done nothing to deserve such cold-blooded treatment. It’d been sacrificed on the altar of practice, a lesson for greater callousness to come.
“Don’t be so squeamish, niña,” Cleo said, pulling her long hair from her face. “Ese es el punto. We’re not doing this for no reason. You need to toughen up. If you can’t squash a snail, how will you kill a stag or hunt a man? How will you be ready for what’s to come?”
Bea nodded. She knew what was to come—it was Cleo’s favourite subject, one she could spin out for hours—and didn’t want to talk about it. She wondered what her abuela, who liked only to cuddle and feed her, would think of how her granddaughter was spending Sunday afternoon, or what her friends at school would say. When Miss Evans asked the class how they’d spent their weekends, Bea doubted anyone would admit to the murder of molluscs. Why couldn’t her mamá take her shopping at Selfridges, like Lucy Summer’s mamá? Or for ballet lessons, like Nicky Challis’s mamá did?
Bea couldn’t trust her mamá with either activity. Unleashed in department stores, Cleo was liable to be ejected for her exhibitions of public theatre involving randomly chosen couples she aimed to split up by pretending to be having an affair with one or the other of the parties. Cleo had to be barred from ballet classes, lest she launch into a loud running commentary on the male gaze and female self-suppression. Bea had learned this to her cost when she’d begged for ballet lessons at age five and, finally consenting, her mamá had handed out copies to the other mothers of How to Self-Hate Your Way to a Size Six, an ironic self-help book she’d written and had published by a small feminist publisher.
“You think sympathy is a virtue,” her mamá said. “It isn’t. In a war, do you think the sympathetic will survive? Or do you think they’ll be wiped out by the ruthless, the cold-blooded, and the cutthroat? ¿Entiendes? Animals suffer none of this—nature is ‘red in tooth and claw’—remember that.”
“Sí, Mamá,” Bea said, glancing down at the dead and unctuous snail. “But why do I have to fight a war? Why can’t I just live like other people and—”
Her mamá’s falcon features sharpened and she fixed Bea with furious eyes. “Because, thank the Devil, you’re not normal,” she said. “You’ve been born with skills and strengths unparalleled in mere mortals. And how will you use those unique talents? Will you squander them? Or will you support your father’s great mission to purify the human race?” Cleo handed Bea the rock. “Come now, niña, enough stalling.”
Bea held the rock above the next victim, making a too-slow bid for freedom across the stone-slabbed terrace. She watched it, studying the lengthening trail of slime the retreating snail left in its wake.
“¡Por amor al . . . demonio!” Cleo reached out to pinch her daughter’s chin between forefinger and thumb. “We’ll stay here all day until you do it, so you may as well get it over with now.”
“Ow.” Bea squirmed. “Stop, that hurts.”
Her mamá squeezed harder. “I’m doing this for your own good. You don’t want to be unprepared when it comes to the Choosing, trust me.”
Bea clenched her teeth, glaring at her mamá, thinking how deceptively beautiful she was—half Spanish, half Colombian—so no one would have guessed at the cruelty concealed within.
“I won’t be there to protect you, niña.” Cleo let her daughter go. “You’ll have to fight for yourself.”
Bea said nothing.
“That’s why you need to harden your heart now. If you can’t kill a snail, then how are you going to kill a man?”
“I still don’t understand why I must kill a man,” Bea said. “What’s the point? If we are Father’s daughters and they’re his soldiers, why does he make us fight each other? I don’t—”
Cleo waved her hand, as if the inevitable slaughter of either daughters or soldiers was of no matter. “Because he only wants the strongest to join his army, of course. It’s a test—like a job interview. ¿Entiendes?”
Bea nodded. Not because she did, since she didn’t, but because she was sick of it all and wished she’d never have to hear any more about it ever again. She wanted to be an adult; she wanted to make her own choices about her life. So, for all her mamá’s scaremongering, Bea looked forward to her eighteenth birthday like a prisoner looked forward to parole.
Leo
“What happens after we die?”
“I don’t know,” his mother said. “Some people think we go to heaven. Others believe in reincarnation, but most don’t believe in anything at—”
“What’s reincarnation?” Leo asked.
“It’s the belief that we lead many lives. That, after we die, we’re born again and again as another soul.” His mother smiled. “In fact, when you were little, soon after you learned to talk, you used to tell me that you’d lived before.”
Leo sat up, wriggling out of his blankets. “I did?”
“Oh, no, young man,” his mother said, tucking him up again. “I’m not falling for that old trick again. It’s time for bed.”
“Please, Mummy,” Leo whined. “Please tell me, just for five minutes. Please . . .”
His mother sighed. “All right, but then it’s lights out. Okay?”
Leo nodded. “Promise.”
“Well, when you were about three years old, you used to tell me about your other life as a star.”
Leo frowned. “A star?”
His mother nodded. “You were very earnest about the whole thing and gave me plenty of details. You answered every question I asked. I was most impressed.”
“You didn’t think I was mad?”
“No, I only thought you were an excellent storyteller. I thought one day you might grow up to be a writer.” His mother bent down to kiss his cheek. “Sometimes I still do,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell your father.”
4th October
Twenty-eight days . . .
2:58 a.m.—Leo
Leo has been a soldier since he fell to Earth. He was found, as an apparently human child, wailing and naked under an oak on Hampstead Heath and taken into care. Being beautiful, bright, and white, he was quickly adopted, by Charles Penry-Jones and his wife. So Leo has a double identity, as the privileged progeny of a millionaire businessman and as a soldier. He plays both parts brilliantly because that is the expectation and he has never questioned it. As Penry-Jones Junior, he is studying law at Cambridge, expected to graduate with a double First. As a star soldier, he’s fought and extinguished whichever Grimm girl was next in line. To date, he’s never lost a fight.
For nearly six years, since he first entered Everwhere, he’s lived these parallel lives, and, in that time, he’s not questioned the merits or morality of either. Yet he finds himself thinking on his latest target differently—not in the cold, calculating way he should. And in all this thinking, Leo is starting to wonder whether he’d be fighting this battle if he’d ever been given the choice.<
br />
Leo knows now why he thought he’d seen Goldie before. The familial resemblance is quite striking. Indeed, it’s surprising that he hadn’t realized it immediately. Goldie is more beautiful, though she doesn’t seem to know it, and, naturally, far more powerful, though she doesn’t know that either.
These ruminations on Goldie won’t stop him from doing his duty when the time comes. He’s been attracted to Grimm girls before and it’s never stopped him. Leo likes women well enough, though he’s never loved one. Which is fortunate, given what he’s required to do to so many of them. Admittedly, he’s never felt so strongly drawn to one before, and he wonders why he’s so drawn to her—more deeply each day. She’s clearly extraordinarily gifted, even for a Grimm, though she doesn’t know that either, not yet. But it’s more than that. Leo is curious. He wants to know her. He wants to hear all her secrets, of which he’s sure she has a good many. He wants to listen; he wants to talk. He wants to tell Goldie things he’s never spoken aloud. Which is strange. He hasn’t felt this way since he was a boy. And he’s met a good many beautiful people in the intervening years, in this world and the other, for whom he’s felt affection, even admiration, but no more than that. So why should she be any different?
7:32 a.m.—Goldie
I’m on the third floor, cleaning the hotel from top to bottom, reversing my usual habit. Garrick won’t care, or even notice, since he’s occupied with Cassie in his office.
I’ve been working at the Fitzwilliam Hotel for nine months and have developed a sort of sixth sense about its guests. I can tell, with a glance into their rooms, what their habits will be: when they’ll be in or out, if they’ll wake early or stay out late, whether they’ll be tidy or filthy. The French family in room 38 are dawn risers, sightseers, stay-out-to-lunchers, six o’clock supperers, then straight to bed.
So, when I knock at their door, I know no one will answer. I push my trolley inside and leave the door open behind me. The French family is neat and clean; most morning people are. It doesn’t take long to change their sheets, replace their towels, dust, hoover, and mop. A thick but delicate scent of honeysuckle hangs in the bathroom, and when I’ve finished scrubbing, I lift the heavy glass bottle and spray the scent onto my skin: wrists and neck. I pause to stroke the leaves of the white orchid beside the marble sink, murmuring a little poetry into its petals.
Then I get down to my real work. The child’s clothes aren’t hanging in the wardrobe but packed in careful piles in his suitcase. He doesn’t own multiple versions of the same garment, but everything he has—from socks to shirts—is of the highest quality. I pass reluctantly over a sumptuous linen jacket: navy blue, lined in silk, with the crest of a shield and crown stitched in gold thread on the pocket. Teddy would worship the thing, but it’s too risky to take it. Someone would kick up a fuss over the loss of something like that. I must be quick, so I select three pairs of silk socks and one striped cotton shirt. I slip them into my apron, take one last glance around the room, then drag my trolley across the carpet and close the door.
As I’m pushing my trolley along the corridor, I glance up at a clock on the wall: 11:11 a.m. I smile. It sounds silly, but whenever I see this time, morning or night, I feel it’s a sign. Of what, I’m not sure. A reassurance, a reminder that there might be more to life. I’m not talking about magic. I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe things aren’t as clear-cut as most people think. It’s 11:11 because that’s the minute Teddy was born. Nearly ten years ago. On our living-room floor. His labour lasted less than two hours, his sudden appearance taking Ma by surprise. Later, in the hospital, he looked at me for the first time, his blue eyes—not watery blue like mine but bright, beautiful cornflower blue—unblinking.
When the clock ticks to 11:12, I go on. And since I’m still not quite paying attention, I push my trolley straight into Leo.
“Oh, sh-shit, I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I hurt you? I’m—”
He smiles at me as if this is the most amusing notion. “No,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“Great. Thank God for that. If you sued me, I—I’d be totally fucked.” I stare at him, slightly horrified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupts before I can make a total prat of myself. “I won’t sue you.”
“Thanks.”
I continue staring at him, though now I’ve run out of words. And there he is again, still looking slightly out of place, as if he belongs elsewhere. Today he reminds me not of a silver birch but a rare limber pine, uprooted from Utah and replanted in this genteel greenhouse of a hotel.
I gaze at him. He gazes at me. His gaze is odd, different—slow and intimate—as if he knows me all too well. As if he knows what I’ve been up to, as if he knows everything I’ve ever done. I hope not. His look unsettles but, strangely, doesn’t scare me. It’s intimate, yes, but not invasive. Like an offering at an altar. A gift given without asking anything in return.
Finally, I give him a curt nod, drop my eyes, and shove my trolley on, its ancient wheels dragging through the thick carpet. It’s probably my imagination, but I feel his gaze stay on me as I walk away, as close and warm as if he were pressing his palm gently to my back.
8:31 a.m.—Scarlet
“Hello, Walt.”
“Hey, Scarlet.” Walt pauses at the counter. “Shall I go straight through?”
“Great.” Scarlet nods. “I’ve got a batch of brownies cooling in the kitchen—if you fancy a bite before you start?”
The electrician grins. “That’d be fantastic, thanks.”
When Scarlet returns a few minutes later, with two brownies and a mug of builder’s tea, Walt has pulled up a chair to her grandmother’s table and is saying something to make Esme smile. Scarlet could kiss him for that, but baked goods, and the small fortune she’s paying him—£90 call-out fee, £120 per hour labour, £365 for parts plus VAT—to fix her dishwasher, will have to do. Naturally, the fucking thing had waited till it was two months out of warranty before breaking.
The bell above the door rings. Standing behind the counter, Scarlet glances up to greet the first customer of the day, but the words remain unsaid, hanging helplessly in her open mouth. She watches the man walk towards her—holding himself so straight and still that he seems to glide across the floorboards. His eyes are a startling blue, his hair pitch black, falling in curls over his ears. When he extends his hand, Scarlet thinks she hears Esme gasp. Or perhaps it’s her.
“I take it you’re the owner of this fine establishment?” His voice is deep, soft.
Scarlet manages a small nod. She’d thought Walt was all right, though not the type she’d look twice at in passing. For this man, women must stop in the street and stare. She takes his outstretched hand.
“I’m Eli,” he says. “Ezekiel Wolfe. My friends call me Eli.”
“Scarlet,” she says, having momentarily misplaced her surname.
“A pleasure to meet you, Scarlet.”
He smiles that brilliant smile again, and Scarlet feels she’s being bewitched, drawn in. Like those suicidally tenacious moths that bump their bodies against bright lights until they die.
As Ezekiel Wolfe begins to extricate his hand from hers, Scarlet glances down to see sparks at her fingertips. Real sparks, as from a lighter before it catches a flame. Impossible. She blinks and the sparks are gone.
“I’m making a courtesy call,” Eli says. “My company is opening a new unit down the street.”
“Oh?” Scarlet says, distracted, thinking she must have imagined it.
He nods, hesitating for a second or two. “It’s a branch of Starbucks.”
Scarlet drops his hand.
8:57 a.m.—Liyana
When Liyana sinks into a bathtub of hot, perfumed water, she feels something approaching happiness, if only for an hour. It doesn’t begin to touch the joy of the swimming pool, but then it doesn’t evoke the same sorrow. The wet heat of the bath soaks up the loneliness that has permeated her skin since h
er mother died. By rights, she shouldn’t feel so lonely, having a girlfriend, good friends, Aunt Nya. And yet, when her mother died, Liyana felt she lost a lot more than her only parent. It was as if Isisa Chiweshe, reluctant to let go, had snatched away an essential piece of her daughter and taken it with her into the afterlife, leaving Liyana eternally trying to find this missing piece. The mission being all the harder because she doesn’t know what she’s looking for.
Liyana slides under the water, watching bubbles of breath pop on the surface.
A knock on the door. A muffled voice. “May I come in?”
Liyana wraps fingers around the cool porcelain and pulls herself reluctantly from the warm water. Droplets glisten on her hair, three inches of Afro springing free into the air.
“Come in.”
The bathroom door creaks open and Aunt Nyasha shuffles across the heated marble floor, still in slippers and silk dressing gown, to perch on the edge of the loo. Her aunt, who—with her large eyes, full lips, and hair twisted into an intricate maze of cornrows, like an elaborate tattoo etched into her scalp—is undeniably radiant, is this morning dulled.
“What’s up?” Liyana asks, impatient to submerge herself again.
Nyasha studies her slippered feet. “There’s something . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, vinye”—Nyasha fiddles with the cap on Liyana’s shampoo bottle—“I’m in . . . well . . . a bit of a bind.”
Liyana suppresses a sigh, longing for silence and stillness again. “Can’t it wait till breakfast? I won’t be long.”
The Sisters Grimm Page 5
