It is a lexicon discovered in that space between clipped sentences. Its poetry can be heard in the rustle of blankets as you shift to curl around the other in silent apology. In this way, I spoke to my wife. I let the slow drag of my thumb along her jaw say what I could not—
Ihave todo this for you, my love. My brother has left me, and maybe he won’t come back. How shall I live if you leave me too?
We fell asleep midsentence.
That night, I dreamt once more of my brother. This time, we are in the House of Dreams. The armoire that my brother disappeared into now stands beneath a grinning baboon skull on the wall in the dining room. Hippolyta and Indigo sit on one side of the table. On the other, my mother and father.
Sit, my love, says Indigo.Why are you standing?
I’m waiting, I say, pointing at the closed armoire.
From within comes a soft knock. It grows louder as I reach for the handle. The knocking is the slow pulse of something coming alive, and when I open the door, I can feel another heartbeat lying atop mine.
My brother is inside. Our mother’s violet scarf flops over his head. He sits with his legs crossed beneath him, pudgy hands in his lap. When he lifts his head, his mop of black curls gives way to a sharp, pointed face that is feathered and speckled. His face is a starling, and when he sees me, he cocks his head to one side and screeches.
I sat up in bed, turned on the light. I smelled iron and saw blood on my hands. I touched my nose, but it was dry. There was no blood on Indigo. She lay asleep, her face sweetly creased as she dreamt. I threw off the covers, checked my arms and legs.
But there was nothing.
I did not know whose blood was on my hands.
Chapter Seventeen
Azure
By our sixteenth summer, I had grown accustomed to our usual itinerary. Indigo would hold elaborate picnics on the lawn, and we’d dress ourselves accordingly. We’d go down to the basement and rifle through chests lined with camphor, packed with lavender sachets, draw out her mother’s old party clothes—plunging, velvet gowns embroidered with gold thread, tulle blouses thick as clouds, and sequined scarves that rippled over our palms like water. We laughed at how poorly they fit, giggled when they puddled around our feet.
But on this day, the clothes cinched tighter, and the hem that had once dragged on the floor now softly hit my ankles.
“What is it?” Indigo asked, lowering a broad-brimmed hat onto her head.
“It fits,” I said, tugging at a gown the color of seafoam. “It’s never fit before.”
“So?” asked Indigo.
I didn’t know why it mattered except that it seemed an inviolable rule that the costumes were not supposed to fit. Outside on the lawn, the tea was strong, and the cakes beautifully iced, and yet I struggled to concentrate on our game of chess.
Lately, I’d become convinced that Indigo had altered time somehow. Maybe she’d pulled each hour close to her body and the magic of it had warped my sight. The sky felt too close, and the House seemed smaller. The nights lasted for a blink, and the days limped along as if sprained.
Tati employed a skeleton staff for the season, and the House was quiet, listless, and sun-drunk, far too sleepy to do anything more than sigh underfoot. The Otherworld was the same. I could watch a leaf spiral through the air for hours. The creek murmured the same song on repeat. The pollen refused to fall to the ground.
One day in June, I saw Mrs.Revand standing outside the front door, peering through the glass. She worked part-time during the summer, and we weren’t always sure when she’d arrive. I had been reading in the parlor—a book on Caravaggio’s paintings that I had found in the library—while Tati was in her studio and Indigo sketched in the Camera Secretum. Sometimes she would spend hours in there, holed up with her papers and pastels, her eyes fever bright. Indigo didn’t show her sketches to anyone, but they always took something from her. Whenever she finished one, she’d sleep for a whole day, leaving smudges of pink and blue on the bedsheets.
“Hello?” called Mrs.Revand.
I got up to answer, and the door yawned open. Mrs.Revand was not alone. A girl stood beside her, tall and reddened from the sun. She wore a white ribbed tank top and cut-off shorts. Her hair was shorn and dyed silver. A diamond winked in her nose.
“You must be Indigo,” said the girl, smiling.
“This is Azure,” said Mrs. Revand, stepping inside and cupping my cheek. “Indigo’s sweeter shadow.” She winked at me. “I only came to pick up some donation items Miss Hippolyta setoutside her studio. Keep an eye on this one.” She arched an eyebrow at the girl, who I understood must be her child, before smiling and adding, “My daughter has mischief in her bones.”
I always imagined that Mrs.Revand ceased to exist when she stepped outside the House. Apparently, that wasn’t true. The proof stood before me, and she had tan lines on her shoulders, inked words spiraling her wrists, and smile lines around her eyes that said she had let the world mark her. With Indigo, the world would never touch me.
“So... do you live here, Azure?” she asked.
“No,” I said, crossing my arms.
I didn’t want to look at this woman. Everything about her stood in stark contrast to my life at the House.
