Five
I t became difficult to control the path of my thoughts. Flora had invited me to a small dinner party that she and Dixon were attending that evening, as their plus one. I immediately said yes, because I did not think I could stay in that house for one more second, knowing my mother stewed in her rooms, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her son, and I could do nothing but sit in my room and glare at the reflection in the mirror.
I’d grown older, I noticed, and tried to push the thought away.
I didn’t want to remember.
Six years older, in fact.
I sat at my vanity, and the clock on my wall chimed at the hour, its incessant tick, tick, ticking reminding me of every further second that passed.
I was only half-ready. Flora and Dixon would arrive in half an hour .
The woman staring back at me was not the girl I once was, six years ago. My hair had been longer, still the same ebony color, but twisted into braids and knots at my neck. My eyes used to be brighter—
He always said they reminded him of decadent chocolate from overseas; dark, rich, amber honey.
But now they dulled, and there were shadows under my eyes I hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps a symptom of too much drink the night before? But I knew better.
I had chopped all my hair off so that it sat in curls, brushing my ears, my jaw. The day I’d done it, Mother nearly wept.
I had spent my allowance on a new wardrobe, increasingly more revealing, extravagant, up with the times. My dress this evening hung from my wardrobe’s door. It was a scintillant silver, a color I’d not even consider wearing six years ago. Mother would place me under permanent house arrest if she saw how it hardly reached my knees.
What would he think if he saw you in that number ?
I shook my head, shut my eyes, before a flash of anger overwhelmed me.
When I glared at myself in the mirror once more, the frustration was plain on my face, and I schooled my features, a skill I’d learned over the past few years. No one would approach a scowling girl at a bar.
And that’s what I needed. I needed the drink, the men, the dances and the parties—to be able to forget, if even for a second. To distract, to remind myself there were good things in life; that I could still enjoy it .
I twisted the cap off my lipstick, rounding out my lips in a deep red. Floozy red , I thought to myself. The movements that were almost second nature, lining my eyes and brows with a pencil. Flora had found a new mascara a couple of weeks ago that made my lashes positively dark. She told me I couldn’t leave the house without it, and who was I to disobey?
The me of six years ago wouldn’t have felt the need. Why cover your face, like you’re hiding behind a mask? Why not show the world who you are?
I almost laughed at the notion.
Standing, I brushed loose strands of hair behind my ear. I wondered absently what Flora would be wearing. She seemed to have a new dress every night, and I had a suspicion it was Dixon funding her shopping habit. But I didn’t think he minded—he certainly had the money for it.
Just how deep were those coffers?
I realized I didn’t know how deep—or not— our coffers were.
When Father was alive, I’d sometimes join him in his study, probably bothering him more than anything, but he let me do it. I’d ask him questions, though I’d never really understand the answers. We got our money from munitions factories, and we’d done alright before the war. Did even better during and after.
It never felt right, even as a young girl, knowing our money came from weaponry. Of course, I didn’t understand when I was really young, but in adolescence it became clear to me that our staff at the house, our out-of-season fruit, our expensive electric chandelier, was all paid for in death.
We had blood on our hands .
It was on my hands then, as I applied my lipstick, as I donned the sparkling, decadent dress.
As though the weight of all those souls sat on my shoulders.
If I felt it, Father and Lucas had to feel it. But only once did I ever suggesting investing our money in other sources to Lucas—after Father’s death, after the rumors circulating that he was found dead on the front lawn of some lady’s house, a lady we’d never met before, bawling her eyes out, like she knew him—and it was met with laughter. How could I , a woman, know what to do with our money? I didn’t know how the business was run; I didn’t know what our money was tied up in. Lucas laughed in my face, spittle flying.
Lucas continued Father’s legacy and was happy to do it.
The blood must stain Lucas, must drip from his fingers everywhere he went, leaving a trail in his wake, like a cape that spread until it touched everything, stained everything with which he came into contact.
Beware, for he is the bringer of death.
There was a small part of me that wished Father was still alive, if only to save me from them—my mother and Lucas. He’d at least understand what it took to get me to be agreeable. He was good at that, at talking me down, at being placating, a mediator. Were he alive, he’d screen suitors, know what they really wanted—did they actually have an interest in me or our money? Or were they like Brancato, simple opportunists? And despite his faults, he wouldn’t chain me to someone who couldn’t stand me.
Perhaps because he’d done it to himself.
I faced the full-length mirror leaning in the corner, brushing my hands down my hips. The beading felt rough under my fingers, the dress itself smooth like water, rippling as I moved. I slipped my feet into black heels, and my feet instantly twinged, the straps pinching my skin and my heel bruised from the night before.
But once I had some liquor, I wouldn’t even care.
I shut my eyes for a moment, just to feel it. To feel the ache. I had to remind myself, often it seemed, that the pain, the aches, the bruises—they all meant I was alive. A racing heart, pounding against my rib cage; the drowsiness of drunkenness; the tears that came from remembering, the stolen breaths, the crushing weight pushing me down.
They all meant I was alive .
These nights reminded me I was alive. Kept me from stewing on what would only hurt me more.
I leaned back over my vanity, reaching for a pair of golden earrings, when there was an abrupt knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said. I knew it wouldn’t be Mother. She never left her boudoir after dusk. I clasped one earring.
My maid pushed open the door, carrying a tray with tea. She latched the door behind her, but didn’t walk any further once she saw my getup.
“You’re leaving?” Her brow furrowed, and she added a hasty, “Miss.”
“I am.”
She nodded and moved into the room to set the tray down at my bedside table. Her dress was still immaculate, not a wisp of hair out of place .
“Apologies for wasting your time making tea,” I said, clasping the other earring. I shot her a quick smile. “Are you going to tell Mother?”
She seemed to consider, but there was a flash in her mahogany eyes. “No.”
“Hmm.”
“Though it would be in my best interest to,” she said.
“It would,” I agreed, pulling a long golden chain necklace over my head. The charm rested just between my breasts, a weight swinging right against the spot of my heart. “She’d favor you more.”
“Alas,” the maid smiled, clasping her hands behind her back.
“Alas,” I repeated. “It seems she’s made an enemy of both of us.” I straightened and gave her another clipped smile, reaching for the small purse I brought with me every night.
“Miss?” In the low light, her eyes gleamed, and a small part of me wondered if perhaps she had indulged in a drink or two herself. But she was steady on her feet, the ceramic teacup never rattling when she came into the room.
I had noticed, in the months she’d been with us, she was light on her feet. Quiet. Polite. It was an old house, at least a century or so, and I never heard her come up the staircase, when Mother’s presence would’ve been announced at the first step. She was agreeable, mostly, except when I saw her professional exterior slip—never around Mother. Only around me, it seemed. A girlishness that drew me in.
There was no one else in this house to save appearances for, except the cook and Mother’s own maid, I supposed .
“You cannot tell me you like my mother,” I laugh, my voice perhaps too loud.
She quirked a brow. “This feels incriminating,” she mused. “I cannot speak ill of my employer.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I said, my hand finding the doorknob. “If anything, I am your employer.” I hadn’t meant it to be, but it felt like a pointed reminder.
“Regardless,” she fought the corner of her lips from rising, “I am still stuck in here with her, no?”
“Perhaps not for long. She intends to marry me off, and if so, I intend to take you with me.” The words were bitter on my tongue, a sudden feeling rising in my throat, like they were poison, a lie, a curse.
Sighing, I opened the door. “Distract her for me, will you?” And I slipped down the back staircase and into the garden to make my escape for the evening.