“So humanity was left with a choice: to follow their hearts or their heads. But, once the agreement was made, it soon became clear that humans found it far easier to listen to their heads than their hearts, thus ensuring the demonic influence was far stronger than the angelic. It was widely believed, at least among the angels, that the demons had cheated. However, since they could never prove how, and since the terms of the deal, being sealed by both spirit and soul, were irreversible, there was nothing to be done.
“Thus, the whole of humanity was subjected to a terrible fate, fighting to feel the influence of good, to know fulfilment, contentment, and joy, while all too often being drawn into fear, sorrow, and despair. Being cursed with perpetual free will, humans struggled on, often being thrown back and forth between one and the other a dozen times a day. Many descended into madness.”
Another self-satisfied pause.
“Fortunately, those with pure Grimm blood running in their veins must endure free will for only the first eighteen years of their lives. Then they can choose between good and evil. Each comes with its own consequences, but both are blessed by the fact of only having to be chosen once.”
Bea grinned.
“So know your head and know your heart, sisters. Remember what lies behind you, imagine what lies ahead of you, and make your choice carefully.”
Unable to hold my tongue, I fixed her with a sideways glance. “How do you know all that?”
Bea shrugged, but I could tell she was pleased to have incited my curiosity. “My mamá told me,” she said. “She tells me everything.”
“Is it true?” Liyana asked.
Bea smiled. “Every word.”
Leo
As a star Leo had never felt lonely, as a child he rarely felt anything else. He longed for companionship, but without siblings, with only a frequently distracted mother and a distant father, Leo relied solely on imaginary friends. Sometimes he imagined an impish boy he could make mischief with, a boy to replace the brother he’d never have. Sometimes he imagined a girl, one he pictured with blue eyes, blond curls, and a delirious disregard for authority, like a character in a book he’d once read. Leo himself couldn’t afford to disregard authority, since Charles Penry-Jones was a man who must always be obeyed. Leo hoped that one day he’d have the courage to flout his father’s rules, but he knew that’d be much easier and less terrifying with an ally at his side.
5th October
Twenty-seven days . . .
6:28 a.m.—Goldie
Teddy is delighted by his new acquisitions. He spins around the living-room carpet—stepping on the spot I never touch, because he doesn’t know better—bubbling over with joy. If the French family is still there tomorrow, I’ll go back for the linen jacket. I shouldn’t, since it’s infinitely riskier stealing twice from the same person. But the desire to see Teddy grinning like this again outweighs my more rational sensibilities.
“Are you hungry, Ted? We’ve got herb-stuffed poussin, polenta, and baby carrots for breakfast.”
Every day we eat whatever they’re serving at the hotel, regardless. I was sort of seeing Kaz, the sous chef, for a few weeks when I started, and whenever I finished a shift he’d give me two portions of something gourmet in plastic tubs. I broke it off when I realized I was flirting to get fed. But Kaz still gives me leftovers whenever he can.
Teddy stops spinning. “Can I have breakfast in my new shirt?”
“If you’re careful.” I step into the kitchen to decant the refrigerated plastic tubs onto plates. I stop a moment to stroke the leaves of my bonsai tree, which seems to give a little shiver of appreciation as I pass. Its trunk looks a little thicker than usual, like Ma’s ankles when she was weighed down by Teddy, so I know it’ll flower soon—filling our flat with a scent as strong and sweet as burnt caramel. We have a small wooden table pushed up against the wall alongside Teddy’s bed (I still sleep on the sofa) where we eat. It’s stupid, given our square footage situation, that we don’t use our parents’ room, but neither of us has set foot inside since Ma died.
“It’s yummy, thanks.” Teddy scoops up a forkful of polenta, squinting at the aftertaste of soy sauce as he swallows. But he never complains, never asks for burgers and French fries, never says I don’t spend enough time at home, that he has to look after himself too much. When I return in the evening, I find him finishing homework or housework, or sitting at the table, drawing. Or, if I’m on a late shift, already asleep.
I reward him as best I can. Whenever kids stay at the hotel, they leave with fewer crayons and notebooks than they brought. I’ve created quite an eclectic collection during the past nine months. I usually take only as much as might be lost by natural means—down the backs of sofas, under restaurant tables, wedged between car seats—so neither kids nor parents notice anything amiss. Admittedly, last week I took an entire tin of oil pastels: all the colours of the rainbow and every hue in between. Teddy sleeps with them under his pillow. And he draws such exquisite pictures. The flat is wallpapered with Ted’s characters wearing flamboyant costumes of his own design.
“G-G . . . ?” He puts down his fork.
I sense a request coming. I swallow. “Yes?”
“You know it’s your birthday soon . . .”
“Yes?”
“There’s a school trip to London that weekend.” He grins again, forgetting his fear over telling me. “My class is going to the theatre to see the real Macbeth.”
“Oh?” We’ve been practising that play for weeks, especially act 1, scene 1, since Teddy is the Second Witch in the school production. I smile. “When do we meet again? In rain—”
“No, no, no.” Teddy shakes his head so vigorously, his mop of blond hair is flung from side to side. “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”
Teddy regards me as if this is the biggest lie he’s ever heard. Then he takes a deep breath, serious again. “We’re visiting Buckingham Palace too. And staying the night, in a hotel.”
“The night?” My smile falls. “Is that absolutely—”
“But I won’t go,” Teddy cuts me off, “if you don’t want. I can stay here and celebrate with you and—”
I swallow a forkful of polenta. It’s sticky and sharp. “No, I . . . Of course you must go. I’ll . . . I’ll probably be working anyway.” He looks so pleased that I wish I didn’t have to ask. “So, um, how much will it cost?”
Teddy pokes at his carrots. “Um . . . T-three hundred and forty-five pounds.”
I hold my breath.
He looks up again. “I need to give it to Miss McNamara on Friday.”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly. “Totally fine. No problem at all.”
“Thanks, G-G.” Teddy grins again, then stuffs three carrots into his mouth. “You’re the best.”
I nod, managing a smile.
Five days to find £345. Fuck.
10:28 a.m.—Liyana
Liyana had rejected her aunt’s ludicrous idea, had dismissed it out of hand. But, though Nya hasn’t mentioned it again, Liyana hasn’t been able to focus on much else. The preoccupation fractures her thoughts—she’s forgotten to call Kumiko, hasn’t been able to draw. Although, now that her admission to art school hangs in the balance, does that matter anymore?
Liyana finds solace only in the bath. She dearly wants to return to the swimming pool but won’t allow herself that. Twice in a single week is far too risky, the longing it’d invoke would be too great. It’s already gnawing at her belly and bones.
Liyana sinks under the water, fully wrapped in her safety blanket. She’ll soak until her skin is pruned and her senses numb. She cannot countenance what Nya asks. And yet, her aunt has done so much for her. She financed, albeit with her second husband’s fortune, their fleeing from Ghana when Liyana was a baby. And paid for everything after that. The night her mother died, Liyana crept into her aunt’s bed. They slept, or at least lay,
together every night until Liyana was ready to move to her new bedroom in her new terraced home on Barnsbury Square, Islington.
Nya attended every swimming competition, every class, every school play, every concert. She dropped Liyana at school and picked her up. She comforted Liyana every time kids at school threw insults, dropped thinly veiled insinuations, or outright told her to go back to Africa, though they probably couldn’t find Ghana on a map. She was there when Liyana lost her first tooth and, five years later, when she ripped that ligament in her left knee, dropping Liyana out of the Olympic race and into a depression for nearly a year. Aunt Nya sat by her bedside that summer, bringing food, brushing her hair, reading fairy tales . . . She’d cast a lifebelt into the sea of despair and gradually pulled her niece back to shore. Nya bought Liyana her first comic book, encouraged her to start telling her own stories, to write and draw. Without Nya there would be no Slade in the first place. Given all this, and so much more, Liyana wonders if she can refuse her aunt this request. Or anything at all, no matter how unreasonable it might be.
Liyana wipes her hands on a towel and reaches for her phone. She’d emailed her admissions tutor at the Slade the same morning Nya revealed the devastating state of their finances. She’s been waiting twenty-four hours and fifty-seven minutes for an answer. But, with every hour that passes, a towering wave of anguish rises up behind her. When she’s out of the bath, she’ll ask the tarot again. It’s not given her any reason to hope yet, but that won’t stop her trying. Liyana hasn’t yet asked the cards whether she should do what her aunt is asking. She’s too afraid of the answer.
11:38 a.m.—Scarlet
This morning it’s not only for financial reasons that Scarlet wishes the café were busier. When she’s frothing milk, slicing cakes, or extracting globules of baby food from the floorboards, Scarlet forgets Mr. Wolfe. But this morning she has nothing more than a clutch of stingy students to entertain her, so Scarlet must find other sources of distraction. Today, Francisco, the cappuccino machine. Scarlet bought him, at some significant expense, on her sixteenth birthday after her grandmother had stapled a cheque for three thousand pounds into a glittery card. At the time, Scarlet was overjoyed. Now she sees it as a signpost on the road to Esme’s decline, a slip of the mind and pen.
Scarlet’s halfway through cleaning when the door opens and Mr. Wolfe, looking self-satisfied and smug, glides into the café. The knife Scarlet’s using to dig out congealed coffee beans slips, scratching Francisco’s fine stainless steel surface.
“Shit.” Scarlet rubs at the scratch, patting him. “Sorry, Frannie.”
“Are you talking to your cappuccino machine?” Ezekiel asks, as he reaches her. “Or did you forget my name?”
Scarlet ignores him.
Ezekiel pats the leather bag hanging from his shoulder. “I call my briefcase Fred. He has a surname too, but I keep forgetting it.”
Scarlet lowers the knife she’d been brandishing like a sword. “You’re a strange man.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
He smiles. “Oh, but strange is far better than boring. It denotes a depth of character, a man of style and taste.”
“It does not.”
His smile deepens. “Oh, but it does. If you don’t think so, perhaps you ought to consult a dictionary. I’m quoting from the Oxford English. Inferior volumes may have misinformed you.”
Scarlet folds her arms. “What do you want?”
“Is that how you greet all your illustrious customers?” He nods at the smattering of students, all hunched over laptops. “Is that why you have so few?”
“Paying customers are treated with the utmost respect.” Scarlet sets down the knife. “You, on the other hand, aren’t here for a slice of cake. Am I right?”
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Ezekiel says, lifting his briefcase onto the counter. “I’ve brought you an offer.”
Scarlet narrows her eyes. “For what?”
“For your café.” Ezekiel clicks his briefcase open and extracts a thick folder. “I’ve looked into your takings—you’re struggling. We’re offering to take over the lease and give you a rather generous signing bonus in the bargain.”
Scarlet feels heat rising in her hands, as if she were holding them too close to a fire. She clenches them into fists at her sides. She wants to snatch up the knife and scar his beautiful face. Arrogant prick.
“Are you willing to—”
He’s stopped short by a falling antique art deco lamp, reaffixed to the ceiling by Walt only yesterday, that comes away with clumps of plaster, striking Ezekiel’s head. He stumbles back as the lamp shatters on the floor in an explosion of colour. The smattering of students all glance up from their laptops, then, sensing themselves in no immediate danger, return to their screens.
“What the hell was that?” Ezekiel staggers to the counter, gripping the edge. He grabs a napkin and presses it to his forehead. “Shit. It fucking hurts. Shit.”
Scarlet stares at him, speechless. A shard of glass has sliced Ezekiel’s hairline. Blood runs down his face. He’ll need stitches. A scar on his beautiful face. Scarlet’s thoughts race. No, that’s impossible. But then what the hell is happening? As Ezekiel continues to swear and moan, Scarlet feels her hands getting hotter.
She glances down to see sparks again firing from her fingertips.
6:38 p.m.—Bea
Bea stares at her hands, splayed across the pages of Russell’s The Analysis of Mind, trying to focus but thinking instead about her mother, about the line between madness and sanity, between fantasy and reality. Although Bea would extract her own toenails before admitting any weakness, she can’t deny a morbid terror of madness, of inheriting maternal DNA. Beneath Bea’s fingers, the letters blur into black lines and curls, words she knows so well shifting into hieroglyphics.
The ink on the page begins to pool under her palms, soaking into her hands, staining her skin. Bea watches as the ink seeps slowly into her veins, until they’re running black instead of milky blue.
Bea lifts her left hand, bringing it to her face. Surely not. She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens one eye and peers out. But her veins still pulse dark, her skin tattooed. Panic rises, hot and clammy. She’s got to get out of here. She starts to stand but, as she’s about to abandon the table and flee to the nearest lavatory, fear gradually subsides into calm. And Bea begins to feel herself slipping seamlessly into this new ink-veined skin, until she’s in a perfect alignment of body and soul. As if Judas had reached up from hell to whisper in her ear: Don’t fear. This is who you are, who you’ve always been.
Bea pushes her chair from the table and stands. Only a scattering of students sit at the table, all with heads bowed over their books. Not that she’d now care if they were staring at her, smirking and jeering.
Bea grins. How wonderful not to give a damn what strangers might think. How spectacularly liberating.
Bea steps up onto her chair, one booted foot then the other. She looks around. Not high enough. She steps onto the table. Now Bea can survey her kingdom without impediment. She turns a slow circle to admire every bookcase, every book, every table, every occupant. From here she can see as far as the librarian’s desk, to the librarian bent over his computer, frowning at the screen.
How splendid it is to be so elevated, to see what others cannot, to feel like the lord of all you survey, in a unity of spirit and stature. Bea has always felt her small size an impairment, offering an inferior vantage point. She hates how often she must look up at people, how easily she gets shoved about in a crowd. Like a fucking child. Now she feels none of that. She is tall, powerful, deadly.
Bea wakes in a sweat. She shakes her head, looks to her hands: she’s a wren again, not a raven. Bea blinks several times, pressing out the images, distancing herself from the dream. She’s never fallen asleep over a book before. Bea thinks of her mamá. And, though she can hardly countenance it, the possibility that she too might be going mad stains her tho
ughts like the imaginary ink that stained her hands. This is Bea’s greatest fear—to lose her mind—far greater than death.
Still shaking, Bea glances about for her chubby stalker, suddenly wanting the reassurance of his bearded face. But she’s alone in the library now, not another student in sight.
11:45 p.m.—Leo
For every Grimm he’s killed, Leo has a scar. For every girl, a crescent moon. For every mother, a star. Spread across his shoulder blades and along his spine is a constellation, a galaxy of scars. Most of the time he forgets, but lately he finds himself thinking about these marks more often. Because he’s also thinking about her.
If, as he’s started imagining, they were to find themselves in close and unveiled proximity, how would he explain these scars? And she would ask. Every woman he’s been with has. Unless sufficient amounts of alcohol ensure that a good many things go unremarked upon. But Leo suspects Goldie isn’t the type for drunken one-night stands. He can’t be certain, but he’d be surprised. There seems a curious mixture of light and dark in her, a strange alchemical balance of innocence and experience.
Regarding the scars, he would lie, naturally. Since he cannot say: Oh, yes, they’re stamped upon my skin on the battlefield, engraved by the last breath of my latest kill. Who do I kill? Why, your sisters, mothers, aunts, cousins . . . Some I hunt for sport, the ones who aren’t pureblooded, to keep me sharp, to ready myself for those I have to fight on the night they turn eighteen. Will I kill you? Why, yes, if I can. I’m afraid I’ll have no choice, my dear.
A conversation stopper, if ever there was one.
By rights, he shouldn’t be able to lie to her. By rights, she should be able to tell. Her powers are far above and beyond such simple psychic abilities. And yet, she has no idea. These powers remain untapped, untouched potential.
The Sisters Grimm Page 7
