5
THE POISONER
The only sound in my room the next morning was the shuffling of clothes.
Phoebe plucked through piles of dresses, corsets, boots, shoes, skirts, blouses—everything.
Each heap, a different flavor of dressings.
Her nimble fingers swept through each, dedication that met her standards.
But this was a distraction. The twitch in her brow and the slight squint of only her left eye was a tell; something else was agitating her.
The excuse to dress me was to mask that this was her way of calming herself.
Something lingered just under the surface, and it was as delicate as dried flowers.
They moved a bureau into the room and some other small furniture items to make the room less bare.
“I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I just kept gathering more.” She raised a dress up, holding it to the light to see the details. She only spared me a glance over the sleeve.
“Does it matter?”
“Fashion has always mattered.” She approached the bed, laying the dress next to me. Her delicate hands smoothed the fabric straight. “It is a language. We have to send the right message.”
“Who dictates the right message?” I tried to keep the conversation playful.
She thought about it and eventually left it unanswered.
“No more black,” she said, “but you can settle for green, a navy if you really can’t pick anything else.”
“I don’t get a mourning period for my own death?” I joked.
“Considering you’ve worn black for at least four years in a row, I think you can take a break.”
A stab to my gut, metaphorically this time.
“Stand.” She gestured, collecting the corset for fitting.
I stood before the new tall mirror they added to my room.
Phoebe’s sharp nails dragged along my shoulder as I was relieved of the nightgown. The soft cotton gathered down my legs as soft as clouds, only covering my feet by the time my skin was exposed to the air completely.
My skin was so pale, the veins were visibly black just beneath the surface. Dark circles weighed under my eyes, despite my six-month rest. Down my abdomen, a white scar. My fingers trembled, the raised blemish still sensitive—or just enticing memories.
She slipped my combination top over my head, as if to push the image of my scar away, then I stepped into the bottoms on my own.
“What happened?” I stared at her through the reflection.
“To what are you referring?” she mumbled, as she reached around to hook the corset, starting on the lacing after.
“Edith, to start.” I glanced at her over my shoulder as she tugged and cinched. “Why did you stop me from speaking about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” She tugged aggressively, tightening up and down the back.
“Whose Nest are we in?”
My corset got tighter.
“Where’s Silas?”
“Alina,” she snapped at me, tucking the string in the bodice before she tossed my shoes in front of me. “Finish dressing, we are going for a walk.”
“You haven’t explained a thing to me since I’ve—”
“Since you’ve come back from the dead? Do you not think you should adjust slowly to the world you just stepped into?” She turned on her heel to face me, her perfectly placed curls whipped against her cheek when she did so. Her eyes were sharp, fearful.
“Would an explanation not help me?” I countered.
“Not in the slightest.” She straightened her back. “We have to catch you up to the basics. No time for meandering. So dress yourself and meet me downstairs.”
I swallowed hard, the scratchiness almost enough to choke me with a breath.
When our eyes met, there was enough tension to fill the room. Was it guilt? The way her eyes glassed over when she saw me. Could it be anger? With me or herself, I wouldn’t begin to guess. But something was different, yet exactly the same as we started.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I said.
Her face immediately softened, almost mournful.
“As with you,” she said.
“Where did you bury her?” I asked, as gently as I could.
Phoebe’s face twisted as she turned for the door.
“You did bury her, didn’t you?”
She left, the click of the door fitting into place.
The rolling crackle of cicadas amassed in a chorus when we stepped past the trees.
The pond was wild, yet meticulously manicured. Exotic bog species like pitcher plants and flytraps littered among non-native orchids rising almost as tall as me. A display of nature that tried too hard to look candid.
Just past the shrubs, hiding behind the greenery, would be the man-made tree line of concrete and brick. The Veil of Cashmere, a jewel nestled within Prospect Park. It was jarring, having to manufacture parks to ensure the residents didn’t go insane between the walls of brick.
Even in the heat, the loose puffed sleeves left room for my skin to breathe on my arms and under the skirt.
The cotton was a deep green, it nearly matched the trees.
A dark color made lighter by the weight of the fabric.
My hair was secured up and off my neck with too many pins to count.
Some pieces broke free and brushed against my face.
Phoebe was dressed similarly, except her sleeves only came to her elbows. Her dress seemed to be made of something lighter, and most definitely pinker. Even the flowers pinned into her hair matched.
I tilted my black parasol over my face, shading my eyes as we walked among the cobble walkways.
“The park is marvelous, isn’t it?” Phoebe beamed.
I managed a grumble, similar to the sound of the bumbling bees around us.
“I thought fresh air would be good for you.”
“I’d prefer a cigarette.”
She pinched my arm. “No cigarettes.”
I smacked my lips, attempting to keep my mouth from becoming too dry.
Everything was sensitive. I could feel each one of my teeth, the light breeze on them made it feel like someone was going to pull them out.
The roof of my mouth was attempting and failing at healing, still raw when my tongue swiped over it.
I will never get used to the extra teeth.
“So . . .” I cleared my throat. We walked together over one of the shallow footbridges and stopped to observe the water.
I peered over, her face and mine appeared in the reflective portrait between the lily pads.
If we bent down, we could ripple our reflections.
“When will your brother and his dog be returning?”
We stared at each other through the reflection, as if afraid to face each other personally, in reality.
“He is on his way, that’s all I know.”
“And Mr. Novikov?”
“They traveled together. I trust they both will arrive in good time.”
I turned my head to her. “Phoebe.”
She stayed staring down at the water.
“Phoebe.”
She pushed out a sharp breath before her head flicked in my direction.
“I can handle more than a few crumbs of information at a time,” my voice strained. I sat on the edge of the bridge.
She sat beside me, her shoulders slumping slightly forward. It was like she had to take a moment to collect her thoughts.
“You died.” She shrugged. “I watched her bury that knife in you. The one meant for me.” She put her hand on her chest, as if to steady her heart.
“She’s lucky Luka finished her kindly before Silas could reach you”—her eyes were glassy by the time she looked my way again—“before I got to her. Between us, there would have been nothing left of her.”
Guilt curled up like a barn cat in a chickadee nest, right in the bottom of my stomach.
I reached for her hand, and for once she wasn’t cold. She intertwined her fingers with mine, and I heard her sniffle.
“I’m sorry.” I leaned my head on her shoulder. “I’m just lost.”
“I’m sorry we lost you,” she said softly.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I know, but at the same time, I don’t.”
“That’s why you have us.” She rested her head on mine.
“Tell me then.” I lowered my gaze on her. “Were you the one to do it? To turn me?”
She shook her head.
“Luka?” I frowned.
She shook again.
My heart was thumping in my chest, threatening to choke me. It meant only one person. The one person who told me he wouldn’t.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Phoebe said softly. “It was in your system before you arrived, he said.”
Memories of the night appeared to me like a vision. The warmth of the fire on my skin, the heavy breathing staring at the stars, the texture of the fur on the floor where we spent the last night together. I could remember several bites now, even the morning ride in.
The cost of my addiction to him and to venom.
We stared out at the park. Everything was so much more immersive. I wondered if maybe people were just floating through it, unable to appreciate it to its full potential.
Then I realized something.
“How am I seeing color if Vipera are colorblind?”
Phoebe straightened. “Excuse me?”
“Silas can only see shades of blues and red when the blood doesn’t fill the eyes,” I said, lifting my head. “Over there, I can see yellows and oranges on that child’s clothing.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Hosts who turn keep all the senses they’re turned with. Silas and I were born this way, as are all Vipera who are born rather than turned.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, “is that why you only wear pink?”
“No,” she scoffed.
“Silas said he wears black because he knows it will always match.”
“Well, I just like the color.” She was rather defensive about her fashion. “It matches my hair.”
“I see.” I laughed, nudging her with my shoulder. “I suppose you will be advising me on more than just fashion now.”
Her eyes lit up, clasping her hands together. “I have been making a list while I waited for you to wake.”
“I suppose there wasn’t much else to do.”
My gut clenched; the rumbling of my stomach was beginning to hurt. The pain was like a cramp during your monthly. I had no doubt it would get worse.
“Alina?” Phoebe’s voice was muffled, shut out from my head.
I groaned but could barely hear myself. Her hand rubbed up my back, touching my neck.
The colors around me bloomed vividly enough to strain my eyes.
I felt a hot prickling in my sockets. No matter how I rubbed them, they kept itching.
Noises became louder, more abstract. The squeal of a child then the whinny of a horse, the clopping of hooves and foliage rustling, the hiss of a cicada turning into a rumbling in my throat.
A clicking.
“Phoebe.” I swallowed, looking to her.
I was entranced, frozen in my overstimulation. Just the vibrating blurriness of Phoebe’s jugular, thump thump thumping.
“Make it stop.” I felt hot tears on my face. “Please make it stop.”
She tipped my parasol to the side and pulled me in. Her fingers brushed along my head, holding me still.
“Shh, calm yourself, focus on one thing,” she coached.
A thumping. It wasn’t my heart, no, someone else’s.
I could hear her heart.
Each pump now a squelch, the rushing of liquid. Each beat now matching the pulsing in my gums, like a terrible toothache. If I could tear them from my mouth, I would.
I stared down at the pond, the clicking in my throat softened, and I could hear the cicadas again. One of which squirmed among the carnivorous plants, its wings caught between the jaws of the bog plant.