Chapter 27
C h a p t e r T w e n t y - S e v e n
S yl v i a S w a n
Alistair’s boots hit the pavement with a heavy thud as I stare at the ground in front of me.
My life is in disarray, hanging on by a thread that barely exists. Nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore. I slowly pluck the hem of my skirt, each thread coming apart with a harsh pull. Over and over.
I feel drained in a way sleep doesn’t fix like something has been siphoned out of me and I’m just noticing because there's so little left. From afar I probably look sick like I’ve got the winter fog but inside turmoil rolls around taking my mood with it.
I had agreed to be his. I accidentally took his coat home. He took lewd photos of me.
I feel violated, but an unsettling and electric feeling settles in my skin making me feel alive. I can tell him to destroy them but something in me doesn’t want that, not with how preciously they’d been treated.
My chest hurts with anger and confusion but mostly because he’s spiraling me further than I already am.
“Sylvia?” His voice knocks me out of my trance and I turn to him, eyes dull and lifeless. “Are you ok?”
I force my face to behave and smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He studies me for a second longer than normal and I stop picking at my skirt once the thread knots. I nod and my smile lifts higher.
“Really, I’m ok,” I whisper.
He doesn’t push the subject and I’m grateful but ashamed as well.
As we come up to the academy doors I veer off toward the studio.
“See you after school,” I say quickly and don’t wait for a reply.
I feel as though the only place that understands me without speaking is the studio.
The studio smells like it always does, turpentine. A smell I familiarized myself with since I could walk. The large window illuminates the room in pale white and small specks of dust float in the columns of light. I place Amos on his usual chair and roll my sleeves up.
I pull out a palette of alkyd paint, I was beginning to miss the traditional paint I grew up on since acrylic is new. I mix the colors carefully, avoiding anything that seems too alive. I paint her beautifully tired green eyes, the ones she was blessed with before her death.
A chair behind me scrapes against the floor but I ignore it. I don’t have to turn to know who's behind me, he’s been sitting there since the first day.
I feel him lean closer to me, his finger twirling around a strand of my hair.
His presence in the room is a cold pocket like a draft drifting through a cracked door.
The girl beside him whispers but I can hear everything she says.
He’s cute, irresistible, a dream. And something in me sharpens that has no business awakening.
I stiffen as I feel his other hand trace around the curve of my waist, his touch light but grip possessive. My brush hovers above the painting and my shoulders relax.
“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I like watching you paint.”
My heart stutters and my jaw tightens. I add a dark shadow underneath her cheekbones, creating something more honest in her expression.
His hand in my hair shifts and something cold glides across my neck.
He pushes my hair to the side, gently, his rough fingers gliding across my throat as the cold metal settles against my skin.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“A swan.” His lips brush my skin gently and press into my skin before his touch vanishes. “Fitting.”
I glance down at the necklace. A swan rests at the hollow spot of my collarbones, sculpted in silver so finely it looks alive. Its wings are carved beautifully and dainty pearls line its body. How light it feels on my neck tells me it's expensive; something old, soft, and luminous.
My breath heightens and I hold the pendent, pulling it closer to my eyes. The real jewels catch the light, shining with integrity. The gift feels like a quiet claim and my ears bloom with heat.
“I can’t accept this,” I murmur, trying to unclasp it.
He flicks the back of my neck, a subtle tingle of pain shooting through my spine.
“It’s yours, little swan,” he grates with annoyance.
I don’t turn around because I know the abyss of darkness will be staring back at me. Eyes that captivate me, leaving me defenseless in every form.
I shakily lift my paint brush again, dipping it in paint and his breath ghosts over my shoulder.
“Your mother, she looks like she’s trying not to disappear.” His hand around my waist tightens and his thumb rubs soothing circles.
I swallow and nod, painting her lips. I smile and it feels real.
“I’m making sure she never disappears.” My voice is soft in a way I don’t recognize.
I rub the paint from my finger tips and look at the finished piece. It’s small but loud. It holds everything I remember—the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, to her tired kindness.
The parts of her that stayed even when everything else didn’t.
My fingers brush the necklace as if it belongs there and terrifyingly enough it does.
I like you too.
The sky has already begun to dull, a cold wind biting at my skin. Alistair and I walk side by side, bodies brushing one another as we step out of the school gates.
My satchel is slung low on my hip and Amos walks beside me, his leash attached. I put a fluffy black coat on him so he could walk freely without being cold.
His ears twitch with the sounds of the pupils around us and his tail flicks back and forth.
Alistair’s gaze flicks to me, a sideways glance that he gives me when he’s getting ready to ask me something.
“So…are you ready?” He says and nudges a pebble off the path.
“Yeah.” I nod.
I remember our plans without asking as dread kept me from sleeping last night. I can only hope Alistair doesn’t like me, not in a way that's more than friends.
He smiles and leads the way, we step off the cobblestone onto dirt. The path winding through tall grass and half dead trees. The air smells like soil and something faintly metallic, like rain trapped stone.
Amos smells the dirt as we go, whiskers twitching as he takes in the new scent.
An old stone building rises from the tall grass, low and wide.
Its gray stone has darkened with age and it looks to have been abandoned for decades.
Statues crowd the area around it, some stand whole while others are broken, missing heads and faces worn smooth from time.
Marble arms reach toward nothing and stone eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.
I slow, my breath catching.
“I figured you’d like this place,” he says, staring at me rather than the statues. “It was an art museum decades ago, abandoned and left to bury itself.”
We walk between figures, my gaze drifting from one to the next. I reach out tracing my fingers across the cracks, the delicate stone dusting my finger tips in white. I can imagine the hands that shaped them.
“I love it,” I say quietly as if my voice may damage them more.
Even broken they feel deliberate. Once upon a time someone loved them.
We move deeper into the grounds, tall grass brushing my knees. I don’t feel the bite of the wind or the whisper of the trees. Just the art taking away the pain that rests in me.
Amos mewls as he bends his body to rub against the grass, enjoying the peace of nature.
“After this,” He pauses and shoves his hands in his pockets. “we can finally go to the mill. I really think there's enough evidence to…put him away.”
I slow and Amos shifts, sensing my hesitation.
“I think so too,” I say. I had been dreading this moment. I don’t think the shadowed man will be easy to put away. “I’m ready for it to end.”
He nods. “Me too.”
We keep walking until the moon comes out. Stone and silence closes around the truth we’re finally ready to approach.
“Let’s go,” he whispers.
I blow out a breath, I may have gotten the wrong impression. Alistair hasn’t mentioned liking me this entire day and I think our friendship goes from being awkward to compassionate again.
We leave the statues behind and the stone figures recede back into the shadows and fog where they belong. Amos becomes restless and I hold him against my chest, the warmth of his body pressing into my ribs.
Neither of us talk much until my house comes into view. Old, dark, and shrouded in trees it's hard to see from the road.
We step inside and Amos immediately clambers onto the couch, his tail flicking as he watches us with immense curiosity.
Father must be asleep, fondue sits on the stove—the gas on low.
I sit down beside Amos, not willing to waste time.
“I did talk to my father,” I admit.
Alistair looks up from his bag that he sets down on the floor.
“And? What did he say?” His brows lift curiously and he plops in the chair across from me.
“He admitted he was a part of the cult. He and his friends created it long ago.” I swallow as the emotions resurface.
“He didn’t want to say it at first.” I pause and rub my sweaty palms against my skirt. “We’re looking for Clandic, the man who killed my mother.”
His name sits in my mouth, ugly and wrong. I try to swallow but can’t.
“He’s who we’re looking for,” I repeat, my voice distant to my own ears.
“Oh God,” he whispers. “How are you and your father getting along?”
I hesitate with an answer, truly I don’t know how I feel.
‘Don’t let yer father’s past corrupt him.’ P. Walker's voice echoes in my head.
“It was shocking and honestly devastating to hear at first, but I think with time I can forgive him. He had me in his best interests.” I lick my lips and I hate that I called him a coward.
I’ll be apologizing but I need time first.
“That’s good to hear.” He nods. “I think it’s sad but understandable.”
I agree with him and grab all the papers we had left behind last visit. I spread them in front of us carefully. Newspaper clippings with yellowed edges and writing in the margins, dates that are circled over and over, and my notebook filled with symbols.
“I believe this is enough,” he says, flipping through the items.
“I hope so,” I reply.
“It has to be,” he says with determination.
We pack away everything in our bags, layering papers with notebooks so they don’t become wrinkled. The bags become fragile, they become the last little bit of hope I have.
“Are we skipping?” He asks.
“I guess it's the only option. We need to leave at daybreak or I won’t go.” It’s now or never.
“Ok.” He solidifies our plans.
We eat the dinner my father made. Fondue tasting better than it ever has before. Amos eats his cat food and a few pieces of fondue.
I lean against the counter, trying to rehearse our plan, which we don’t really have, but my mind betrays me.
I think of Kian, I don’t mean to but my mind drifts anyway. The weight of the silver swan resting on my collarbone, hidden beneath my shirt, reminds me of him every second.
I should hate him for the pornography he had captured of me but I don’t. I miss him.
I always feel the presence of him, even in the safety of my home and I wonder if he’s here now. I wonder if he hates the idea of me standing here with someone else.
I smile, unknowingly and peer out the window in the kitchen but don’t see him. I only see the wavering trees and the fog that coats them.
I glance down at my chest and my fingers brush over the place where the necklace rests under my clothes.
Tomorrow is about her—the truth, and ending something that should’ve never started.