Chapter Twelve Emma Baldwin
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emma Baldwin
A night sky with twinkling crystal stars blinks above the dinner table.
Music plays as Demetri nervously cuts his asparagus. “Are you feeling any better, sis?”
I don’t respond. Gold chandeliers, ablaze with dancing sapphire flames, hang in the air with no chains or mechanics suspending them. I feel tied to these people with invisible shackles.
He sighs. “I was thinking…”
I smirk. “And I thought the smoke was from the candles.”
“Maybe we could take a walk after dinner,” he says. “Talk about things.”
Oh, now you wanna talk? But you couldn’t bother to be truthful before.
I shake my head. I already have plans. Demetri’s eyes reflect sadness in the eerie azure candlelight that dapples everyone, revealing the despair etched on my family’s faces.
Reluctantly, I had allowed my father to use magic to heal my body before dinner, but my heart is in shards.
I’ve always been loyal to my family. They’ve taken care of me my entire life.
I love them. But the beating I’ve been taking in the sparring ring feels a lot like abuse to me, and the emotional strain of facing a death match has damaged our relationship in ways I’m not sure we can come back from.
It’s hard to look at them without crying.
And small talk? Hell, no. I want none of that.
Forks clink against plates as my family enjoys their dinner, giving a melody to my eagerness for this meal to be over. As soon as we’re finished, I can escape in one of the Bentleys and go meet Malcolm.
“How’s your salmon?” my mother asks, oblivious to the restlessness inside me. Grandmère’s sharp gaze stabs through to my soul.
“Fine,” I snap.
“Little bird, you seem distant. Quiet,” Grandmère says, her voice a brew of concern and impatience.
The heavy sapphire-toned drapes that hang from floor to ceiling sway slightly, as if they are inhaling the sound of the classical violin.
“I wonder why,” I reply, with a sarcastic smile.
“Aren’t you the comedian tonight,” Gran grumbles, sipping from her glass of pink bubbly.
A thinly sliced strawberry bobs in the bottom of her flute.
“Pity your jokes don’t pay the bills.” Her hooded eyes look at me suspiciously as she sets the glass down on the table.
It refills itself with more bubbly champagne. “I do.”
“Emma.” Papa smiles at me like he’s trying to ease the tension, his voice blending with the sounds of the invisible orchestra that fills the room with strumming pianos and the operatic sound of Marian Anderson singing, “Ave Maria.” “When all this is over,” he says, “we should travel to the White House in 1939 and try to see Marian. A Black opera singer in the White House at that time has to be an extraordinary sight. That would be great, wouldn’t it? ” His hopeful eyes meet mine.
“Sure, assuming I still have working eyes after the Tether.”
Mom looks sadly at me, and I poke at my vegetables.
Papa continues. “You’re doing great with your stardust training.” His dark eyes twinkle with pride below his salt-and-pepper curls. “Everyone’s talking about your progress.”
“Thanks,” I reply. Papa always tries to encourage me, so he’d never look at my training with a critical eye anyway.
I doubt that anyone has bragged about my improvement.
It feels like a slow journey. But that could be because I resent every moment.
I’m so ashamed of what’s happening that I haven’t even told Ariella.
Not that I’m allowed to tell my best friend anything important.
I don’t even know how I could explain the fact that my family members, who are expected to provide love and protection, could inflict harm.
Every time I am kicked or punched, I’m reminded of the lack of freedom and control I have in my life.
I’m reminded that I could lose this game if I can’t stop the Tether.
I could die … And eighteen is way too young to die.
The music is beautiful, but I’m bored. I lift my glass and take a sip, wishing I were listening to Josephine Baker singing, “Paris, Paris, Paris.”
And then it begins to play. The room has responded to my thoughts again. I smile.
“He’s right, Emma,” Mom adds eagerly. “Your fighting skills and your use of stardust as a weapon have improved remarkably.” She swirls the pink fluid in her glass like her mother does. “You have more control and skill, and you’re getting better at illusions quickly. We are all proud of you.”
Pride isn’t needed right now. But I’m glad they think I’m getting good at illusions. I had to for my plan to escape in one of their Bentleys to work.
Demetri flashes his dimples at me. “I always knew my baby sister was a fighter.”
But nothing in me wants to battle and risk my life for a witch’s entertainment or some stupid contest. If he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know me at all.
Grandmère’s silver bob and golden-brown skin look so immaculate in the candlelight that you’d never suspect she has been attacking me in the name of battle training for days now.
Her posture is regal as she plays with her pearls.
She points to my wrist, and a bright swirl of moonlight slides through the window across from her, morphing into a crystal bracelet adorned with stars and moons that loops around my wrist.
Surprised, I drop my fork. I thought she was mad at me.
Or at least suspicious. Maybe I misread her, and she was fine, just being her normal moody self.
Trying not to draw attention to my plans to escape this house, I pick up the fork and attempt to mask how irritated I am with everything.
“Thanks, Gran. It’s beautiful,” I say, with the biggest smile I can fake.
The bracelet beams and glitters like stars above us.
But it doesn’t cure the curse that rots this family on the inside.
“You earned it.” Grandmère Clair turns her eyes in my direction, giving me a stern look.
“You’ve improved. But don’t let compliments swell your head, birdie.
The Tether is deadly, and you haven’t learned enough to survive.
Yet.” Her smile glows under the soft light, but her eyes look worried.
I can feel her questioning my ability to win the Tether as clearly as if her doubt were a reaper sitting beside me passing me potatoes.
“Okay,” I say, my voice shaking as if that reaper is inching closer.
I think of Josephine Baker singing, “The Times They Are a-Changin’,” and it begins to play.
I guess it inspires Mom to clink her glass. Her light brown skin is radiant as she announces, “We’re resuming the circus soon. Your dad and I are going to scout new locations and times tonight.”
Go? As in take one of the Bentleys? Oh hell, no. They might discover that one is missing and ruin my plans.
Papa’s face lights up, and he looks at me warmly. “We can bring the circus to Paris. You’d love that, right, Emma? We can go during a time when Josephine Baker is there. You can see a show.”
Desperate, I try to start a fight, hoping it will interrupt their plans.
“Should I be happy? Is this my last wish being granted?” My words are like bullets aimed at their faces.
“Emma, enjoy a show while everyone waits for you to die!” I fire back.
“Lucky, Emma!” I scowl. “None of you believe in me! Admit it!”
Papa’s face falls; his eyes get full. I can tell my dad really wanted to make me happy, and it cuts me to be cruel to him.
Any other time, his suggestion would be exciting; I’d love to see my idol perform.
But tonight, it fills me with dread. I need to meet Malcolm and plot so I can live to see a million performances.
Desperate, I let my frustration spill out in hopes that it will change their minds.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this again.
You’re leaving, and you didn’t even tell me!
The secrets, the trip to Paris? Like I don’t know you’re attempting to let me have fun before…
” The words hang heavy in the air. I choke on the end of the sentence. “Before you bury me like Grace.”
A stunned silence follows. It gets broken by my mother’s sob. My father pulls her in close, holding her. Demetri looks at me with a mix of surprise and guilt.
“We’re not burying anyone,” Grandmère says. Her aged eyes soften slightly, understanding flickering inside them. “Darling, we … we were trying to reward you.”
“No. You planned to restart the circus before tonight,” I say, adding, “You don’t do anything on a whim.
You’re always keeping things from me.” My heart is banging as I spring up from my chair, dramatically letting my fingers hit my glass of punch.
It tilts, but instead of falling, it defies gravity, staying suspended at an angle.
The red liquid in the glass splashes high and hovers, curling in midair above the table and forming a swirling pattern before the liquid curves back into the cup.
The cup rights itself, standing proud, without a drop spilled.
It fills with more red punch as if an invisible hand is pouring it.
Scowling at the spectacle of it, I say, “Magic can’t fix everything that’s broken in this family.” I raise my voice. “I’m surrounded by liars and secrets! I hate this life!” I yell. “I hate the circus!”
Mom’s face is pained. “Emma, we thought … We hoped getting back in our normal routine could make you happy.”
“You thought what? That I’d be okay being left out again? Okay with everyone choosing for me as usual?” My voice bounces off the lofty ceilings. “Thought that I’d forget about the death match you’re training me for if I dance under the big top and grant wishes for paying customers?”
Papa stands, reaching out for my hand. “Darling, we didn’t mean to upset you. We have a little more training time before the Tether, so we thought you’d want a small release from the tension. That Paris would be a nice reward. I…”