Chapter 11 DigClimb
DIG OR CLIMB
The moon was just a sliver of silver through the trees, like the top of her shovel when it was deep in dirt.
Persephone’s fairy light was brighter, brighter, too, than her mood.
She was tired. And sad. And pitiful. And each heft of dirt onto the ground above her head rained clods of soil into her hair and made her muscles scream.
But she didn’t stop. She hadn’t taken a break all night, and she’d worked three nights in a row, something she’d never done before. She needed her body screaming to drown out her duke-obsessed mind.
That duke was none of her business.
That duke didn’t matter, though the world said he did.
That duke was a blackguard. He had no soul, he… he…
A sob broke through her lips.
Victor had a soul. She’d seen it, and in those rare moments when it broke through all his walls, it was beautiful. To her at least.
She’d done it again—fallen in love with a man who refused to solve his own problems. She couldn’t fix them for him. And she wouldn’t try to anymore. And she wouldn’t bind herself to him more than she already had.
That did it. Her own walls broke, and she dropped to her knees, slumped against the dirt and cried.
She’d make a mud puddle to drown in with all her tears.
But she couldn’t stop them, and she didn’t want to.
She’d allowed herself to cry so little since Percy’s death.
She’d cried more in the weeks leading up to it, as he’d withdrawn from her, as he began to look at her with disgust. He’d never bothered to hide how much he’d despised her.
And she’d taken that into herself.
But digging and digging wouldn’t save her from self-hatred. She could dig deeper into it. That’s all she’d been doing. She cried harder, her wails climbing up out of the hole and into the lightening sky.
A small squeak above her.
“Don’t be scared, Julie,” a voice said. “It’s just a ghost. Won’t harm you.”
Footsteps rattled off into the coming morning.
And Persephone laughed, wiping her tears away. She was a ghost.
But if she could dig, she could also climb.
When she pulled herself out of the grave and onto the grass, she looked at the yellow morning—fresh and foggy. And she looked at herself—grimy and worn. She set off for home, dragging her heavy heart behind her.
In the corridor outside her room, a door flew open, and Sarah popped out.
Persephone lurched back with a yelp, her hand flying to her heart. “You scared me.”
“Yer jumpy this morning,” Sarah said, eyeing Persephone from head to toe. “And in no state for company. Dirt in every crevice.”
Persephone rubbed her cheek, looked at her fingers—smudged. “Can’t help it. Good thing I don’t have calling hours right now.” She huffed a laugh.
“No? Then why are there two fancy folks waiting for you in your room?” Sarah nodded to the door across from hers.
“Two… What do you mean?”
“Mr. Hoskins brought them up, let them in.”
The landlord had let strangers into her room? Perhaps… “Was one of them the same man you saw me with last week?”
“No, not him at all. An older couple. Musta been alchemists. The man didn’t wear gloves.”
“Odd.”
“Yell if you need me,” Sarah said right as a baby’s wail split Persephone’s ears. Sarah grimaced and slunk back inside her room, closing the door.
And Persephone faced her own door. Who…? She inspected her trousers, her man’s shirt—all of it past dirty. Nothing for it, though. The mystery must be solved without a bath.
A bath in a large copper tub in a tiled room with a fake fire flickering nearby.
She slammed the door on that image. She wouldn’t think of Victor anymore. Couldn’t.
Setting her chin high and shoving her shoulders back, she opened the door.
And found her mother and father sitting side by side, teetering on the very edge of her rickety bed.
Her mother jumped up. “Darling.” She held her arms out wide as if she would wrap Persephone in a hug, but she reeled back at the last moment, lips peeling back to show her teeth. “Ah. You are… How did you get so…?”
“You’re a damn mess, Persephone.” The bed squeaked as if taking a last breath as her father stood. “Did you fall in a mud puddle? Where have you been? Why are you wearing men’s clothes?”
“Working. That’s where I’ve been. It’s why I wear this.” She dusted some of the dirt off her trousers. Tried to.
“No more! No more!” Her mother patted the air around Persephone’s shoulders. “You don’t have to work anymore, darling. And I have no desire to know what that work is.”
“Of course I have to work. What—” Persephone pinched the bridge of her nose. “What are you two doing here?”
“Sit.” Her father nodded toward her bed.
And lacking anything else to do, Persephone obeyed.
“No, do not sit!” Her mother yanked her up. “We’re leaving now.”
“We should talk through some things first,” her father said.
“Here?” The word a screech. Her mother looked panicked. “I’ll not stay here a moment longer. We’re going home now that we have Persephone.”
Persephone freed herself from her mother’s grasp. “I am home.”
“No, no, no. Manchester, darling. We’re returning to Manchester.” Her mother locked their arms together and dragged her toward the door. “Forget all these… things. We’ll get you new clothes and new… everything as soon as we can.”
“Are you trying to take me with you?” Persephone tried and failed once more to free herself.
“Of course,” her father grumbled. “No daughter of ours is staying here.”
Persephone clung to the doorframe as her mother tried to pull her through it. “Where was this paternal sentiment after Percy died?”
“You’ve learned your lesson.” Her mother sniffed, trying to tug Persephone loose. She grunted. “Now it’s time to come home. And find a new husband.” Another tug, another grunt. “A better”—tug, grunt—“one.” She gave up when Persephone clung like a leech to the frame.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Be reasonable, Persephone,” her father said. “You can’t live like this, and we were perhaps a bit too harsh on you after Percy’s death. We forgive you. Now forgive us, and let’s be gone.”
“A duchess cannot live like this.” Her mother threw her arms out wide, and her hand brushed against a faded gown hanging from the clothesline that divided the room. She shivered and wiped her hand off on her skirts.
“A duchess?”
“Yes, of course.” Her father cleared his throat. “That Morington fellow clearly feels strongly for you. Once we get you all cleaned up and show him what a marriage to you can do for him, he’ll bite. I’m sure of it.”
Her mother sighed. “It will be a glorious union. The best match made for an alchemist’s daughter this year. Perhaps this decade!” She squealed.
“You’ve got it all wrong. The duke is not in love with me.” She was in love with Victor.
“Love doesn’t matter,” her mother said.
“I’ve checked into his finances.” Her father chuckled. “The old boy’s poor as”—he looked around—“you. He’ll be elated to learn you’re an heiress.”
“But I’m not an heiress.” Persephone’s head was spinning. If they would only slow down and talk sense.
“You are now!” Her mother darted out into the hallway.
“Listen, Sephy.” Her father stepped closer, reached out to take her hands then grimaced and folded them behind his back. “We feel horrible. We didn’t know how badly you had it. And… we’ve set up an account for you. All yours.”
“If I marry the duke.” Their gifts had always come with strings, requirements.
“No,” her mother said. “It’s yours because we were horrible. We spoke with Morington before he left Manchester. He made us see how wrong we’d treated you.”
He’d spoken to them… When? How? He’d likely not been kind. But still… he’d cared enough to say something to startle her parents into doing… this! Offer her money, her old life back.
“And because”—her mother gave a nervous titter—“if the other alchemists find out how you’re living we’ll be laughingstocks.”
“You’ve always been headstrong,” her father said. “If you insisted on marrying Percy, we figure you’ll insist on not marrying whoever we find you.”
“Except…” Her mother inched closer. “Perhaps…” Even closer. “The duke?” A smile popped a dimple into one of her cheeks.
That’s why they were doing this. Not out of guilt or familiar love. They wanted to make a matrimonial catch out of her; they wanted to clean her up and send her sailing like an arrow right at the duke’s heart.
“No.” Persephone released the doorframe and stepped deep inside her room. She waved a hand to the door. “Thank you, but I need to be alone.”
Her father waited several moments before joining her mother in the corridor. They were so out of place. Their finery seemed unnatural against the faded flimsiness of the walls and ceilings. Their rich jewels gaudy against the sincerity of poverty.
But oh… her mouth watered to run into their arms, to wash away the dirt and don silks instead. She could now. She could…
“Goodbye,” she said, and shut the door in their faces. Her brain buzzed. No clear thoughts. No reasonable arguments. She couldn’t even fully grasp the situation, her parents’ offer.
She could dig.
Or she could climb.
She could release the weight of her guilt.
Or she could cling to it—her own grave work, a way to spend eternity.
When she heard her parents’ footsteps recede down the hallway, she counted to one hundred. Then she flung open her door and ran.
Not toward them.
Not north toward Manchester.
She ran west.
Toward him.
She could dig. She could climb. But she ran, and she had no idea what that meant.