Chapter 22 #2
Rosamund must have called the shadows to her, made herself ephemeral, and stepped back into the wall.
It was an easy-enough trick—Miriam had taught it to Esther herself—but it was the sheer gall of it that was so infuriating.
What happened to I missed you? What happened to We might as well enjoy each other?
The chandelier tinkled again. Miriam reached up and pulled it down, sending it crashing to the floor in a thousand shards of glass.
Rosamund had lost her temper; she’d be the first to admit that. And it was likely her husband who would pay the price.
She spent the rest of the morning uneasy, alert to every unexpected noise and shift at the corner of her eye, expecting Miriam to find her again. By the afternoon she was very irritable. Walter, trying to cheer her up, suggested they walk the promenade. There wasn’t much else to do, so she agreed.
It looked different in the day, so much more mundane without the dark blurring the edges of the railings, or the ephemeral glow of the hull lights splashing the floor with colour. It was chilly, so Rosamund clutched her mink stole around her as they walked.
Walter said, ‘I got an apology from the chef. Because of breakfast. They think it must have been a problem with the cut.’
‘How about that.’
‘You could have stayed,’ he continued, a wounded edge to his tone. ‘You just upped and walked away.’
‘What else could I have done?’
‘I don’t know, consoled me about my ruined suit? It’s just—it’s not like this is a traditional marriage, but it’d be nice if I felt like my wife could support me, sometimes.’
Rosamund scowled. ‘Women always have to be soft and supportive and sweet. Why is that?’
‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with sweet, is there?’
‘Sweet things get eaten, Walt,’ Rosamund replied. ‘Better to be bitter, so they spit you out.’
Defeated, Walter sighed. ‘It’s your birthday tomorrow. Would it kill you to take things a little less seriously?’
‘Probably.’
He rolled his eyes, and they continued to promenade without conversation. They stopped only when they spotted someone they recognised: the man Walt had slept with last night was leaning against a starboard railing, smoking a cigar.
‘Jean!’ Walt called, and he went over to speak to him.
They quickly fell into conversation, laughing together, and Rosamund leaned against the wall to watch them.
She hadn’t actually met Jean—she’d fallen asleep in the bath, and when she’d woken up, he’d already been gone—but Walter had chattered on about him all morning.
Clearly, their night together had been a success.
A breeze passed over her, and something flew into her hair. She pulled it away. It was a scarlet petal.
Rosamund whipped around, searching the crowd. At the far end of the promenade, she could see a crow on the railing, watching her intently.
Is this supposed to be a threat? Rosamund said to her. Miriam didn’t reply. She just kept staring, blinking two dark eyes, one after the other.
The sound of Walt’s laughter rippled across the deck. Rosamund swallowed, imagining that laughter ended—a knife in his throat, a spade to the windpipe—and her stomach lurched.
Now was not the time for pride. This was the last day before her birthday, after all. If she wanted to keep her husband alive—if she wanted everything to go according to plan—she needed Miriam to give her this day without violence, without revenge.
I’m sorry, she said to Miriam. I didn’t mean it.
The crow cocked its head, considering. Then it flew away.
Walter returned, Jean in tow. ‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘this is Jean. He’s on his way to Haiti. He’s got a second-class cabin, but I told him I could take him this evening to the first-class bar, for tiki night.’
‘Yes, lovely to meet you,’ Rosamund said.
In a soft, francophone accent, Jean replied, ‘And you, madame.’
Walter frowned at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. ‘It’s nothing.’
Walter shrugged and looked uneasily up to the sky. ‘Wow, where’d the sun go? These clouds came in fast.’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Rosamund said.
‘I think Jean and I wanted another smoke—’
‘Fine,’ she snapped, ‘enjoy it,’ and she marched away before they could protest.
Inside the ship, the bar was being decorated in anticipation for the festivities; staff were draping gaudy laurels of fake hibiscus from the ceiling in soldier-like rows.
The flowers were made with cheap fabric, and their petals were tattered at the edges, as if torn rather than cut.
As Rosamund passed beneath them, one fell from its moorings and landed squarely on her head.
Rosamund snatched it out of her hair and crushed it in her fist. She carried it like that, wadded up in her palm, until she reached the cabin.
Then she threw it on the bed, where it combusted and reduced itself immediately to ashes—startling Caviar, who had been asleep on the pillow.
She was tired, that was all. She was tired, and anxious, and the trip was making her seasick.
That was why she had this feeling in her stomach, this awful, unshakeable, nauseating need.
She wanted to go to Miriam, curl her arms around her waist, and beg her to forgive her; or to lie down with her and find a way to make the ruse real, to unburden herself of the anger that had defined her ever since she’d regained her memories.
Rosamund wanted to be whole, wanted to be herself.
She was sick of being a shadow of her past lives.
She was the third act in a story she had never agreed to be part of, and all she could think of was escape.
Caviar yapped. She groaned into the pillow. She’d have to find a way to get Miriam back on her side; this would all be so much easier to pull off if she wasn’t being viewed with suspicion. One moment of anger, and now she might’ve ruined everything.
Sweetness, then, just as Walt had said—that was the key.
Miriam wanted Rosamund resistant enough to feel like a conquest, but still pliant enough to use; she could give her that.
There were less than forty-eight hours until the deal was up.
Until then, Rosamund could be as sweet as Miriam needed, sweeter than Esther had ever been.
Like a fish on a line, Rosamund thought. Why don’t you come a little nearer, darling, and just bite, bite, bite.
Rosamund called to Miriam that afternoon, her thoughts featherlight, coaxing: Forgive me, my love. Come find me again.
Miriam, still angry, nonetheless followed the call with a petulant, reluctant sort of excitement—the excitement only increased when she realised that Rosamund was behind a door labelled turkish baths.
These baths apparently required a ticket, but none of the attendants were much inclined to protest when Miriam strode inside.
A young woman offered her a massage—she declined—and another offered her a bathrobe.
She declined that, also. Instead, she strode through each muggy, pink-tiled room entirely naked, searching for Rosamund.
Some pools were hot, some were cold. There was a sauna and a steam room.
Miriam found it extraordinary that this was feasible on a ship, when humans had been slopping their shit into the sea with buckets less than a century ago; that was the gift of mortality, she supposed. The possibility of change.
Miriam found her, eventually, in the hot room. It was a large pool, although shallow, and Rosamund was alone inside, wading at the far end. The steam was thick enough to make the air semiopaque, and it fell around them like a blanket, her figure only faintly visible.
Miriam had entered silently enough that Rosamund didn’t react. Her eyes were closed, and she had bent her knees against the tiles, descending into the pool until she was submerged up to her cheekbones. Her hair floated around her in a rust-coloured halo, darkened by the water.
After several minutes of silence, Rosamund, eyes still closed, said, ‘It’s rude to stare.’
‘I’m not certain you should be lecturing me on rudeness, my dear, after that display this morning.’
Rosamund’s eyes opened. Her lips quirked. ‘I suppose not. You know, the humidity’s made your hair frizz.’
Miriam lifted a hand to her hair, patting it curiously.
Rosamund swallowed. ‘It’s so—human, somehow.’
‘Do you prefer me that way? Affecting humanity?’
‘That’s a pointless question. I’ve seen you for what you are now, and neither of us can pretend otherwise.’
Before Miriam could reply, Rosamund spun around and sank into the water. She made a lazy lap around the edges of the pool. She was naked, and Miriam watched her move with a familiar hunger.
She halted in front of Miriam. ‘I did apologise.’
‘I’m not certain you meant it.’
‘Does it matter if I did? I concede, Miriam.’ Rosamund stretched out her arms, bared her throat in invitation. ‘The battle is won.’
‘The battle, not the war.’
Rosamund shrugged. ‘My soul is yours, either way. That’s enough, surely.’
Miriam stepped closer to the water. ‘I used to think so.’
‘But not now?’
‘I’m not certain.’ Miriam’s lips twitched. ‘I think you’re hiding something from me. How novel.’
Rosamund turned away, swam a little further into the pool; Miriam wondered for a moment if she had upset her, but when Rosamund turned back, her expression was perfectly calm.
‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘you should be afraid of me.’
Miriam slipped into the pool. When she stood, she was only semi-submerged, the water lapping at her ribcage. Rosamund watched her, then leaned back against the tiles, exposing her breasts.
Lust curled in Miriam’s core. She took a step forwards, her movements slowed by the water. ‘I don’t feel particularly frightened,’ she said.
‘That’s because you want me—and that’s why you should be afraid.’
‘Oh?’
‘I may not be cursed, but there’s a reason why all those men wanted to leave me to the wolves.’
‘I am not a man.’
‘That’s true,’ Rosamund said. ‘But I still have power over you, Miriam Richter. I’m the only person who ever will.’
Miriam finally broached the space between them, sinking into the water so their faces were level. She cupped Rosamund’s cheek. Her thumb skimmed across her lips. It was the same face as Cybil’s, as Esther’s: the same mouth, the same upturned nose.
Why did it feel so different?
Rosamund shivered, despite the warmness of the room. Miriam smiled. ‘This won’t save you,’ she said.
Rosamund smiled back. ‘I know that. I don’t want to be saved. Not anymore.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ She arched her back, bringing her face towards her. ‘I want to be destroyed.’
Miriam kissed her. Rosamund moaned, pushed into her, warm and willing.
Miriam raised her up, carrying her to the edge of the pool, sitting her on the tiles so that her feet were dangling into the water.
Then she stood between her legs and kissed her more, until they were both gasping, all breath and dizzying heat—Rosamund’s hand slipping down Miriam’s chest, past her stomach, her fingers sinking into soft curls and wet skin.
Miriam felt a sudden conviction that if she had a heart, it would be beating fast enough to feel—that if she breathed, her breath would now be gasps.
The warmth of the air around them made it feel as if she were alive, as if she were as flushed as Rosamund was, blood instead of shadows running through her veins.
The pleasure of Rosamund’s touch was too much, so unbearably powerful in sensation that it was painful. Miriam pushed her hand away.
‘Shall I stop?’ Rosamund asked, her fingertips pressing into Miriam’s side.
Instead of replying, Miriam sank down halfway into the water, so that her head was level with the edge of the pool.
Then she gripped Rosamund’s knees and spread them apart, trailing kisses up the insides of her thighs.
When she tasted her, salt and sweet—her tongue inside her, gentle and searching—Rosamund gasped, tipping her head back.
She twisted her fingers in Miriam’s hair, hooking her legs over her shoulders.
She was so lovely, so willing; it was just as it had been before, just as it always should be.
Mine, Miriam thought, deliriously, always mine, she always will be, always has been—finally, finally, mine.
The air was heavy with steam, the ship rocking beneath them.
Rosamund whimpered and begged, but Miriam refused to speed up.
There was no urgency to it, no demand. She wanted it to last forever.
She wanted to keep Rosamund at the cliff’s edge: to allow her to stumble, but never to fall.
The longer she had her there, the longer she would be hers entirely, with no thoughts except the pleasure she brought her.
Time wouldn’t pass; the deal would never come to fruition. She could have her forever.
But Harding denied her, as always. Miriam was a fool to think she wouldn’t. Eventually Rosamund cried out, legs convulsing around Miriam’s shoulders; then she died again, a little death, a perfect one, as Miriam’s hands twisted around her ankles like a pair of chains.