Then he was gone, and Leo left once more bereft. This wound ripped open a pain that burned inside Leo, stoked and stirred as he grew, fuelling a desire to avenge his friend, to kill as many Grimm girls as he could, in the hopes that one day he would stop the heart of the one responsible for his sorrow.
3:33 a.m.—Goldie
I’m back among the white roses. But tonight I am a rose. I am everything. My hair is the tumbling white leaves of the willow trees, my fingers the stems of the flowers, my breath the birdsong, my tears the daisies, my heart the cat stalking through the grass, my spirit the breeze that blows through it all . . .
Today I don’t simply believe I can move everything in the garden, I know it. As easily as I breathe, as effortlessly as I lift my hand. There’s no question, no trying, no striving.
I can.
For a few minutes, I focus. And, sure enough, this time I don’t have to hope and pray, try and fail.
Now, with a single twitch of my fingers, I pluck a dozen daisies from the lawn. They lift and hover patiently in the air, waiting on my command. I press forefinger to thumb, and the daisies gather into a suspended circle. I snap my fingers, and they slowly thread themselves together until they form a floral crown. I smile as the ring of daisies alights on my head.
“It suits you.”
Ma stands before me on the grass, dressed all in white. For a moment I think she’s a ghost—I used to think the same after Teddy was born, the aftermath of birth giving her an ethereal appearance, as if she wasn’t quite certain whether she belonged in this world or the next. Which is perhaps why she died inexplicably young.
“Th-thank you.”
“You loved making daisy chains when you were a little girl,” Ma says. “You’d do it for hours. We’d sit in the park with Teddy and you’d have bracelets, necklaces, five daisy crowns on your head before teatime.”
I look at her. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.” Ma smiles. “I remember everything.”
3:53 a.m.—Goldie
I open my eyes. I feel the warmth of Leo at my back. I’ve twisted away from him in my sleep. I turn to him.
“See, I was right. You never sleep.”
“I was watching you.”
“I just dreamed about my ma. I can’t remember when I last did that.”
I think I see a startled look flash across Leo’s face, a brief narrowing of his green eyes. But it happens so fast and is gone so quickly that I wonder if I might have imagined it.
“What was she doing?” Leo asks. “What did she say?”
“She told me I loved to make daisy chains.”
He drags long fingers through messy hair. “Nothing else?”
“Ma was a woman of few words,” I say.
Leo hesitates. “How do you think she would feel about . . . ?”
“What?”
Leo says the word so softly I can’t hear.
“Sorry?”
It seems to pain him. “Me.”
“You?” I say, relieved. “She’d love you.”
8:36 a.m.—Scarlet
Scarlet glances up from the bag of flour she’s sieving to see Walt walking into the kitchen. She’s experimenting with breadmaking. If the café can’t survive solely as a café, she thinks, it might fare better as a bakery.
“There’s a queue of eager, expectant customers out there.” Walt nods in the direction of the counter.
“Really?” Scarlet brightens, wiping her floury hands on her apron.
“Yeah,” he says. “Do you like the shelves?”
“I love them. Great colour,” she says, heading towards the counter. Though, if he’d asked what colour they were, she couldn’t have said. She can’t even recall if he painted them or not.
When the small flurry of customers is settled with caffeine and cakes, Scarlet hurries back into the kitchen to continue examination of the sourdough book and finds Walt standing vigil beside it.
“How’s the dishwasher?”
“Excellent.” Scarlet flips over the page. “Thank you.”
He kicks his toe into the floor. “So . . .”
“So . . . ?”
“So I was wondering . . . since I’ve fixed the dishwasher, put up a few shelves, changed the washers on the sink—I’ve pretty much exhausted all my excuses . . .”
Scarlet glances up from her open book, wondering if he’s angling for more work.
“I was, well, hoping that perhaps you might like to . . . go out sometime”—Walt takes a quick breath—“For a drink, food, whatever.”
Scarlet looks at him. “Oh.”
“It doesn’t matter if . . .” Walt offers a self-deprecating smile. “I thought perhaps . . . No harm in asking, is there? Except for the hefty dent to my ego.”
“No, sorry,” Scarlet says. “I didn’t mean to sound so . . .”
“Nonplussed?” Walt offers. “Taken aback? Slightly terrified?”
Scarlet laughs. “Did I? Sorry. No, I was just surprised.”
“Well, that shows how crap I am at reading signs,” Walt says. “I thought perhaps I sensed a . . . frisson, or something.” He pushes himself away from the counter. He’s halfway across the kitchen when he stops and turns. “Is this because . . . Have you got . . . Are you already going out with that ridiculously handsome bloke?”
“What ridiculously handsome bloke?” Scarlet asks. She knows exactly who he means, though she’s barely thought of Ezekiel Wolfe since that night, when she’d done everything she’d wanted to do with him—and more; and since he’s a deplorable specimen of humanity, she hopes never to see him again.
“The one I offered to assassinate,” Walt says. “The offer still stands, by the way. Especially if you’re dating him.”
“Don’t be—What makes you think we’re dating?”
“I may be rubbish at reading signs,” Walt says. “But a blind man could sense the frisson between the two of you.”
Scarlet smiles. “You rather like that word, don’t you?”
“I memorize French words to make myself sound sophisticated.” He nods down at the builder’s belt slung round his waist. “In case anyone assumes I’m thick cos I ain’t got a degree or nothing.”
“Me neither.”
“You might have two Ph.D.s by the time you’re my age.”
Scarlet laughs. “Hardly. How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Oh,” Scarlet says, genuinely surprised. “I thought you were younger.”
Walt smiles. “Wise of mind, fair of face.”
“Yeah, well, you’re certainly not hideous.”
Walt glances at his boots. “‘Certainly not hideous’? Gosh, that’s a helluva compliment.”
Scarlet laughs again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She casts a curious eye over Walt. He, unlike Ezekiel Wolfe, clearly is an exceedingly good specimen of humanity. And although she’s not especially attracted to him, she believes that goodness ought to be rewarded. After all, when sexual desire fades one is left with the essence of the man. “Okay, look. So we’re practically on a date right now already, don’t you think? It’s not such a leap to make it official.”
“So you’re not . . . with the . . .”
“No,” Scarlet says. “Ridiculously handsome blokes aren’t my type.”
Walt smiles. “Thank goodness for that.”
10:37 a.m.—Liyana
At last, Liyana has a lead. Which is excellent news, since the interview she’s just had at Tesco was a humiliating washout. She has, it transpired, very little common sense or, indeed, any sense at all. Still, they’d obviously been desperate for bodies since she’d been offered a trial shift on Wednesday. But, although Liyana hates to admit it, Kumiko had been right: stocking shelves will make her miserable. She’d known it as soon as she’d walked along the aisles. A fake marriage to Mazmo would be an infinitely preferable way to support her through art school and keep her aunt in Givenchy.
More important, Liyana
has found the logo that matches her sister’s uniform. A green crest embroidered with the letters FH in gold. Now, she sits at her laptop continuing her search. Miraculously, it doesn’t take long to find the place. Even more miraculously, the Fitzwilliam Hotel is in Cambridge. Liyana only has to take a train, which she will do first thing tomorrow. But what will she say when she meets this girl? This blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who couldn’t look any more unlike her. This girl who’s as pale as she is dark, as poor as she was once rich. The girl doesn’t look like a raving racist—but how, in the absence of any visible white supremacist tattoos, does one tell? And even if the girl’s perfectly lovely, how the hell will Liyana convince her that they’re sisters?
If Liyana mentions the dream, her mirror-sister will surely think her certifiable. She might call the police or a psychiatric centre. So Liyana must tread carefully, must take the softly, softly approach. She’ll start with a little innocuous chat and move on from there . . .
Liyana shuts her laptop to consult the tarot for answers. She shuffles, then plucks out five cards and lays them out on her desk, their pictures and stories weaving together to tell their unique tale. The Two of Wands: a flamboyant drummer with twirling moustaches and wings sprouting from his hat marches beside two white peacocks, who brandish his wands in their beaks. The Seven of Cups: a glamorous woman with curling feathers in her hair walks among the mists, dreamily contemplating the floating cups on offer. The Fool: a purple-haired girl, wearing a ruff and dressed like a dashing page, saunters unknowingly towards the edge of a cliff while bright birds decorate the sky above her head. The Five of Wands: four winged, sharp-toothed, long-beaked creatures with snaking tails clash their wands like swords in battle. A fifth, filigreed wand rises up between them. The Wheel of Fortune: the zodiac wheel spins among the stars, flanked by a mermaid, an eagle, a bull, and a cat. Two entwined snakes rise up from the ground beneath, while sprites and dragonflies dance among the flowers.
Liyana sees herself in the tale, her journey embodied in the Two of Wands: being bold, seizing the day, walking to the beat of her own drum. But also the Fool: optimistic, impulsive, inexperienced. The Seven of Cups isn’t a good omen, suggesting that she’s caught in illusions. But the worst is the Five of Wands, promising discord, conflict, and struggle. Yet the Wheel of Fortune, with its chance of good luck, gives cause to renew Liyana’s flagging hopes.
11:35 a.m.—Bea
Bea wakes tangled in hotel sheets that would be crisp and fresh, but for the sweat that soaked into them last night. Bea winces slightly as snapshots of details return. The things he did. The things she did. Oh, God. Bea hadn’t known she was capable of such things, emotionally or physically. She certainly hadn’t expected Vali to be. Worst of all: she’d do it again in a heartbeat. She doesn’t know what it is about this chubby bearded bloke, but he makes her want to do wickedly delightful things.
Bea turns to him, still sleeping. She wants to reach down and kiss him tenderly on the cheek, but holds back.
“Wake up, Romeo.”
Vali doesn’t stir, though Bea imagines she hears a soft snore.
“All right then, you lazy bum, I shall avail myself of the posh facilities. I’m afraid I’ll use up all the soap, in a vain attempt to cleanse body and soul.”
Bea glances over, expecting this remark to be met with a retort along the lines of There isn’t enough soap in this hotel to manage that, or some such. But he’s silent. Bea sighs. So much for the morning cuddle. Which is fine, she tells herself, since she’s not a fan of cuddling anyway, at any time of day.
Bea slides out of bed and shuffles towards the bathroom. She loves hotel bathrooms. This one has two marble sinks, and the massive bathtub has golden taps and sits upon claws. As Bea watches the water tumbling from the golden taps like miniature waterfalls, she wonders how it must be to live like this, to be steeped in luxury, never worrying how you’re going to pay bills or mortgages or all that middle-aged shit Dr. Finch witters on about whenever they aren’t having sex. At least her mamá never—
¡Mierda!
Bea leaps up to twist off the taps. She’d completely forgotten Cleo and their lunch date on Trinity Street. ¡Mierda! Bea abandons the golden-clawed bathtub and twin marble sinks, nearly slipping and hitting her head on the glimmering floor as she hurtles out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to begin scrambling for far-flung clothes.
“I’ve got to dash,” Bea calls to Vali. “I’m meeting Mamá for lunch.” She pulls on her jeans. “And no, you can’t come.” Bea scrabbles under the bed to retrieve her shirt. “And not because of you. It’s—I’ll explain later—meet me at the buttery tonight?”
Still, Vali says nothing. The man could sleep through an earthquake. Bea pulls on her shoes. Where’s her bra?
“I mean, last night was amazing, don’t get me wrong.” Bea scans the room. “And, God knows . . .” She checks the tangled sheets, dives under the bed, nips back into the bathroom. “Well, maybe we could do it again, but we’d need to . . . Where’s my bloody bra?” Bea’s about to give it up for good, when she realizes there’s one place she’s not searched. In three steps she’s standing over him.
“Okay, Romeo, get up,” Bea commands. “I need my bra back. And I’m guessing you’ve got it somewhere concealed about your person.”
Vali doesn’t move.
“Come on, you lazy bugger. Just sit up, I’ll do the rest.”
When Vali still doesn’t move, doesn’t react, Bea reaches down to shake him. She snaps back her hand. ¡Mierda!
“Val?” Bea’s fingertips carry the clammy cold of Vali’s skin. “Is this a game?”
She waits. No response. Surely, even someone as dark and damaged as Vali wouldn’t pull a prank like this?
“Please. Please, Val, please tell me this is some sick, twisted game.”
But it’s not. And she knows it. When Bea kneels beside him, she’s certain. Vali isn’t moving. He isn’t breathing. He isn’t alive. He’s d— She can’t bring herself to use the word.
Bea stands again. What can she do now? Call a doctor? Too late. An ambulance? Ditto. A coroner, an undertaker, the police?
Bea steps back, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else but there.
¡Mierda!
She buries her face in her palms. She wants to cry, to scream, to sob. But she can’t. She’s got to hold it together. She mustn’t break down now or she’ll be in serious trouble. Because somehow, Bea knows that she’s responsible for this. Her mamá is right. She’s evil. And she’s got to get out of here, without calling anyone. Now. Thank God she’d used a fake name to book the room. But the bra?
Bea squeezes her eyes shut.
¡Mierda! ¡Mierda! ¡Mierda!
When she opens them again, a sudden sweep of good luck, the beating wings of her guardian angel, directs Bea to Vali’s exposed foot and the dark red bra strap hanging from his big toe. A bizarrely comic touch in an otherwise tragic situation, and, despite herself, Bea smiles.
It takes longer than it should to extract the bra since, at first, she tries to do it without touching Vali’s foot. Bea still feels the chill on her fingertips from his shoulder and she’s loath to feel it again. But, after much fumbling, Bea surrenders to the fact that she’ll have to touch the body. She holds her breath, bites her lip, picks up his cold dead foot with one hand, her bra with the other, and pulls. Bea’s gaze fixes on Vali’s hairy toes and, for some reason, this brings tears to her eyes. It takes an extra minute of reluctant manoeuvring before the bra snaps off and Bea stumbles backwards, clutching it to her chest.
She’s about to run but finds herself stepping forward to the headboard, to say goodbye. He isn’t so very ugly, Bea thinks. There’s something lovely about him, almost handsome. Bea bends down to wish Vali a safe journey into the afterlife. She wants to say something, something suitably poignant and profound, but can think of nothing. Instead, she takes her left hand and places it lightly against his heart.
“Goodbye, Val.”
A
s her warm hand meets his cold skin, a snap of electricity shoots through Bea so she’s thrown back from the bed and against the wall. Pain flashes up her back and slowly fades. She lets out a low, long groan. When she looks down Bea sees a scar burned across her left hand: thin, red, and snaking from her forefinger to her wrist. What the hell? She traces it, lightly, with her thumb. Strangely, although it’s hot to the touch, it doesn’t hurt. For a moment, she’s lost in the shock of the mark and in awe of the astonishing, unexpected power that created it. For a moment, Vali is forgotten.
Bea closes her eyes and presses her face into her scarred palm. A snapshot of memory flashes in the darkness, and then another. She’s sitting astride Vali as he grins in pre-orgasmic bliss, moaning as she presses her hands to his chest. The beat of his heart quickens, harder and faster, harder and faster. She tightens her grip and he gasps. She’s holding his life force and she wants to play with it. What’s the harm in that? Bea squeezes and releases, Vali gasps and moans. He’s enjoying it as much as she. She doesn’t notice, not instantly, when her hand feels hot and wet and heavy, as if she’s holding his beating heart in her hands. And all at once she’s surging with more power than she ever imagined possible. It courses through her like electricity.
Bea screams. The pulsing stops. The gasping stops.
She opens her eyes to see the shape of Vali still prostrate under the bedsheet, his belly tugging the cotton tight, two hairy toes still exposed. Shock and awe, regret and loss, crash together, ripping through what she thought was real and true, tearing it all to shreds. Bea sits amid the destruction, still desperate to pull it back together again, and begins to cry. Quietly at first, tears slip down her cheeks; then, suddenly overcome by a capsizing gust of grief, Bea is seized by great racking sobs that shudder through her, again and again and again.
1:33 p.m.—Goldie
When I arrive at the hotel, two ambulances are stationed outside. My first thought is of Leo. Could something have happened to him? Surely not. That’s ridiculous. Leo is invincible. One of the guests must have choked on their overpriced English breakfast, or an overweight, overprivileged, over-the-hill white man has been struck down by a heart attack—it happened once at the Fitz during my tenure.
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