Chapter 2
two
Mother smiles at me, but there are too many teeth in her mouth. She braids together sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and mint and intertwines them with pale pink lace. I pull away when she crosses the bedroom to fit the crown to my scalp. There is something wrong with her face.
“Mother?” My voice is tiny and meek. I glance down to my hands and notice how small they are, how soft. A child’s hands. “Mother, what is happening?”
She fits the herbs and lace on my brow. The plants scrape my skin, drawing blood. It drips black into my eye. I blink.
This isn’t real.
Mother sinks into the mattress beside me, brushes a thatch of white hair from my cheek. “My Addie, as beautiful as a spring morning.”
I slide my eyes from her to the foot of my bed, wrapped in quilts, and then to my window, where the sunlight spills like honey through the glass.
Beyond this, birds sing, and the tinny laughter of children splashing in the river echoes from down in the valley.
Dread closes around my heart. Thick and choking. I know this day. But it can’t—
“You will make a beautiful May Queen, Adelaide.”
I turn to Mother, her lips stained a muted pink.
She wears flowers in her hair and a dress in shades of orchid.
Mother is young, healthy, her skin flushed with vibrance, and for a little while, I allow myself to sink into this moment.
Live it over and over, like I have a thousand times before.
No longer frightened now that I know where I am, what this is.
A memory in the form of a dream.
Mother helps me out of bed and into a soft satin dress with enough layers that, when she turns me to gaze upon my reflection in the mirror, I decide I look rather like a daffodil. She presses a kiss to the top of my head, gathering my curls in a fist and breathing in my scent.
“My baby is no longer a baby.”
Gripped by the wistful tone in her voice, I take her hand in mine. She is warm. Almost feverishly so.
“I’m barely twelve, Mother. Clara says we do not have to get married until we are at least twenty.
And even then, she says that some girls choose not to marry.
” I press my palms to her face, and her eyes flood with tears.
“Maybe I will never grow up. Maybe I will stay right here with you and Father, always.”
“Oh, my Morning Glory.” She wraps her arms around me, holding me to her breast, and I breathe in her citrus scent tinged with green and growing things. “I would love that more than you will ever know.”
Before I can form a reply, the door to my room bursts open. Father stands tall in the doorframe. Fear imbues my chest, but then I remember what this is. Merely a dream. A memory.
He is a different man than in the present. His face splits with a grin, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Here, he is younger too. Lighter. Like the weight of the world has not yet burdened his shoulders.
“Well, would you look at this? My little Addie, as yellow as a lemon drop.” He scoops me into his arms, spinning around until laughter tumbles from my lips.
“I am not a lemon drop, Father! I’m supposed to be a daffodil.” It is very important to me that he understands my costume. If not, the entire pageant Clara and I have planned for the villagers for Beltane will be ruined.
Father raises his eyebrows and exchanges a knowing look with Mother. “Oh, forgive me. What a beautiful daffodil you make. Tell me, are you and Clara ready to enrapture all of Rixton?”
Another giggle bursts from my lips, and I clap a hand over my mouth. “It’s not just Clara and me. We simply wrote the pageant. Hester has a part too. And Liza and even Finn and Viktor.” I lean in close to whisper in his ear, his stubble stinging my cheeks. “They’re playing wasps.”
Father erupts in a hearty chuckle, the sound rich and deep, like drinking chocolate. He sets me back on my feet before planting a kiss on my brow and reaching for Mother’s hand. “Shall we go then and see this spectacle our daughter has cooked up?”
Mother smiles—a rose unfurling in the June-time sun.
“Anywhere with you, husband-mine.” They share a kiss, soft and slow and infused with yearning.
I pull a face, making a mockery of their expression, but deep down inside, my twelve-year-old heart burns for the same thing one day.
A love so strong, so pure, nothing but death could separate it.
When they break apart, Mother strokes my cheek before following Father out the door.
“Ithrandril be with you,” she says, the age-old adage smooth on her tongue.
“And also with you,” I repeat.
Out on the hill, below the church and vicarage, the entirety of Rixton has gathered.
The River Thine glitters like a jewel at their backs, and the rowan wood dances in the spring-kissed breeze.
From the stage, which Clara and I have hobbled together from wooden crates and crimson velvet borrowed from her mother’s sewing closet, I spy my parents eagerly awaiting from their blanket spread on the grass.
My chest aches with the love I have for them. From the moment I first bled black, when my mother kissed my brow and told me she would do everything to keep me safe, that not another soul would know, I believed her.
A hush falls over the crowd when Clara steps out from behind the curtain, swathed in cerulean silk.
Our bluebell. She repeats every line perfectly, and the pageant begins.
Viktor and Finn take their roles quite seriously, chasing the flowers around the stage and drawing laughter from every throat.
As it comes to an end, the six of us join hands, and I catch Clara’s eye.
She squeezes them in my direction, our secret sign of endearment. Unending friendship.
Father is the first to stand, the rest of the village joining in, clapping so loudly that we don’t hear the screams at first. The cries of laughter from children still playing in the river edging, sharp and bloody.
My stomach drops to the soles of my feet, and Clara’s hand goes sweaty in mine. Fear blooms a thicket of brambles in my chest.
I find Mother and Father in the crowd, their faces pale, drawn tight.
We know these screams. We have heard them before.
They are the sound the village makes when they drag another body up from the riverbanks.
I surge from my pillow, sweat drenching my skin. My chest heaves and crashes. I pinch the webbing between my fingers, centering, grounding myself to the present. A memory. It was just a dream.
I peel back my blankets and slip into a sturdy wool dress and boots. My stomach swims sick. The mind is a cruel master, bringing back remnants of happier times. These reminders only make my illness worse. After tying my laces, I cross to the door and fling it open.
The vicarage is empty, hollow. The wooden steps protest when I make my descent, and the hearth in the kitchen has long been left cold. But it is no matter. Seeing Father now would be too much against the vision I just experienced. A sour taste to steal away the sweetness.
I am sick of the memories, sick of the pain and blackouts and the monsters, which seem now to be growing faces.
When the cold air of the outside chaps my nose and cheeks, it all comes flooding back.
Lilith Corley, Clara, the smoke curling from the trees, features stringing together like puzzle pieces…
I dig my fingernails into my palm. My illness could shoulder all the blame, but I am more than this jumble of bones and blood, more than the visions that rock me and make the world turn black.
I need answers, need to know what is wrong with me so I can fix it before it is too late. Before the monsters turn to things with hands and teeth and devour me whole.
Ahead, on the lane, the church rises from the gloom, the windows fogged with mist. I do not know why I am drawn to it. Is it not just a relic of all I have lost? But if my curse comes from the gods, then maybe the gods have the answers I crave.
I slip between the creaking, wooden doors and into the nave.
Dark buttresses loom over a stone floor, leading me to the stained-glass window high above Ithrandril’s altar.
It is set with enough gold to buy my mother’s soul back from Death.
The colorful glass depicts a scene from the Rending, when Ithrandril threw his brother down to the shadow.
Ithrandril stands tall, golden hair streaming behind him while he holds a flaming sword above his head.
Erybrus, beneath him, grips a human heart in his hands, his mouth ringed with blood.
The brother-gods ruled over our world for thousands of years, splitting power, sharing glory.
Until Erybrus got too hungry, wanted humans all to himself.
“So, his brother cursed him,” I whisper, my voice echoing off the walls of the empty nave.
I drop to my knees before the altar, tears clouding my vision.
“Cursed him and sent him to shadow, where he could only have the souls of those who chose him.” I lift a hand and suck in chilled air as the ruby light catches the blackened welts on my wrists.
“I am not for Erybrus. I am more than this shadow.”
“Then what are you for, daughter-mine?”
I am up on my feet and spinning around faster than a flame.
Father stands in the aisle between the worn pews, cloaked in black robes. It takes me a moment to recognize him, older than he was in my dream. Sharper. No longer bearing kisses for my brow.
“Stay back.” The fear in my voice might be taken for gentleness, concern, but the truth is, I cannot have him come any closer. It will shatter me.
“Have you come to atone for your sins?” he asks, staying put but gazing up at the visage of our brother-gods. “It is wise to confess before the darkness comes. Before death claims your soul and you are faced with a choice.”
For the light or for the shadow. For Ithrandril or his hungry brother. I swallow a lump in my throat, following Father’s gaze to the gods.
“Do you think me soon to die?”