“Precious things can break.” I force back a tear that itches the corner of my eye. “Dad was injured in his factory job before I was born, which meant he got a payout so we bought our small house, and he was on a benefit so he didn’t have to work. Mum worked part-time at a shoe shop, so they were home with me a lot. I didn’t have a lot of friends but I was never lonely because I always had them to play with.
“I think the hoarding started when my dad decided he didn’t want to sit around at home any longer. He got a job driving lorries. He was away from home a lot, and when he was home, he was tired and cranky. Everything about Mum seemed to annoy him. I think in the beginning, she started buying things to cheer herself up, but it became this vicious cycle she couldn’t snap out of. Dad would come home and there would be another pile of boxes in the hall or on the sofa, and they’d fight, and she’d go out and buy more boxes, and so on. But even then it was manageable. We could still use the kitchen and bathroom. She kept her clutter out of the bedrooms.
“I don’t remember a specific time when things got worse. My mum started to obsess about keeping mementos. I remember once, my dad wanted to get rid of an old vacuum cleaner that no longer worked and Mum wouldn’t let him because they’d been given it as a wedding gift from my cousin, and throwing it out was like throwing away their entire marriage.
“In the end, that’s exactly what he did. I woke up one morning for school and he was gone and Mum was crying. And after that, the hoarding got worse. She filled the hallway, so we had to climb over boxes to get to our bedrooms. She stacked so many Savemart boxes in the kitchen and it became so riddled with cobwebs and maggots that we couldn’t get to the fridge or oven, so most of our meals were takeaways or crackers and cheese. I had to keep making excuses for why I couldn’t have friends over to the house so they didn’t see the way we lived. I could hear rodents moving through the stacks of papers while I slept. The winter before I left, the floor in her bedroomrotted through and her bed fell into the sitting room.” I take a deep breath and try to resist the shame this story stirs in me. “I left the day I turned eighteen, but that house still has a chokehold on me. I worry about her constantly. She’s always sick and the neighbours complain and every time I try to clean she gets upset that I’m throwing away her things and …” Suddenly, through the trauma of sharing this with Alaric, a light switches on in my brain about something completely different.“That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
I raise my mug to my lips as I stare at the rows and rows of perfect little ceramic pots. The idea forms in my head. Another brilliant Winnie Wins idea.
“I have figured out how you’re going to keep your end of our bargain.”
Alaric looks pained. “I’ve already agreed to attend this absurd pagan festival.”
“Yes, but attending is passive, and we need to disrupt your habits. So we’re going toparticipate. I don’t want to throw your ceramics away. They’re beautiful. But there are more here than we could hope to use in a lifetime. Even one of your lifetimes. Butotherpeople could use them?—”
“Stop thinking what you’re thinking this moment.”
“I am agenius. This will be a good lesson for you if you’re really serious about changing your ways.” I pick up my phone and dial. “Hey, Komal, it’s Winnie. Listen, do you have room for another stall at the Midsummer Festival …?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ALARIC
Callista: Perdita is concerned about her own position in court. She’s determined to go ahead with the marriage and fight together with you to change the vampire/human laws. She says that you can keep your human toy at court with you if you return as her husband. It is a reasonable offer, Alaric. If you want this to go your way, you and your human toy will have to step up your efforts to convince Perdita to reject you.
“We could skip this part of the plan if you wish,” I tell Winnie as my hand closes around the handle of the dining room door. Perdita’s tinkling laugh pierces the thick wood.
Winnie’s lip wobbles, but she squares her shoulders. “Part of the job of your fake-fiancée is scaring away the woman who wants to be yourrealfiancée, and I take pride in a job well done. We need Perdita to decide this marriage isn’t for her, and the only thing I can think of is to show her that you can’t be trusted to keep up appearances at court.”
“I won’t allow either of them to hurt you, and if at any time you wishto retreat, we can?—”
“Alaric, open the damn door.”
I push open the wooden entryway to the dining room. It’s brightly lit by a row of long column candles resting on mismatched silver holders down the centre of the banquet table. My mother sits at the head, and Perdita at her side, her chair pushed back from the table and her long fingers wrapped around the neck of her cello as she draws the bow across the strings.
I recognise the song she plays – a mournful tune we wrote together when I first arrived in her court, many moons ago. A song that always makes me think of Hrodebert and all that I’ve lost. Her eyes flutter open, and she dares a thin smile as she draws her bow across the final note.
Perdita is still playing for keeps.
I don’t want to put her in an untenable position by rejecting her. I want her to come out of this with everything she wants as well. Perdita deserves that much for agreeing to our mothers’ wild marriage scheme in the first place.
I pull Winnie towards the other end of the table. Mother’s and Perdita’s Thralls move around the room, lighting candles and trying in vain to stack the paintings and artefacts I hid from Winnie into the corner.
Perdita wrinkles her nose as she sees Winnie. “The human is still here?”
“Of course. She is to be my wife.” I pull out a chair for Winnie, before lowering myself into one beside her, placing my sword on the table in front of us both. Perdita must be reminded that she is a guest inmyhouse, and I’m still a warrior of the Nightshade Court. “I thought Winnie might enjoy hearing the songs of mypast.”
I hiss the final word. During my years at the Midnight Court, I considered Perdita a friend, although I’d been careful to keep my heart safe from her as I hadn’t with Hrodebert. I was her pupil in the ways of art and music and creativity, and in return I listened to her complaints about the machinations of court. She never wanted a husband, least of all a brutish outcast of the NightshadeCourt. Her tastes run to her own sex. But she is the daughter of a queen – she has always accepted she will not marry for love, whereas I cannot entertain a union of convenience.
I want the whole world to know that Winnie belongs to me, and I to her, wholly and utterly.
“Play for us, Perdita,” my mother orders.
“I’m bored of music. It must be time for supper.” Perdita snaps her fingers, calling over her Thrall. Callista narrows her eyes, not pleased to be disobeyed.
Beside me, Winnie stiffens. Perdita smirks as she bids her Thrall to kneel beside her. He does this with the excited, stupefied look that all Midnight Court Thralls wear, a look that entranced me when I first arrived there but now makes me sick. Being in Thrall to pleasure is still a form of servitude.
