Chapter 18
Someone in the crowd screamed, and then there was a great deal of screaming, as if everyone had been awaiting permission to become hysterical.
A woman yelled, ‘Assault!’ and another, ‘A doctor, a doctor!’ Esther felt a hand drop to her shoulder—some enterprising young man who had thought to apprehend her—and she elbowed him in the stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor.
‘Run,’ Miriam said, turning to the crowd.
Esther required no further instruction. She vaulted across the table, sending a dozen trifles smashing to the floor.
Isaac yelled in alarm and tried to chase after her, but he slipped in the puddles of cream and fell flailing to the ground.
Esther glanced desperately toward the terrace—there was a large crowd gathered there, all of whom had stopped to stare inside, expressions almost comically shocked.
So, then, to the entrance hallway. Esther dove for the door, dodging would-be apprehenders.
Behind her she heard a great crash and a cacophony of glass breaking; she looked over her shoulder to see that an entire chandelier had fallen from the ceiling, scattering the dancers to the corners of the room.
Miriam, clearly the culprit, still had her hand raised in supplication to the shadows.
Isaac remained on the floor, clutching his ankle and groaning.
Miriam caught Esther’s eyes, smiling. Then every candle in the room went out, and all went pitch-black.
Esther found the handle of the door through feel alone. She spilled out into the corridor, gasping for breath. It was dark here, also; everywhere was dark, all light smothered by Miriam’s shadows. She could hear shrieking and clattering as confused guests attempted to navigate.
Esther paused, disoriented. The past was pressing against her mind, bleeding into it like ink into fabric.
She was Esther, she was Cybil, she was at Carroway House and Harding Hall.
The roof, she thought, deliriously. My mother is on the roof.
And so, when her foot met the base of a set of stairs, she ascended, imagining balustrades and blustery night air.
The first floor was as dark as everywhere else, but at least the yelling of the people downstairs was quieter.
Esther wandered aimlessly until she saw a glass door leading to a terrace.
The moon illuminated the space dimly, just enough to see by.
She opened the door with a shaking hand, ignoring how her fingers were singeing the wooden knob, and spilled out into the open air.
The night was clear and idyllic. The terrace was high up; directly below, the cold marble of the ground-floor patio reflected the sky in a hazy pattern of pinprick lights.
Beyond that was the flat green of the courtyard, the gates at its edge closed shut.
The iron railing surrounding it was at least twice Esther’s height.
Esther stumbled over to the terrace railing and leaned against it, catching her breath.
For a moment, clarity returned—and with it came panic.
She had no idea what to do. When she was found, she’d likely be sent to the madhouse.
What other than insanity would drive a woman to stab her cousin at a Society ball?
She’d ruined her reputation entirely, not to mention Isaac’s.
And your reputation was your entire existence in this place.
Esther had, in essence, killed herself. She’d killed her brother, too, or at least ruined his future.
She’d failed to do anything to lift the curse—spent years casting petty rituals and praying for deliverance—and now here was the price of her failure.
But for some reason, none of it seemed to matter, not really.
Esther could still feel the word Cybil in her mouth, lingering there; and she could feel Cybil the person too, wandering the edges of her mind.
She knew, somehow, that she was Cybil, but she remained unsure who Cybil was.
It was paradoxical and disorienting. She imagined that if she returned inside, every guest at the ball would be a paper doll, propped up against the wall.
Only Miriam would actually be real, and she’d be laughing at her, saying, Oh, Esther, you believed me!
You truly believed this ridiculous place was genuine!
And then she’d awaken from this dream—to find herself in Harding Hall, risen from its ashes—
The door to the terrace opened. Esther turned, expecting Miriam, but it was Thomas Harding, the oyster knife held in one trembling fist, his other hand still pressed to his belly. He was pale as a piano key. As he approached her, his steps faltered, his face twisting with pain.
‘Why?’ he whispered.
Esther wanted to increase the distance between them, but the railing was at her back. She curled both hands around it in case he attempted to pull her closer. ‘You frightened me.’
‘So you stabbed me?’
‘It isn’t as if— You wanted me to die, Thomas. For Lily, and her soul.’
‘I offered you an opportunity for atonement,’ he replied, ‘and you refused to take it. I should have expected that. I was a fool for expecting compassion from a witch.’
They regarded each other warily.
‘You ought to see a doctor,’ she told him.
‘It is only a shallow wound.’
‘You’re bleeding.’
He chuckled and snapped his bloody hand towards her. She turned her head. Droplets sprayed across her cheek.
‘You disgust me,’ she said.
‘As you do me,’ he replied. ‘First Daughter. It wasn’t enough to curse us all; you had to steal all our blessings, too.
I was supposed to be born first, you know that?
But little Esther came early. If it weren’t for you, I’d have the power to fix all of this—to bring Lily back, to continue Christopher Harding’s legacy. But I can’t. You’ve ruined it.’
Esther swallowed. ‘I didn’t choose to be this way. I didn’t choose to be cursed.’
‘Does that matter?’
It didn’t. Esther knew that, and she bowed her head.
‘You know, my father had a fascinating theory.’ Thomas’s eyes glittered dangerously, and he turned the knife in his hand, taking a step closer.
‘We have our rituals, and our alchemy, but in the end, magic is belief—that is all. You must believe in something deeply to trade your soul for it. And for generations we have believed, Esther, that the First Daughter is a monster. Perhaps that is why you are the way you are.’
‘I— Don’t be absurd. You are saying the curse is not real?’
‘Of course it is real,’ he said. ‘It does not matter why you are the way you are. It only matters what you have done.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
There was such contempt in his voice—Esther felt bile rise in her throat. ‘Get away from me.’
‘A woman with magic,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘The seed of Eve. Curse or no, the corruption is inherent. Don’t you see, Esther? Power like yours… it is too dangerous to leave unchecked.’
Thomas looked at the knife in his hand.
‘We should have left you to the wolves,’ he said.
There was such an intense familiarity to these words: Seed of Eve, left to the wolves. Witch, woman, daughter, danger. As recognisable as scripture, lingering as a bloodstain.
‘Seed of Eve,’ she murmured to herself. In response, the shadows at her feet trembled, as if in ecstasy.
She stretched out her hand to them, and they rose, curling around her fingers.
She heard Thomas gasp sharply; she did not care.
A curious, cold sort of calm had fallen over her.
A fury so long buried deep, so burning in its intensity, that it had gone from flames to ice.
‘Seed of Eve,’ she repeated, and her voice was two voices, her words an echo of themselves.
‘Eve. Is it truly her fault, Thomas? Is it truly mine? Look at this world we live in, its wickedness, its cruelty. When Eve ate the apple, God despaired. Perhaps He did so because she realised not only her sins, but His.’
Thomas took a step back.
‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘Who are you?’
Who am I?
With that question, Cybil finally returned to her: the skin regrowing, a thousand memories finding purchase in the fissures of her soul.
Every beautiful moment of Esther’s life, scant as they were, seemed to be snuffed out like a candle flame; every moment of conviction and optimism, of hope and ambition, dripping like wax to the floor.
Esther felt herself become a lie, felt the truth disembowel her and then fill the empty spaces left behind.
She was a shadow of herself. She was as much dead as alive.
Cybil was Esther, Esther was Cybil, Thomas was Henry Martingale and Peter Oswyn and every man who’d ever decided she belonged to him.
Two centuries, and she was back where she began.
Esther lunged for the knife.
Thomas tried to spin out of the way, but she was fast enough that she found purchase on the handle.
They stumbled together, each of them trying to wrestle the blade from the other’s grip.
The tiles beneath them were slippery smooth, and they skidded sideways.
The knife flailed between them in a pendulum’s swing, silver flashing in the starlight.
Thomas tried to swipe it across Esther’s arm; she snarled like a wildcat, her magic surged, and the knife glowed white-hot.
Thomas dropped it, hissing in pain. Esther caught it before it could hit the floor.
Her fingers burnt—she didn’t care. She took the blade and slammed it into the base of Thomas’s throat.
He fell against her. They both hit the floor.
Thomas gurgled and choked. Rolling away, sprawling on her back, Esther turned her head to watch him.
The oyster knife was embedded into the base of his windpipe; he was suffocating.
Esther knew exactly how much pain he was feeling, and that, at least, was some comfort.
Perhaps a blade was kinder than a spade. She hoped it wasn’t.