As she walked, Liyana was surprised to discover that, despite not knowing where she was going, she seemed to know where she was heading. Although she didn’t know her destination, she nevertheless knew the way. So she walked on, turning left or right when she reached the end of a road, as her inclination took her. Liyana stopped before she saw it. She was standing in front of a walled garden she’d never noticed before. The gate was locked and roped with ivy so thick that it couldn’t have been opened in decades.
Surely, Liyana thought, this couldn’t be the right one. And yet, at the same time, she knew that it was. She stared at the lock, so mottled with rust, so intricately entwined with vines, that it must be impossible to open, even if she had the key, which she did not.
Liyana glanced at her watch. She had, according to Bea’s instructions, only five minutes until the essential moment. But what was she supposed to do next? Liyana squinted at the problem, shifting from foot to foot to shake up her brain cells.
One minute to go.
Liyana grasped a rusty iron curlicue and rattled the gate. She was rewarded with several satisfying clangs. But that was all. She tried again, shaking it so hard this time that every limb of her little body shook with it. And then Liyana found that she didn’t have to do anything at all. At precisely 3:33 a.m., the moon slid out from under a cloud, shining its soft light to illuminate the metal. And, despite the rust and leafy ropes, the gate swung open with only a slight creak. Liyana hesitated a second, before stepping through.
On the other side of the gate, Bea was waiting.
“Well done,” she said, with the smallest of smug smiles. “You passed the test.”
14th October
Eighteen days . . .
9:45 a.m.—Goldie
“What is it?”
“Well, it is a silk scarf,” Leo says. “But I suppose you can use it for whatever purpose you see fit.”
We’re standing in an empty corridor on the third floor. I’m meant to be cleaning room 41, but I’ve been interrupted by Leo.
“I know that.” I smile. “I meant what’s it for? I mean—I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“Not a lot, no.”
“I meant—why are you giving it to me?”
Now Leo smiles. “Can’t I give you a present for no reason at all?”
“I don’t know . . .” I shrug. “I’m not used to it.”
“Well,” he says, “I’ve been thinking that you’re always acquiring things for your little brother. But you never seem to acquire much for yourself.”
“You say that like I’m a generous shopper,” I say, “rather than a gifted thief.”
“‘Gifted,’ eh? I like that you know your own skills. Nothing worse than false modesty.”
I shrug again. “I take credit where I can. It’s not like I’ve got much else going for me. I don’t—”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you there and respectfully disagree,” Leo says, leaning down to kiss me. “You’ve got a hell of a lot going for you.”
I duck away from him. “I won’t have anything going for me if someone catches us kissing and reports it to management, Mr. Penry-Jones.”
But Leo leans in closer to whisper in my ear. “Then I’m lucky no one caught me stealing that scarf from room twenty-seven.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t.”
“You’re not the only one with skills.”
“What? No, you can’t do that, you’re the manager, you’re crazy—”
He lands the quickest of kisses on my cheek as I stuff the scarf into my apron pocket. “About you.”
I roll my eyes. “Now you’re crazy and cheesy.”
Leo shrugs. I meet his gaze and hold it.
“You didn’t steal this from room twenty-seven, did you?” I say. “You bought it.”
Leo laughs and kisses me again. This time, I let him.
2:59 p.m.—Scarlet
The kiss. Scarlet hasn’t been able to think about much else since. Which is something of a blessed relief, eclipsing, as it does, the events preceding the kiss and the implications thereof. However, that was two days ago and she’s not seen him since. Scarlet’s clearing a table recently deserted by overconfident, overloud Cambridge students—the sort under the illusion that they’re both the only people in the café and the most important—when he walks in.
Relief and joy spark at her fingertips. “You.”
“What, you thought I’d kiss and run?” Eli smiles, walking up to her. “What sort of cad do you think I am?”
“Oh, I know exactly what kind of cad you are.” Scarlet sets the plates back on the table. She’s flirting. A monumentally foolish thing to do. But she can’t seem to help it.
Eli laughs. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”
Scarlet shrugs. “It’s the hair. But I imagine you already know that.”
“Actually . . .” Eli reaches out to touch her cheek. “I’ve never had the pleasure of knowing a redhead intimately before.”
As his fingers brush her skin, Scarlet feels a sudden and disturbing desire to have him scoop her up and lay her down upon the nearest table.
“Hey, Scarlet, which wood did you want—?”
She turns. Eli steps back and Walt, standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes them both with a suspicious frown.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Oh, no.” Scarlet straightens herself. “No, Mr. Wolfe and I were just, um, he’d brought—”
“Some papers for Miss Thorne to sign,” Eli finishes.
“Okay, well, that’s . . . none of my business,” Walt says. “I only came to ask if you wanted pine or oak for the replacement shelves.”
“I, um . . .” Scarlet tries and fails to summon any interest in the subject. “Whatever you think’s best.”
“All right then,” Walt says, turning to walk back into the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t you be supervising him?” Eli says. “He might suddenly decide to paint the shelves bright orange or lime green.”
“He’s not a painter,” Scarlet says absently. “He’s not even a carpenter. He’s just doing me a favour. He’s . . . nice.”
Eli’s smile deepens. “Unlike me?”
“Absolutely.” If Walt was fire, Scarlet thinks, he’d be a spluttering candle. Ezekiel Wolfe is an inferno. “Did you bring the papers?”
“Of course. I’d brought them to Fitzbillies, but then you callously abandoned me after that rather spectacular kiss. So now I keep them with me at all times.” Eli taps his jacket pocket. “To catch you whenever you’re ready to see sense.”
“Mocking the target—is this some sort of reverse psychology strategy?” Scarlet asks. “Or are you actually trying to talk yourself out of a sale?”
“Neither, I’m just having a little fun.” Eli pulls out a chair to sit at the cluttered table. “Okay, let’s start again.”
Scarlet waits before sitting and taking the papers from him. For several studious minutes, she scans them, attempting to look as if she knows what she’s doing.
“You only need to read one,” he says. “They’re duplicates.”
“I know that,” Scarlet snaps. “Now shush.”
Eli sits back in his chair, looking like a mischievous child. His large eyes seem even bigger, his lips moist, his smile wide, his two rows of perfectly straight white teeth . . . Scarlet pulls her eyes from his face and forces herself to focus on the page.
When she’s finally finished, she looks up. “All right.” She folds her arms. “How about adding another five thousand to your offer?”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to do that,” Eli says. “I’d have to go back to my bosses and run it past them.”
Scarlet regards him. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been given a little wiggle room.”
“You’re a sly one, aren’t you?” Eli gives her a coy smile, then plucks a fountain pen from his pocket, adjusts the figure—in purple ink, on both documents—and signs the alterations.
Scarlet takes a deep breath. “The pen.”
“Don’t you want to get your solicitor to look those over first?”
“Give me the pen.”
Their fingers touch, igniting a single spark.
“What was that?”
“Static,” Scarlet says, focusing on the papers. Then she stops, pen poised, and looks up. “Ten thousand.”
“Sorry?”
“I think you’ve been authorized to increase the offer by ten thousand.”
Eli says nothing.
“Am I right?”
Still he says nothing. But she can tell, from the surprise in his eyes, that he is.
“Excellent,” she says. “Do that, and we’ve definitely got a deal.”
She slides the papers and pen back across the table. He takes them.
“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Thorne,” Eli says, grinning a wolfish grin.
7:45 p.m.—Goldie
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
We’re standing behind the restaurant bar in the hotel. He’s crouched beside the fridges, doing the stock count. I’m standing on a stool, half-heartedly dusting the bottles of Bollinger lining the glass shelves above.
“It’s not,” I say.
Leo stops counting and looks up. “Have you ever wanted something you couldn’t have?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. A million things, I suppose. But, right now, when I feel I’ve got everything I could possibly want, it’s hard to pinpoint anything. “Anyway, I’m a thief extraordinaire,” I say in a stage whisper. “Whatever I want, I take.”
Leo laughs, but it’s not his usual laugh. It’s heavier, weighed down by his thoughts, whatever they are.
“Even you aren’t that good a thief,” he says. “No one is.”
We fall into silence.
“I was thinking about what you said the other day,” I say.
He waits.
“About me saying ‘I don’t know’ a lot.”
Leo nods.
“Well, I feel like I . . . maybe I used to know. When I was a little kid.” I search for words, trying to find my meaning. Leo waits. “Before things happened that I didn’t know could happen. Things that . . .”
“It’s the reason you flinched when I first touched you,” he suggests.
I nod once.
He doesn’t ask me anything more, only reaches for my hand and holds it gently between his palms.
11:47 p.m.—Liyana
She’s done it. Liyana has been brave, has faced life head-on. She’s filled out fifteen more job applications, stopped stalling Kumiko with texts and finally called to arrange a meeting tomorrow. She’s also seeing Mazmo on Saturday night. So, twelve hours to prepare a winning argument for her girlfriend and four days to prepare an unconventional marriage proposal for her potential husband. Now she sits cross-legged on her bed, shuffling the tarot cards, and before she’s even had a chance to lay them out, one falls from the pack between her folded legs.
The Three of Cups. Team spirit, unity, friendship, unconditional love.
Liyana picks it up, studying the picture of three women in a forest, each holding a goblet aloft. Small woodland creatures surround them, looking on and applauding. She’s seen this card many times but has never drawn it.
Liyana sets the Three of Cups on the duvet, then pulls more cards from the pack: the Three of Pentacles, the Devil, the Nine of Wands. An army—warriors like her own BlackBird. An opponent. A battle.
Liyana spends another hour studying the cards, trying to decipher the story, hoping deeper layers of meaning will float to the surface, if only she waits long enough. But, this time, they don’t.
11:57 p.m.—Bea
Bea falls asleep as soon as she returns to her room, dropping her bag, collapsing into bed without removing her shoes. She meant to lie down only a moment but tumbles down the rabbit hole the second she closes her eyes.
Bea watches as objects begin to shift: a carriage clock on her desk lifting into the air, then settling on her bedside table. It ousts an art deco lamp so it falls, halting and hovering an inch above the floorboards before alighting, in a dignified manner, upon the edge of a bookshelf.
Then all chaos breaks loose. As if they only needed a nudge, every object in Bea’s bedroom hurls itself into the air, gathering speed into a sweeping tornado that tears through the air, ripping up the carpet, wrenching anything still stationary into its vortex, including the bed and Bea upon it.
Bea wakes screaming, sitting up so fast that she nearly falls back. But no objects are flying above her head; no storm is wreaking havoc upon her room. All is hushed and still. Bea stops screaming and falls silent. She’s drawing a deep breath, reaching for calm, when she sees the peacock feather resting in the palm of her left hand. It’s as inert as everything else, as if it’s been patiently waiting to be seen.
Bea stares at it. Perhaps, by some giant leap of imagination, she could explain its presence. Perhaps she’d left her door ajar, perhaps a trickster friend or malicious ex-boyfriend is trying to spook her. It’s highly unlikely but possible. What happens next is not.
The feather begins to transform in her hand. The nib begins to darken, as if dipped in ink. The quill draws it up, spreading the ink to each barb, until the whole feather is black.
First a book, now a feather.
And the feeling that she’s being watched.
15th October
Seventeen days . . .
3:33 a.m.—Leo
I know what you’re thinking.
Leo stiffens. Goldie is lying beside him in bed and, though she can’t hear the voice that has just invaded his head, still it feels too close. He tries to quiet his mind, so his father can’t read his thoughts.
Wilhelm’s laughter cracks along Leo’s synapses. I believe that’s what they call locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. I’m in your mind now, I can see it all.
Leo is silent.
You’re falling in love with her.
No, Leo thinks. I—
You know I can’t allow it.
Leo is silent. I know.
Wilhelm waits. Then: If you won’t fight her, then I’m afraid you’re of no use to me. It pains me, but—
Leo feels as if every muscle in his body has turned to stone. He feels Goldie shift beside him, waking up. No, I—I will. I’ll fight her.
I’m not entirely sure I believe you. His words are soft, slow, marking time. Perhaps I should extinguish you now, find another to replace you.
No! A scream crouches in Leo’s chest. Please, don’t. I—I’ll . . .
Oh, calm down. Wilhelm’s sigh blows a chill breath through Leo’s body. I’m a foolish old man and you’re my favourite son, so I’ll give you a second chance.
Leo waits.
You have until the night of her Choosing. He pauses. I admit, I’m quite certain she’ll win anyway. Still, she must be subjected to the challenge, just like everyone else. His laughter cracks again through Leo’s mind. After all, what would a gladiator be without a lion?
Leo imagines himself impaled on Goldie’s sword. He blinks the image away.
If you won’t put up a fight, I’ll find another who will.
3:36 a.m.—Goldie
“I love falling asleep with you.”
Leo turns his head to kiss my cheek but kisses my ear instead. “Me too.”
“I don’t think you ever sleep,” I say. “Whenever I wake, your eyes are always open.”
“I’m keeping guard,” he says.
“That’s kind of you, but I think Teddy and I can take care of ourselves,” I say with a smile. “We don’t talk to strangers, we’re pretty shirty with murderers, and, after a close-call terrorism incident last summer, we now operate a strict invite-only policy to our cocktail parties. So I think we’re safe.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But how do you know you can trust me?” Leo smiles, although there’s something in the tone of his voice that suggests he’s no
t entirely joking. “I might be a terrorist too.”
“No,” I say. “I put all my lovers through a rigorous screening system.”
Leo’s smile deepens. “Oh?”
I nod. “You’ve been subjected to background checks, DNA tests—”
“Scrutiny of personal diaries.”
“Oh, God,” I mumble, burying my face in his chest. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that most embarrassing moment of my life.”
“Never,” Leo says. “I’ll still be reminding you of that when . . .”
I wait for him to finish the sentence, what I thought would be a promise about our future, but he doesn’t.
3:39 a.m.—Goldie
I’m having the same dream every night. At first, everything is white: I’m staring into a lightbulb, a field of snow, a Tupperware sky. Shadows start to take shape. I’m standing in a garden, though still everything is white: the grass, the plants, the birds, the butterflies . . . A white cat stalks through white grass, picking his paws through daisies and dandelions, before disappearing into a clutch of cow parsley. Albino blackbirds trill from white willow trees, their song floating on a breeze that carries white bumblebees to and from white roses.
Hundreds, thousands of roses, sprinkled through the garden, as voluptuous as peonies, on every stalk and stem. As I stand, wondering if I too am pure white, I see that the garden is getting larger, expanding in every direction and expanding still, until all I can see are millions of roses, their scent so strong and sweet that I can taste their nectar on my tongue.
There’s something special about these roses, though I don’t know what. But the longer I stand among them, the surer I become. I’m connected to them somehow. And, as I stand there, I start to wonder if I too am a rose.
The Sisters Grimm Page 19
