Cruel Beauty(32)
Author: Rosamund Hodge

His eyes didn’t open, but one of his hands reached out and gripped my wrist.

I twitched and went still, but he made no further move. Then he whispered—so softly I barely heard it—“Please stay.”

I jerked my wrist free, about to say that even if I had saved him, I did not intend to be his nursemaid . . . but then I remembered the last time he had said please.

“Just for a little,” I said, sitting down on the bed. He grabbed my hand again as if it were his only hope. I hesitated a few moments, but he seemed far too weak to attempt anything, and I was tired myself. I lay down beside him, and immediately he rolled over to nestle against my back. He laid an arm over my waist, then fell asleep with a sigh.

As if he trusted me. As if I’d never hurt him.

Even Astraia, with all her hugs and kisses, had not relaxed against me like this in years. What kind of fool was he?

The same kind of fool as I was, I supposed, because I knew he was my enemy and yet I, too, was taking comfort from the touch.

His breath tickled against my neck. I took his hand in mine, weaving our fingers together; I told myself that I was here only because of my debt, that anyone, any warm body, would make me feel such peace. And wrapped in that peace, I fell asleep.

13

The next morning I awoke to find Ignifex gone, the candles burnt down to stubs. On the bedside table sat a tray with a steaming-hot breakfast of toast, salted fish, fruit, and coffee; from the wardrobe door hung a dress of white ruffles. As I gulped down the breakfast, I glared at the dress the whole time; but it was clean and pretty, and in the end I put it on. I dropped the key Ignifex had given me in my pocket, slid the steel key that had unlocked the shadows down my bodice, and left.

The first place I went was the room with the mirror. Astraia sat at the breakfast table, mashing her half-burnt sausages with a fork and reading a fat book. When she shifted to reach for the coffeepot, I saw the illustrations and realized it was Cosmatos & Burnham’s Handbook of Modern Hermetic Techniques—one of the first serious textbooks that Father had set me to read.

Father entered the room; Astraia looked up and said something—I couldn’t see her face clearly, but Father smiled. So she must not be studying for a rescue attempt: Father would never allow her to do anything so dangerous, and she didn’t have it in her to deceive him.

Maybe she wanted to join the Resurgandi in my honor. Did any of them still believe that I might succeed?

Maybe they shouldn’t. Last night I had rescued the Gentle Lord. Who knew if I’d be strong enough to collapse his house around him and trap him with all his demons?

“I will,” I said softly to the mirror.

Father leaned down to plant a kiss on Astraia’s forehead, but I didn’t feel the normal twinge of bitterness, even though he had last kissed me when I was ten.

“I’ll destroy him,” I told Astraia. “I’ll do it. You don’t need to study anything.”

Father sat down beside her. He pulled the book between them and traced one of the illustrations with his finger. Astraia leaned in, and Father’s free hand came to rest on her shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it seemed I was still capable of envy and hatred, because for one moment I wanted to tear Astraia away from the table and spit in her face. All my life, I had comforted myself that at least Father respected me. I was his student, his clever daughter who learnt every diagram in record time, and even once I realized that I could never study hard enough to make him love me, the lessons had still been one thing I had that Astraia didn’t.

And now she was his student, and beloved besides.

I turned away and I was almost to the door when I stopped myself. I didn’t look back, because that would only make the hatred choke me again.

“I love you,” I said, staring at the doorframe. “I don’t hate you. I love you.”

Maybe someday it would be true.

Then I ran out of the room to explore.

Almost immediately, I found the red door into the library. I opened it idly—and the breath stopped in my throat. It was the same room I remembered: the shelves, the lion-footed table, the white bas-relief of Clio. But now, tendrils of dark green ivy grew between the shelves, reaching toward the books as if they were hungry to read. White mist flowed along the floor, rippling and tumbling as if blown by wind. Across the ceiling wove a network of icy ropes like tree roots. They dripped—not little droplets like the ice melting off a tree but grape-sized drops of water, like giant tears, that splashed on the table, plopped to the floor.

I dashed through the doorway and grabbed the codex off the nearest table—but though water dripped across its pages, it did not soak into the paper or smear the ink.

I, however, was quickly getting soaked. The ceiling had started dripping faster as soon as I entered.

I dropped the codex back on the table and shivered, pulling a strand of wet hair out of my face. Water trickled down the back of my dress. Now that I knew there was no emergency, I remembered how last time the books had refused to be read, and I nearly left—but as I glanced about, I felt no silent hostility from the dripping shelves. Maybe I had only imagined it the first time. The library, after all, was not where the demons lived.

I shuddered—we will eat them all, oh!—and slammed my hands into the table, relishing the hard sting against my palms that was not a million nibbling shadows, the splash-thump that was not a million singing whispers.

And I wandered the library. There was no sound besides the drip-drop of melting ice and the occasional splash when I found a puddle. The mist swirled away from my feet and then back around my ankles, like a fearful but affectionate cat. I shivered, but the cold air had a sharp, clean taste as sweet as honey that made me want to linger.

I remembered the hours I had spent in Father’s library, drugging myself with books so I could forget my doom for an hour; how I had stared at the pictures and pressed my hand against the page, wishing I could vanish into the safe lines of a lithograph. Now I felt like I had done it, slipped into a picture or a dream: a place that was uncanny, but without any hidden horrors.

Then, in a little room with one window, I found Ignifex. He sat in a corner, knees pulled up under his chin, his eyelids low and thoughtful. His dark hair hung limp and soaked around his face; his coat too was dripping wet. Mist lapped at his knees, and one slender finger of ivy trailed into his hair.

My feet stopped when I saw him. Words clotted and dissolved in my throat. I couldn’t be kind to him after what he’d done, couldn’t be cruel after what I had done, couldn’t forget his fury or his kiss or his arm about my waist as he saved me from the shadows.