And it dawned on Emma that something was wrong. The darkness beyond her bed was shifting, bending over her. She vaguely remembered being too cold. A moment before, an hour before, what did it matter? Now she was blazing hot, a furnace beneath her skin. The walls were warping. Pressure building against her eardrums. Hissing.
It was the whispers.
They cascaded from the corners of the room. And at last they took off their masks of raindrops and tapping branches. They separated out into voices. As they always had been, underneath.
They muttered and pleaded and cried, these whispers. Frantic scraps of poetry, lists of numbers. A high, cracked laugh ran fingernails over Emma’s neck. She hugged her face into her knees and rocked.
… and did he not the hero’s way on trembling step incline?…
… fourfivesixseven, in the thousands, the thousands…
… please, i’ll do anything. take it, just leave me, please leave me…
… from what is owed on said bargain’s contract. the terms were indicated…
… and with his heart’s blood dripping from his mouth, he sings still…
… so ripe for the draining, poor little mortal all lost and alone…
She jerked. The room was still and dark. She had been dreaming.
Somewhere, far off, her hand throbbed. But her head was thick and sweat chilled her chest. She lay with her gaze trained on the inky square of her window, careful not to close her eyes. Sleep had declared itself her enemy, and she would not visit its camp. She counted each cloud blowing across the moonless sky.
Something laughed. Her heart gave a terrible wrench.
A figure loomed at the end of her bed. Darkness hooded Jasper’s features, but the chill in his fine blue eyes was clear. His mouth twisted.
“Oh, Emma. Why do you ruin everything?”
His smile was horrible, a knife-edge.
“It’s like you want to make me hate you.”
She struggled backward, but her limbs wouldn’t move. They pinned her to the bed. Fear bloomed in her stomach, and—
Jasper wasn’t there. Now her father loomed above her, wearing Jasper’s tailcoat. Cold loathing radiated from him. She squeezed her eyes shut to block him out. Opened them, and the figure at the end of her bed was a shadow, pulling any light from the air. The tinny orange streetlamp outside the window faltered. Her breath was being driven from her chest.
“No,” she whispered. “No, please, no…”
The walls were squeezing in. Emma sobbed with the pain, the pain—
And woke again. Gray light filtered in, scraping over the college spires. Four in the morning, her phone said. Outside, something screamed. A fox, probably. But in the dim confusion of the dawn hours, it almost sounded like a woman.
She pushed herself up. Pain pounded through her hand. Someone had tied a square of white fabric around it. Wincing, she pulled open the knot and stared at the cut on her palm. It glared back, livid and accusing.
She remembered a bowl. A smash. Jasper’s face, turned from hers. And against a window’s glow, the dark outline of his body, entwined with a shadow girl.
She flexed her fingers. Bright new drops of blood beaded the line on her palm. The pain felt cleansing. So she did it again.
The next day, she decided to send Jasper a message. Just a little one, to say hello.
She waited.
It took a week for her to admit that, in fact, the silence between them might just be permanent.
November was cold.
The end of November was even colder.
