“Years ago Mama put a box of Papa’s leftover things out with the refuse. I took the box before Ramble came by with his wagon to collect everything. I still have it.”
“Anne—”
“There was nothing valuable in it,” she says defensively. “Nothing that could have helped us during the winter. Just sheet music, poetry notebooks, worthless trinkets. I saved some things. A few mementos.”
“Why would you want mementos ofhim?”
“I don’t know.” She lets out an exasperated sight. “I like to look at them sometimes and think about the good memories I have. One of the things I kept was a red glass vial with that same symbol on it.”
“Anything in the vial?”
“A rolled bit of paper. Took me forever to get it out. It had the same word written on it— Alchelinore.”
Why would my father keep an empty vial with an odd symbol imprinted on the glass and a single word inside? He wouldn’t, unless it represented an important event in his life. Like, for instance, the bargain he made to ensure that he would have a son.
But when the bargain failed, wouldn’t he have smashed or discarded the vial? Why hold onto it?
There’s no proof that the vial or the symbol have anything to do with the Barrow-Man. And yet…
On a hunch, I turn the page corner so that one of the smooth, straight edges is horizontal. In this orientation, the half-circle looks like a hill or a mound with cracks running through it, and the little triangle resembles a cloaked figure standing at the peak of the hill.
The Barrow, and the Barrow-Man.
This is his symbol. The creature dying on Anne’s bedroom floor came from the Barrow, or from a place inside or beneath it. There’s a link between the demons I summon and the Barrow-Man. I already knew the Barrow-Man must be connected to my ability, but this is actual evidence.
The demon wants me to understand something. Maybe it wants to tell me that the Barrow-Man made it, crafted it somehow from pieces of other creatures.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask it.
With a hideous gasping cough, the creature shudders and goes silent.
Its death is a tragedy and a relief. I hate that it died, but I’m glad its suffering is over. “We should bury it.”
“The ground is already getting hard,” Anne says. “The first freeze was yesterday, and I’m sure it has frozen again tonight.”
She’s right. Digging a grave for something this big in the tough sod, frozen or not, would be a difficult task.
“If we can’t bury it, we could use the wheelbarrow and take it to the forest,” Anne suggests. “We could pile branches and things on top of it, like a sort of burial. I think it’s the best we can do.”
Together we wrap the monster in a blanket and drag it downstairs. It’s a challenge because I’m a bit drunk, my ankle is still not fully healed, and my sister is exhausted, but somehow we manage to haul the creature outside, get it into the wheelbarrow, and trundle it all the way to the edge of Wormsloe. In the icy dark, we lay out the creature under the trees and cover it with all the fallen branches and brush we can find.
By the time we return, my ankle is sore and my hands are covered in dirt and scratches. Not the best look for a bride. I can barely function anymore, so I collapse onto the bed with Anne, promising myself that I’ll wash up in the morning.
No more demons disturb us, but morning comes much too quickly for my liking. Mama has a bath ready for me, so I wash my hair, shave, scrub, and perform all the little tasks that will render me lovely and acceptable in the eyes of society. Not that Beresford cares about any of that. He would have me in any condition I chose to appear.
The day after he proposed, I told him I didn’t want to have sex during the two weeks before the wedding, and he agreed, albeit reluctantly. When we get to the mansion tonight, he’ll probably tear my clothes off and fuck me senseless in the foyer before we can make it to our bedroom. I can’t wait.
When I get out of the bath, Anne helps me comb my hair and apply a fragrant cream we purchased from a stylist in the city. It’s supposed to smooth any flyway frizz while ensuring glossy, natural waves. Thankfully it works, which somewhat justifies the exorbitant expense. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to having money to spend on nice things. It still feels unreal.
Most of the wardrobe that I purchased, along with my other belongings, were transported to Beresford’s mansion yesterday,with his assurance that the servants would set them up in my dressing room and my private closet. Mama packs up the remaining items in a valise, another purchase we made during our forays into the city.
All of us are wearing the finest undergarments we’ve ever owned, from comfortable corsets with just the right amount of support and coverage, to soft panties and silky stockings, to exquisite petticoats that fit smoothly beneath our dresses without bunching or rustling in odd ways.
My wedding gown is an off-the-shoulder design that frames my cleavage, collarbones and throat to their best advantage. The bodice flows along my torso and waist, where the skirt flares in luscious layers of gauzy scarlet silk.
In our kingdom, red is worn by couples on their wedding day to symbolize passion, lifeblood, and the forging of a new familial bond. It’s especially important to wear red when one is being married at the temple of Junaeth, goddess of vitality.
As tradition dictates, my mother and sister weave black flowers into my hair to misdirect the god of death and keep him from stealing me or the groom on our day of union. According to local lore, the black flowers convince death that the person wearing them already belongs to him, so he won’t bother touching them with his cold fingers.
