Chapter 15
The night had brought stars with it, clear and indifferent.
They watched Esther’s flight as she weaved through London’s streets; the cobblestones made hazy mirrors with the afternoon’s rain.
Moving through shadows was different than moving when tangible—faster, lighter, more difficult to control—and Esther made her journey without a destination in mind, thinking only Get away, away, away from there.
She could feel the phantom pressure of Thomas’s grip on her arm, still, see the white flash of his teeth in the darkness as he smiled.
Part of her felt as if she was still in poor Lily’s bedroom, staring at the coffin on the bed as Thomas explained—pleaded—demanded…
And part of her, even now, thought that perhaps she should turn around and return to the townhouse, return to his offer of redemption. Your sacrifice. Your absolution.
Esther was still running when she reached the riverbank, the grimoire gripped in both hands. But she remained half a shadow, mostly immaterial, and she failed to judge her momentum; unable to stop moving, she tumbled over the edge of the quay and floated toward the water like a falling feather.
The Thames itself was still and silent, reflecting Richmond Bridge in a haze of grey brick and purple sky.
Esther’s impact made no splash, not even a ripple—she didn’t break the surface of the water.
Instead, she landed on two feet, the river lapping gently at the soles of her shoes.
She was so surprised by this that she laughed, despite the horror of the evening so far.
Esther fed another mote of her soul to the shadows, to ensure their compliance. Then she tucked the grimoire beneath one arm and pushed herself forward, as a skater would on ice. She turned a wide loop, feeling the gentle hand of a breeze.
Where would she go now?
What would she do?
Isaac would soon return to the townhouse.
Thomas was still at the townhouse. The curse remained, her guilt remained, and all she was doing to deal with these things was spinning around on the river.
Esther wanted to slap herself. She wanted to release the shadows and fall into the water, sink like a stone until she drowned.
She paused. In the distance, a figure was approaching. It was Miriam, walking across the water with messianic confidence, arms linked behind her back.
‘What are you doing here?’ Esther demanded, as she came nearer. ‘Did you follow me?’
Miriam’s lips quirked. ‘Would you believe me if I said no?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why ask the question in the first place?’
Esther kicked at the water, frustrated when her shadow-leg failed to create a splash. ‘I am not in the mood for your games, Richter.’
‘After all this, you still won’t call me Miriam?’
‘Miriam,’ Esther snarled. ‘I hope you are pleased to know that you were correct. My cousin is a madman. He wishes me to swap my soul with his wife’s.’
‘I thought his wife was dead?’
‘She is. He’s kept her soul inside the house with salt.’
Miriam snorted. ‘Poor fool. Hope springs eternal, after all.’
‘So it isn’t possible, then?’
‘To swap souls? I presume it must be, although it would take an exceptional amount of power. But salt does not contain souls. Your cousin’s wife is long gone.’
‘Well, then. That’s that, I suppose.’ Esther gave a small, bitter laugh, and turned another circle on the water.
Miriam watched her with an arched brow. ‘You’ve been practising.’
‘Yes.’
‘You should be careful. If your concentration breaks, and you release the darkness from your service, you’ll sink.’
‘Hm.’ Esther bit her lip, regarding Miriam cautiously.
She felt the same, instinctive hostility towards her she had since they’d met—and the same attraction, too—but she couldn’t help but feel a little grateful, also; Miriam’s warnings had been correct, after all. She really had been trying to save her.
Miriam saw the book beneath her arm. ‘You have the grimoire.’
‘This is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
She looked so hungry, staring at Esther in that moment; it made Esther’s blood run hot, her cheeks flush. She wanted Miriam to look at her like that for longer. She wanted to forget Thomas and the curse and the coffin, just for a moment, and lose herself in the darkness of those eyes.
‘Come and get it, then,’ Esther said—and she turned and skated further into the river.
When she glanced back over her shoulder, Miriam was giving chase, grinning savagely.
Esther gained momentum, pressed by some joyous and fearful instinct, as they skated past the weeping willows at the bank, toward the towering arches of the bridge.
They picked up speed until London was a blur around them, until Esther could hear nothing but the sound of her breathing, the roaring of the air.
When they reached the bridge, however, Esther failed to move in time, and she gasped as her body connected with one of the columns that pierced the water—but she was shadow still, and she simply travelled through it, emerging on the other side.
To her right, Miriam was avoiding the columns easily, winding past them on a single foot. Show-off, Esther thought, with a begrudging admiration. Miriam moved through darkness as if she were made of it.
Ahead, light and music spilled across the Thames.
It was a pleasure barge making its way west. Esther could have simply passed through it again, as she had done the bridge, but her instinct to move away was too strong.
She dove for the riverbank to avoid it, and in so doing lost her balance—and her concentration on the shadows.
She flickered, then gained substance again, plunging into the water.
It was cold, so cold. The river was murky and dark, duckweed and algae creating a thick slurry that clung to her face and eyes.
As the barge passed above them, an uncaring behemoth, water entered Esther’s nose, her throat, her lungs.
She should have been panicking, but instead she felt a curious sort of peace.
Perhaps this was meant to happen. Perhaps she was supposed to die here, in the Thames with the grimoire in her hands.
Who knew how many other First Daughters had died the same way, thrown as babies into the river?
A hand clamped around her wrist and pulled.
Esther was dragged through weeds and water, passing through the detritus dumped near the bank: pewter pilgrim-badges, broken stopwatches, disintegrated newspapers, sodden clothes.
And then there was air in her lungs and mud beneath her.
She stooped over, coughing up river water, scrubbing silt from her arms.
When she opened her eyes, Miriam was across from her, also wet—and her expression was furious.
‘You cannot swim?’ she demanded.
‘Of course I cannot swim. Who would teach a lady to swim?’
Miriam swore again, and tugged fretfully at her hair. ‘Are you suicidal?’
‘I do not know,’ Esther admitted. ‘I told you already, I don’t want to die. I just… Sometimes, I have a curious sense I already have.’
Miriam lunged forward and gathered Esther into her arms, pressing her face into the crook of her neck. Esther was so shocked, she went limp. ‘Don’t,’ Esther said. ‘I’m filthy, I—’
Miriam bit her neck, hard enough to bruise. Esther gave a startled sort of moan and slapped ineffectually at Miriam’s shoulder. Miriam’s tongue soothed the bite. Esther whimpered.
Miriam pulled back to look at her, winding a hand into Esther’s sodden hair. She tugged, with enough force it felt like punishment. ‘When you die in my arms, darling, it will be on my terms, not yours.’
Esther should have found that terrifying. She didn’t. She was so shamefully aroused, she might have done anything Miriam asked of her, if she’d asked it in that moment—but Miriam didn’t ask her anything at all. Instead, she released her, and turned partially away, as if to compose herself.
Esther shuddered with the cold. ‘I need to go back and bathe. I…’
‘Back? To that house? To him?’
‘My brother is there. All my possessions.’
‘Thomas hurt you!’
Esther stood, legs trembling. ‘I am a witch. He is only a man.’
‘You must sleep eventually. All he needs is one moment, to catch you off guard.’
‘I won’t hurt him, Miss Richter,’ Esther said sharply. ‘Enough.’
Miriam folded her arms. For a moment, the darkness in her eyes seemed to swallow them entirely—pupil and sclera—and Esther shuddered.
‘If you will not take action,’ Miriam said, ‘then, at least, you must do me a favour—in payment for the warnings I gave you, the lessons I have taught.’
‘What favour?’
‘Remove the salt from your windowsill tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘So you can tell Thomas you have done so. If he believes his wife’s soul is gone, he will be unable to proceed with his plan.’
‘That is… a good idea,’ Esther admitted. ‘Thank you.’
Miriam stretched out her hand. ‘Now. The grimoire.’
Esther hesitated. She’d been holding the book when she’d been underwater—she would’ve expected it to be waterlogged—but in her hands, it looked as pristine as if it had been bound yesterday. Some charm, she supposed, imbued in it by its creator.
Perhaps she’d been underestimating the grimoire’s value. Was this not the sum of all her family’s work, all their secrets? She knew it held information about the curse; it might hold information about its breaking, too.
‘Why do you want this?’ she asked Miriam. ‘What will you use it for?’
‘You needn’t concern yourself with that.’
Esther took a step away from her, the marshy ground sinking beneath her feet. ‘I could use it too, you know. To break the curse.’
Miriam’s eyes somehow, impossibly, grew darker, and her face hardened to stone. Esther felt the hair on her arms stand on end.
‘Esther,’ Miriam said, warningly. ‘Give it to me.’
‘I don’t—’