Chapter 13 #3
Esther did not seem to hear her. ‘The woman is screaming. Who is she? I think it is my mother, but I’ve never heard my mother scream.’
‘Open your eyes,’ Miriam said, sharply. ‘Enough of this now. We will go elsewhere.’
But Esther didn’t open her eyes. One of the trees bowed towards them: its branches bore enormous apples, or so Miriam thought.
As it neared, she saw their red colour was just a glaze of blood.
The tree wasn’t growing fruit, but instead hearts in clusters of three or four; they pumped into veins that wrapped around the branches like sprawling fingers.
Miriam was enchanted by the vision—touched by it, even, touched to be offered a heart—but when she looked down to tell Esther so, she was gone.
Around Miriam, the Dark Walk was now transformed into a warped visage of Harding Hall’s orchard.
Other trees gathered around her, each bearing hearts or lungs or dangling, bean-shaped kidneys; the air was metallic, suffocatingly powerful.
Beneath her feet, the soil was damp with blood, rising up to meet the pressure of her shoes.
‘Esther?’ she called, and then she heard a sharp laugh.
Miriam turned again to see a figure standing between two heart-trees. It was a flame-haired woman in a white dress and high ruff, embroidered with gold filaments that seemed to glow in the darkness.
‘Greensleeves was my heart of joy,’ the woman sang, mockingly. ‘And who but my Lady Greensleeves?’
‘Cybil,’ Miriam said.
She stepped closer, and as she did so, Miriam could see her forearms and hands were dotted with eyes, each blinking and moving in tandem with those on her face.
Miriam, startled, almost took a step back.
Only a vision, she told herself, squaring her shoulders.
Cybil had taken control of Esther, was commanding the darkness to create this illusion—but the vision would end, eventually. It would have to.
‘You could not keep away, could you?’ Cybil reached up to the tree and plucked a heart from the branch, with the grotesque sound of tearing flesh. ‘Could not wait for me to die in peace?’
‘I thought you were gone.’
‘Simply because I am forgotten does not mean I am not here,’ she replied. ‘I am Esther; Esther is me. Our souls are joined. I do not remember now, but I shall. Your presence ensures that.’
Miriam said, ‘Your soul is mine regardless. It doesn’t matter if you remember me.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Cybil lifted the heart to her lips and took a bite, staining her mouth scarlet. Once she had chewed and swallowed, she continued. ‘Do you know the tale of the scorpion and the frog?’
‘The what?’
‘Of course. Why should you?’ Cybil dropped the half-eaten organ to the ground and advanced slowly towards Miriam.
Once they were close enough to touch, she pressed her bloodied hand to Miriam’s chest, looking up at her through her lashes with an expression that could only be described as inviting.
Miriam found herself leaning closer, and Cybil tapped her finger against her sternum, tutting.
‘Do not become distracted,’ she said. ‘The scorpion and the frog, remember? It is a story. A fable, by Aesop. My mother once read it to me.’
‘I haven’t heard of it.’
‘I shall enlighten you, then. The scorpion asks the frog to take it across the river. The frog is frightened, as it believes the scorpion will sting it while they cross. The scorpion points out that if it did so, they would both drown. The frog sees that as guarantee enough, and thus it agrees.’ Cybil paused then, and Miriam raised a brow, inviting her to continue.
‘Well—as you might imagine, the scorpion stings the frog regardless, and they both drown.’
‘Are you the frog in this parable, my dear?’ Miriam asked. ‘Or the scorpion?’
‘That is not the significance,’ Cybil murmured, lifting herself up onto the balls of her feet so that she could whisper into Miriam’s ear. ‘The significance is that it does not matter. Scorpion or frog, Miriam Richter: either way, both of us shall drown.’
Then Cybil pressed her bloodied mouth against hers.
Miriam had only a moment to chase the kiss, to feel the nip of her teeth and the heat of her tongue, before she felt hands pushing her backwards. Miriam allowed herself to be moved away, blinking in confusion—and they were in the Dark Walk again.
Esther stood in front of her in her mint-green gown. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide.
‘What are you doing?’ Esther demanded.
‘I…’ Miriam was confused; it was an unpleasant feeling, alien, and she was irritated by it. ‘You kissed me.’
‘I did not.’
‘You did,’ Miriam replied—it was both the truth and a lie.
Esther seemed uncertain. ‘I feel odd. I… Perhaps I did. I don’t know. I can’t recall.’
Miriam offered her an arm. ‘All this magic was perhaps too much for you,’ she said, soothingly. ‘Let’s go somewhere brighter, hm? And we can continue our practice tomorrow.’
Hesitantly, Esther looped her arm around hers. ‘Yes. I think—I think that would be best.’
They walked slowly toward the distant light of the lanterns. The scent of blood faded; the trees that surrounded them bore no fruit, only nascent blossoms and sharp green leaves. As they continued, Esther’s breathing slowed, and her shoulders dropped.
They reached a fork in the road. Miriam turned to stare at her. Esther stared back.
‘Why is it, really, that you are so interested in me?’ Esther asked. ‘Is it attraction? Kinship? Both?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
Esther chewed her lip. ‘All these warnings about Thomas, and yet you won’t be honest with me. Not entirely. Why?’
‘You think I am lying?’
‘There is more to this, certainly, than what you have said.’
Miriam didn’t reply. She watched her, patiently, half a smile on her lips.
‘You want me to hurt him,’ Esther said, in dawning realisation. ‘Thomas. You haven’t told me to run away from him. All you’ve done is make me suspicious, make me afraid. You want me to use my power to do something unforgivable.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you want the grimoire? Why not do it yourself?’
‘I can’t while he’s in the house. He’s warded it.’
Esther shook her head. ‘That isn’t everything, though. You want me to do it. You want my hands to be the ones that hurt him. Why?’
Perceptive girl. Miriam herself hadn’t realised how much she’d wanted that, until Esther had pointed it out.
She considered the question, imagined the outcome Esther described: Esther, shrouded in darkness, calling the shadows to enact her bidding, tearing Thomas’s soul from his chest and consuming it as she watched.
Violence was a beautiful thing, a powerful thing.
Miriam had always thought so; it was an acceptance that humanity no longer mattered.
In some small way, perhaps it would be an acceptance of Miriam herself.
‘I think it would be beautiful,’ Miriam breathed, letting all her desire, all her hunger lace her voice; Esther gave a trembling sort of gasp in response, as if the words had caressed her. ‘Oh, darling. I see it, now. All I want in the world is to see you covered in blood.’
Esther turned away. Miriam couldn’t tell if the expression on her face was nausea or arousal.
‘You are mad,’ Esther said.
‘Does that scare you?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘In a way, it is a relief. Madness has long been a solitary art for me. It will be a comfort to share it.’