“The decision has been made, Adelaide. I have been assured you will be well taken care of, that your illness will becured. The men who run the house of healing are men of the church, blessed by Ithrandril. They say that when you return home, you will be every inch the woman your mother wished you could be. And you will besafe.”
A hiss of hot air escapes my teeth when all the restraints binding my tongue snap. “Does it feel good? Saying the words you’ve practiced, over and over again, to yourself, in the bitter darkness of night, with perfect ease? Does it make you feel strong to send me away, to do what isbest? Are you so scared of”—I glance down at my shaking hands, pressing them toward him—“of this that you spend so much time away, so frightened of the darkness you see in me? Maybe, Father, you should be afraid of yourself. Because if anything,youare the darkness.”
I do not waste time watching my words hit their mark. Instead, I turn my back and trudge up the hill away from the graveyard. I wait for him to call me, to drag me to the garden shed by my hair and burn the whole thing to the ground with me inside. But I hear only silence and the steady scratch of willow branches against the vicarage.
I make my way through the kitchen door and to my room, the church bell clanging out a funeral dirge.
five
Hester’s headstone is erected the next morning. I watch from my window, the latticed glass warping with rain. Father stands guard, a smudged shadow near the church. The same men who pulled her body up from the river now struggle in the dirt above her grave, straightening the stone as best they can.
It is futile work. In a few years’ time, the stone will be like every other. Wilting to the side like a forgotten flower, covered in white petals that have no business blooming in the darker months.
I turn away from the window to where two objects sit on my bed. Mother’s journal lies open to a page with more scribblings I do not understand. Scratched designs of patchwork, drawings of veiny root systems. I pored over them late into the night. Still my brain cannot make sense of the smudged ink. I wish she were here to help me understand. To tell me the places her mind went as the illness stripped her life away, while the madness and blood took over her body.
Maybe then, I could make sense of my own.
Beside the journal is Ransom’s handkerchief. I lift the fabric in my hand and grit my teeth, remembering the gentle touch of the lordling, his fingers grazing my now-healing skin. The cloth is crusted with my dark blood, three letters looped in one corner in onyx thread.
RVB.
I rub my thumb over the stitches, barely a whisper-touch, and come up with a million things theVcould stand for.
Vincent, Valentine, Virgil…
I shake my head.Stupid. There are more pressing matters at hand than the middle name of some high and mighty lordling. Namely, Father’s desire to pack me on the next coach out of Rixton. I cannot leave my home, the one thing I still have tethering me to Mother. The last place she pressed a kiss to my forehead and whispered those three little words.
My Morning Glory.
An ache cuts across my chest. I cannot leave this place. My fingers trail the edges of my quilt while I take an inventory of my chambers. The bed pressed into the corner near the window, a jar of dried roses on the table beside that. Wallpaper printed with vines and ivory. In the center of the room, a wooden chair looped with ropes stained dark by blood.
A cold breeze whispers through the cracked window and sends the sheets of paper tacked on the walls rustling. My belly boils, anger and rage swirling there like a maelstrom.
Every one is a reminder. A witness to my wickedness. Father’s handwriting is crystalline on each browning page. Words of Ithrandril, reminders of how he has forsaken me.
How dare my father even think about sending me away? I am no longer a child; I am a person. Whole and my own, am I not? If Mother were here—
I ball my hands into fists at my sides. But she isn’t here, is she? She’s dead.
My nails are dagger points in my flesh, digging until I have pierced through and drawn blood. It drips like ink along my palms. The tears come hot and heavy, rushing down my cheeks. Without a moment’s thought, I tear across the floor, ripping each fluttering piece of paper from the plaster, until I am left with my forehead against the far wall, fistfuls of the Blessed Scriptures in my hands.
What good has any of it done me? Just a bunch of empty words meant to heal but only harm. My heart trips on the anger spilling up from my lungs, and I heave, shoulders shaking.
I will not be sent away.
It would be better to die than to board a coach for someplace MayorSamuels deems best. I bring to memory the hatred in his eyes, the accusation. His daughter’s body half-warm in her grave and already placing blame.
Your illness will be cured.
The last word sits heavy and thick in my belly. Nausea hovers at the back of my throat, and before I can stop myself, I lean forward and vomit waxen sick on the floor.Cured. As if this illness, thiswrongnessabout me, is something I can take medicine for. Merely a bout of chill, a share of ague. I lean heavy on the wall, the damp plaster giving way beneath my weight.
If only it were so simple. If only I knew the cure, I would do it myself. I do not wish to feel this way. If I could bring warmth to my cheeks or turn my blood to rubies, I would. But I will not be stolen away from the one place I have ever known love.
My heart tugs against sinew, and I breathe shallow while I glance at the ripped paper in my hands.
Cure.
It snaps a thread inside me.
