Chapter 21
One hundred and eighteen years, and Miriam hadn’t given any thought to what she would say when she first saw Harding again.
She could reach forward to lay a hand on her arm—this shimmering creature, familiar and strange, with hair cut short and leaf-shaped eyes and a scattering of freckles on her shoulders—and tell her, I am sorry.
But what meaning would there be in such an apology, when Miriam didn’t regret what she’d done?
She was sorry, she supposed, about killing Esther the way she did—in a petty impulse that had denied Miriam her soul for another century.
But now that this Harding was here, standing in front of her, Miriam felt little regret.
It would be a privilege to watch her die again.
Miriam could gather her into her arms instead, leave a bruise on that lovely throat, and let hands and mouths speak where voices couldn’t.
Miriam could say, I love you—words she still wasn’t certain she understood, but she believed they were true, as much as they could be to something like her.
Or perhaps she could pass Harding a new knife, let her re-create what had happened all those years ago, their positions reversed.
Miriam couldn’t die, but she could make a show of it.
She wanted to see violence in those eyes again, just once more.
The memory of it could never compare to the reality.
But then Harding smiled and said, ‘I’ve missed you,’ and Miriam found she couldn’t speak, couldn’t smile back, couldn’t do anything at all.
Her eyes were gold, true gold—brighter than they once were, surely?
She looked at Miriam, lids half closed, lips quirked, and Miriam wanted to hold those eyes in her hands.
She would sink the Monumental and bury them with it, like coins in a shipwreck.
No one else deserved to see those eyes. No one else deserved to be seen by them.
‘You’re not going to say anything?’ Harding asked. ‘Not even a hello?’
Miriam let out a breathless, gasping sort of chuckle, a sound more human than should have been possible. ‘Hello.’
At the sound of her voice, Harding flushed slightly, turning her head away.
‘I’m Rosamund now,’ she said. ‘In case you didn’t know that already.’
‘Rosamund,’ Miriam echoed, considering the taste of the name, the cadence of it.
‘Do you like it? I preferred Esther, I think.’ She rolled her nails against the railing, the hairs on the back of her hands standing on end from the cold. ‘Cybil, too. This name feels too… honest, somehow. Rosa mundi, rose of the world. Quick to bloom, quick to die.’
Miriam was silent. Inside the ship, jazz was playing on a phonograph; the crackling hum of the bass dripped from the portholes like honey.
‘I thought you’d be angry,’ Miriam said.
Rosamund tipped back her head to laugh. The movement bared her throat to the salt wind of the sea, glazing the skin with water. Miriam swallowed.
‘Of course I’m angry,’ Rosamund said, once her laughter had subsided. ‘You killed me, Miriam.’
‘Because I—’
‘Oh, I know why. That doesn’t mean I can’t be angry about it.’
‘I’ve been looking for you for years.’
‘I know.’
‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘I know.’
‘I couldn’t find you, and you’re mine,’ Miriam snarled, fury breaking its leash. ‘You are mine, Rosamund, you are here because I made you so, and you kept me away.’
‘I know,’ Rosamund said once more.
‘Who was that man, at the bar?’
She smiled. ‘What? Walter? That’s my husband.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Oh, my love,’ Rosamund murmured, and she took a step closer to her, laying a palm on her chest. ‘You needn’t be jealous.
You killed me once—twice, really, if you count Cybil—and you’ll do it again in a few days.
I am as much yours as I’ve ever been. And I am angry, of course, but not overly so.
What’d be the use? I’ve spent years trying to figure out a way to escape you, and now, finally, I’ve accepted that I can’t.
We might as well enjoy each other while we’re here. ’
‘Enjoy each other,’ Miriam repeated, frowning.
Rosamund cocked her head. When she spoke this time, it was an echo in Miriam’s mind, as tender as a whisper, as loud as a scream. Haven’t you missed me?
Miriam looked at Rosamund properly now, dragging her gaze away from those uncanny eyes.
Her soul was radiant in her chest—so bright it no longer seemed to be a single point of light, but rather a glow that was diffused throughout her entire body, making her luminous.
What sort of magic such a soul could perform, Miriam could hardly imagine.
It would more than match her own capabilities. It’d match anyone’s.
‘You forgive me,’ Miriam said, sceptically.
Rosamund shrugged. ‘What else is there to do?’
‘Cybil didn’t forgive me. Esther didn’t forgive me.’
She sighed, crossing her arms. ‘I— Look. Do you know what an ant mill is?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Sometimes, ants start walking in a death spiral. They walk round and round in a circle, over and over, until they die of exhaustion.’
Miriam blinked. ‘Why do they do that?’
‘They’re following the trails of the other ants in front of them, and they’re following the ones in front, and so on… They don’t realise they’re going nowhere.’
‘Tragic,’ Miriam said, without sympathy. ‘Your point is?’
‘Esther repeated Cybil’s mistakes. She allowed herself to trust you, believing she could find salvation; I won’t do the same. We both know how this ends. I don’t see much point in fighting it.’
‘You’re ready to die.’
‘I’ve been ready since the moment I remembered you,’ Rosamund said. ‘I remembered you, Miriam, and I knew that the only death I’d ever want would be the one you’ll give me.’
The ship hit a wave, and it lurched, sending Rosamund tumbling backwards.
Miriam surged forward to catch her. Then they were touching, pressed against each other.
Rosamund’s hand was on her chest, eyes bright as they met hers.
She smelt like perfume, dark and sweet; there was a small chicken-pox scar on her collarbone that she hadn’t had in her previous forms. And for a moment, she was her Harding entirely, the one that Miriam had laughed with and betrayed and made love to, who had died so prettily in her arms that Miriam was certain she’d never see anything lovelier.
But it wasn’t her Harding. It was Rosamund, and Rosamund was something else, languid and seductive and willing in a way Esther and Cybil had never been. And there was something cold, something restrained glimmering behind her inviting expression—that, at least, Miriam recognised.
Miriam released her, suddenly disturbed. Rosamund stepped back, lips pressed thin. She looked back to the stars, curling her fingers around the metal railing. Her wedding ring—a diamond the size of a cherry pit—glinted red in the lights of the deck.
‘It’s a three-day journey,’ Rosamund said. ‘Will you be gentle, once it’s done?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all I can ask for.’
‘I didn’t want this.’
‘Didn’t want what?’ she asked, eyebrows knitting together. ‘My soul?’
‘Your surrender,’ Miriam said. ‘I wanted you to fight, as you used to. I wanted your fury and your violence and your pain. Those are the things that I love about you. You know that as well as I do.’
Rosamund leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I am fighting, darling,’ she replied. ‘Machiavelli once said that the best way to defeat an enemy is to do voluntarily what she plans to make you do by force.’
‘You have already won, then,’ Miriam said, displeased.
Rosamund smiled. Trailing a hand along the sleeve of Miriam’s suit, she said, ‘Yes. I suppose I have.’
She turned to leave. Miriam allowed her to without protest, watching her hips swaying, silver beads glittering with the movement of her dress. The ship lurched with another wave, and a beam of red light passed over the deck.
At her feet, the shadows seethed curiously. Miriam kicked them away.
Halfway down the promenade, Rosamund turned to look at her over her shoulder. ‘Well?’
‘Well?’ Miriam echoed.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘Coming where?’
‘Dinner,’ Rosamund said. ‘It’s been centuries, Miriam. Shouldn’t we reacquaint ourselves?’
Rosamund requested the private room adjoining the first-class dining hall; the kitchens were reluctant—it was late, dinner service was nearly over—but she mentioned her husband’s name, flashed the diamond on her finger, and they relented.
White tablecloth, gold candles, Miriam in a tuxedo looking for all the world like she was about to pull a cigarette holder from her jacket and blow smoke rings at the chandelier.
The pianist in the other room was hacking out ‘Who’s Sorry Now’ with the grim efficiency of a dockworker hauling boxes.
The sound filtered through the closed door, muffled and tinny.
It was a set menu: the predinner cocktail was a pale green-gold colour, scented sharply with citrus, each glass tinted blue and painted with a stylised rooster.
Rosamund—who was already half drunk on champagne and scotch—took a sip to hide her nerves.
Then she put the glass down on the table and bent over to laugh.
Miriam said, smirking, ‘Is it that bad?’
Rosamund snorted. ‘No, it’s just… It’s a Corpse Reviver.’
‘Hm?’
‘The cocktail. It’s called a Corpse Reviver.’
‘How appropriate,’ Miriam drawled. She took a sip, wrinkling her nose, and put the glass back down.
‘Do you like food?’
‘Not particularly,’ Miriam said. ‘But I still have the urge to eat, even if it does little for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am always hungry,’ she replied.