Chapter 12 #2
Esther understood her brother’s reluctance to attend society events, and she tried not to blame him for it.
She knew firsthand how awkward these things could become for him, considering his parentage: the side glances, the sniggers behind palms. Once, at a ball, a man had tried to trip him over for sport, and Esther had borne the pain and bid the shadows to set the hem of his jacket on fire.
It had been blamed on an errant candle, thankfully, but since then she had made a greater effort to keep her temper under control.
Afterwards, Isaac seemed to have known that she was the one to blame. ‘Thanks,’ he’d said, wide-eyed with appreciation. And she’d replied—chest constricting—‘You must learn to take care of yourself.’
If Isaac had ever blamed her for her iciness towards him, he never acted as if he did; sometimes Esther wondered if he had sensed, somehow, that she was maintaining distance for his own good.
He didn’t know about the curse, of course, but he knew that Esther was different.
He knew that she was incapable of closeness to anyone, family or not.
Once, at a ball, she’d overheard him defend her notorious callousness to a group of friends.
‘It isn’t that she is rude, or cruel,’ he’d told them.
‘She is simply… honest about what she wants. People don’t like it, but I think it quite admirable. ’
This morning, he was sitting across from her in the carriage, reading Byron.
He loved poetry, even fancied himself a writer; Esther had never told him so, but he had real talent.
He was in full mourning attire, with a black jacket and gloves.
Esther had dared to dress in half mourning, despite the funeral being only a week ago.
She despised wearing black, and besides, it wasn’t as if she had a reputation to salvage.
Her dress was a deep, dark plum, and she was wearing a coral necklace the same shade as her hair.
‘God willing,’ Isaac muttered, as he turned a page, ‘this is the last of these things we have to go to.’
‘We have the Carroway Ball next month,’ she reminded him.
He groaned and pressed his head into the book. ‘Kill me.’
Esther rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll keep that solution in mind, in case all else fails.’
Isaac sniggered, eyes crinkling. Esther felt her own lips twitch, and she turned her head back to the carriage window, admonishing herself.
When it came to her brother, kindness was cruelty, she knew that.
But sometimes it was so difficult to pretend she didn’t love him.
Esther often imagined putting her arms around him, burying her head into his shoulder, and telling him, Forgive me.
Forgive me for all of it. But she knew better than that, and so here they were—the inch of carriage space between them vaster than an ocean.
They passed the remainder of the journey in silence.
The fete was being held in honour of an orphanage of some sort, and the Ton swarmed the green in front of Cheswick House like a collection of pastel-coloured gnats.
White tables studded the grass, the strains of a string quartet floating through the air.
As Esther exited the carriage, dusting off her dress, the other visitors suddenly all paused, and turned to look at her.
Esther watched in silent shock as they each linked hands, forming a chain, and began to move in a slow dance around her; the sky darkened, and their shadows extended behind them like watercolours bleeding through paper.
‘Esther,’ someone said, grasping her arm. Esther shrieked, and the vision fell away.
It was Isaac, staring at her with abject concern. Many other members of the Ton were staring, too—the shriek had alarmed them—and Esther flushed.
‘Forgive me,’ she said to him, under her breath.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I…’ Esther shook her head. ‘It is nothing.’
The Langwith family passed by them, perfectly matching in their peach-coloured gowns and neatly pressed collars. Their youngest, Elizabeth, gave Esther a smirk, leaning towards her brother to make a comment obscured by her fan.
‘Prigs,’ Esther muttered, scowling. She stalked ahead into the crowd, and Isaac followed at her heels.
They both accepted glasses of cherry-flavoured ratafia from a waiter and stood awkwardly by the veranda. Isaac said, ‘I still don’t know why you insist we come to these things.’
Events like this were Esther’s only real chance to see other people, cruel as they were, snide as they were. Besides—‘It is important for you to be seen, Isaac, if you’re to advance in society. If you could secure a position at a company, that would help. Perhaps you could even make a match.’
‘Shouldn’t you be the one looking for a match?’
‘We both know there’s little chance of that, not after so many Seasons out.’ Taking a sip of the ratafia, Esther grimaced—it was far too sweet for her tastes; she should have expected as much—and then she disguised her disgust with a cough. ‘Go mingle. I will sit down.’
‘I could sit with you?’ he asked her, frowning in concern. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be your chaperone?’
‘It is fine. Enjoy yourself.’
She left him there before he could protest further, sitting at one of the tables set up by the fountain.
She was immediately presented with a plate of finger sandwiches by an enterprising server.
Esther tried to ignore the stares of the Ton, the muffled giggling of some of the children staring at her from the other side of the water.
She watched as in the distance Isaac fell in with a group of other young men, who were swigging port and who welcomed him with friendly jeers.
Despite his illegitimacy, he was well-liked by the more accepting members of the Ton for his perceptiveness, his confidence, his sharp wit.
Esther took a large bite of a sandwich—too large, crumbs falling from her lips, prompting giggles from a nearby young couple who had evidently been watching her.
Cheeks burning, Esther put down the sandwich and busied herself with fraying the edge of the tablecloth, concentrating on the rasp of the fabric between her fingertips.
She couldn’t get too upset, too nervous, or else she might lose control—making the shadows swarm around her.
Recently, it had felt more and more difficult to prevent such accidents.
It was as if part of her was rebelling against everything she had been working towards these past few years; as if it wanted her to use the curse, release it, and watch with glee as it destroyed everyone around her.
There was a sudden clap of thunder. Esther flinched, then looked upwards.
The shadow of a cloud suddenly passed over her, obscuring the sun.
In a matter of moments, the entire sky had gone grey.
The colour was so dark it was almost black, as if the blue had been painted over with soot.
It was utterly extraordinary: there had been no sign of rain all afternoon.
Those across the green had also noticed the change, and hundreds of guests were now staring up in shock. A cold wind gusted over the congregation, and a few women shrieked as their shawls and hairpins were torn from them.
For a few minutes, most people were uncertain how to react, and some continued to wander around the fete as if the clouds would blow away.
But the clouds didn’t change, and soon a streak of lightning flashed across the sky.
A new crash of thunder came immediately after, loud enough to rattle the crockery on the table.
The lightning had been so bright, it left a fissure across the clouds; it was as if the earth was an egg being cracked open.
There was no rain, but the wind picked up its pace, and more ladies shrieked.
Esther, strangely entranced by the storm, made no reaction except to stare.
A third crash of thunder came, and with it, the exodus finally began.
A sea of pale gowns and coattails surged away from the tables and towards Cheswick House.
Esther didn’t follow. The clouds swirling above her seemed to have an unbearable loveliness about them.
She wanted to reach toward them, fly away with the wind.
She’d always liked storms; when she was a child, she would press her face to the window and feel it rattle with a gale.
There was something satisfying, something raw, about each crash of thunder, how it vibrated against her sternum.
It reminded her of music, the way the floor of a concert hall trembled along with the symphony.
Almost familiar, somehow—almost comforting.
Another one of those strange half memories she couldn’t explain.
It had yet to rain, but soon Esther was the only one left on the lawn. She was considering this—trying to remember whether she had ever experienced a dry storm—when an unfamiliar figure stopped at her table.
‘I thought you might desire some company,’ said the stranger. Her voice was low and accented with something Esther couldn’t recognise, with lilting vowels and rolling consonants. ‘You shouldn’t be sitting alone.’
Esther looked up at the woman. She was around her own age, early twenties, tall, dark-haired, and harsh-featured; there was a foreignness to her face, an intensity to her gaze, that was utterly alien amongst the society sort who were usually at these events.
Esther was so arrested by her presence that she felt unable to reply.
The woman gestured to the empty seat. ‘May I?’
‘I… I’d rather you didn’t.’
She sat. Another crash of thunder came; the woman didn’t react.
Esther frowned at her, wondering if they had met before.
There was something recognisable, perhaps, in the subtle blade of her smile; the paint-like sweep of her eyebrows; the pair of moles upon her chin and cheek.
Their eyes met, and the force of her familiarity hit Esther like cannon fire.