Chapter 5 #2
Are the words of this prayer preordained, prewritten somewhere among the aristos, plucked from history—or did my family write them?
Does my family think my blood unworthy?
That thought stiffens me as I stand over the pit and outstretch my arms. We all do. Fingertips touch. And they stay touched together as we wait for the gods to release us.
The covens, the families, don’t decide when to leave.
The gods do.
It starts with a festering.
The blood in the bag bubbles. It soaks through the threads of silk, as though it’s boiling beneath.
And it grows, more and more blood, more than any animal can contain within the body. It spills into the soil, drenching it, feeding it.
All the families of the coven should now be listening to the same deep, gurgling churn of their own blood and the sacrifice blood, and the earth rumbling beneath it all.
Our fingertips part.
Steps sliding back over the soil, we drop back onto our knees and start to push the dirt back into the pit.
We bury the offerings.
When the earth is packed dirt in the centre of old stones, the rumbling stops. No more wet gurgling to churn beneath the soil.
I hear nature.
Birds tweet, chirp and sing; rainfall patters on soil and grass and hedges; the breeze is a distant, hollow echo through the grounds.
It is done.
But out of respect, no one speaks a word.
We get to our feet—and walk back to the abbey in the same procession we walked to the pit.
Father leads the way, followed by Mother, then Oliver.
I wander behind them, the cold and the damp chilling me to the bone, like I just now feel it.
My mind snags, as it always does, on the ritual, the closing of the pit, the undeniable magic of it…
And yet, I don’t quite believe.
I’m not alone in that.
Courtney doesn’t believe either.
Among aristos, elites, the crown families of the Videralli, it’s unacceptable to have no faith. It’s not something that’s said.
Can’t just go to Serena and say, ‘Hey, do you think the gods are real or it’s all old-world bullshit?’
The ritual is magic, but who’s to say the magic isn’t caused by our own hands?
Not mine, obviously.
But I would never ask them, my family that climb the steps to the terrace, then walk through the parted doors. I would never ask what Oliver thinks of the gods and the ritual.
I keep my doubts to myself as I follow them into the foyer.
Mother breaks the silence with a tired hum, then throws back her hood. Faint dark circles stain the delicate skin around her eyes.
She lifts a hand to hide a yawn.
I tug the hood off my head—and as it comes over my hair, a dusting of dry dirt rains over my shoulders.
My murmur is a faint curse.
Oliver is much more graceful. His hood draws back without a downpour of dirt, and it settles on the black material draped over his shoulders—but his gaze is lifted to the wall, a frown creasing his face.
I trace his gaze to the committee of servants in the foyer.
Mr and Mrs Younge stand with their backs to the wall—and a nervous-looking Abigail is tucked between them.
My head cocks to the side.
Hands behind her back, she stands like a mouse cornered, her head bowed, a pinch to her mouth. Her cheeks burn hotter than the flames in the foyer’s fireplace.
Father’s strides don’t falter. They are seamless, kicking against the robe, fluttering with purpose as he moves for them.
He swipes back his hood, revealing a stony profile.
Mother is on his heels.
It’s only Oliver and me who hesitate, and we share a puzzled look before we move to join them.
Mr Younge waiting for us by the wall in the foyer is no strange sight.
Mrs Younge isn’t often in the main areas, since her duties are to overlook all the other house servants—but it’s not her presence that troubles me.
It’s Abigail’s.
It’s strange to see her standing there.
Oliver’s gravelly voice is a murmur, “You’ll be disappointed with me today. I have a great gift for you… but it’s not quite ready yet.”
My frown is lured to him.
I turn my cheek to the servants against the wall, my parents standing with them as low murmurs come from them—a private conversation I’m not invited to join.
Not that it is even playing on my mind with the vulgarity Oliver just spoke to me.
My face is carved from stone. “You don’t have my gift?”
His shoulder lifts as if tugged by a thread. “I have something for you to open—but the actual gift is delayed. It can’t be helped.” Still, his smile is a bit on the sheepish side. The shame of it. “You’ll have many gifts to spoil you today. Fret not.”
My mouth curls—
But before I can retort, the rustling of robes draws in my glance.
I double-take.
Father and Mother have turned their backs to the servants—and are moving for me.
Faces of steel closing in.
My heart skips in my chest.
Their stares dagger into me.
My throat thickens with a swallow.
Oh shit.
What now?
I’m rooted to the spot. My cold, dirty feet are unmoving over the floor, but Oliver has no such problem moving.
He side-steps away from me, then angles to face me, just as Father lifts his arm, as if reaching for me.
But he is holding something out.
His knuckles gleam white with the tension of his stiff grip. But in his hand is a small, leather-bound book.
Slow, my heart starts to sink down my insides to my gut. The book I borrowed from Dray.
The book I once had but Mother destroyed.
The book I had packed in my luggage.
‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’.
Father’s voice is a deep, restrained storm, “Where did you get this?”
The colour drains from my face.
Oliver’s frown snags on the book.
Out the corner of my eye, I catch it—the starkness that wipes the creases of his face smooth, and he startles, as if taken aback.
“It’s not mine.” My voice is barely a whisper. “It’s Dray’s.”
Mother’s eyes widen, but not with surprise. The surge of anger rises in her, clenched her jaw tight, and flares her nostrils with a deep inhale.
Father’s grip flexes on the book, as though he means to tighten his hand into a fist. The hard leather creaks.
The faint tremble of rage in his voice bolts my shoulders, “How did it come into your possession?”
I don’t know if I’m so tired that lying is just too much of a bother, or if I tell the truth because I see no other way out of it.
All I know is the words come from me too easily, “He lent it to me.”
The blotches on Father’s knuckles turn stark white. “Why would he do that?” His lips curl around the words, baring his clenched teeth. “Did you ask for it?”
My mouth pinches for a beat.
Mother stands there, frozen in front of me, eyes flaring like a blaze ready to consume me, like a beast ready to lunge at its prey.
Oliver tucks his chin down and looks at the floor, his lashes shutting, as though he’s just so exhausted—by me.
I loosen a tension in my chest, and the answer is released with a breathiness, “Yes.”
Father is a statue.
For a long few seconds that sludge by, he is unmoving. Then, I blink, and his hand is lowering to his side.
His grip loosens on the book.
Father looks like I’ve just told him I’m for the girls, that I’m secretly in love with Courtney or something just as shocking.
That shock running down him is threaded with dread. It’s water running over boulders in a stream.
Oliver’s murmur is faint, “Olivia—what’s the matter with you?”
I throw him a vicious look.
“Oh, gods—so what?” I snap and throw up my hands, exasperated. “Honestly, why do you even care? Why are you all so obsessed with a book?”
Mother’s rage throws her into a flurried step towards me. The robe billows around her legs.
“You dare speak to us like—”
“Like what?” I shout. “Like you’re all acting crazy over a fucking book?
” I clap my hands together to punch each word.
“It’s just a book!” My body rattles with the shout.
“So what I want to read about being a deadblood? And if you weren’t trying to hide it from me, I wouldn’t know that there’s something in it that you obviously don’t want me to read—”
The strike comes so quick that I didn’t even see Mother’s hand swipe through the air.
It came so suddenly that I don’t even feel the burn of it on my cheek.
It turns my head to the side, my stare aimed at the fireplace, and for a long moment, silence has swallowed the foyer.
Mother struck me.
She literally slapped me, right in the foyer, in front of servants and Father and Oliver—
And no one says a thing about it.
The only sounds are the cracklings from the fireplace and my raspy breaths.
Slowly, I lift my hand to my cheekbone. The moment I touch it, the pain erupts like a burn.
I lift my dark gaze to Mother.
She’s never hit me before.
I find no remorse on her seething face.
Father tilts closer, leaning his weight onto one foot. “You are grounded until your departure for Bluestone. You are to cease speaking about these books and your disability. If I hear the word deadblood from you once more—you will graduate right into your grandmother’s care.”
Ethel.
No doubt about it.
I press my hand firmer against my cheek.
“Get out of my sight, girl. You are not joining us today.”
No one argues with him.
No one but me.
“But it’s New Year—”
“Go to your room!” Father shouts, and the fright of it staggers me back a step. “Now!”
I fling myself into a run—and my family watch me go.