“And also with you,” I repeat.
Out on the hill, below the church and vicarage, the entirety of Rixton has gathered. The River Thine glitters like a jewel at their backs, and the rowan wood dances in the spring-kissed breeze. From the stage, which Clara and I have hobbled together from wooden crates and crimson velvet borrowed from her mother’s sewing closet, I spy my parents eagerly awaiting from their blanket spread on the grass.
My chest aches with the love I have for them. From the moment I first bled black, when my mother kissed my brow and told me she would do everything to keep me safe, that not another soul would know, I believed her.
A hush falls over the crowd when Clara steps out from behind the curtain, swathed in cerulean silk. Our bluebell. She repeats every line perfectly, and the pageant begins. Viktor and Finn take their roles quite seriously, chasingthe flowers around the stage and drawing laughter from every throat. As it comes to an end, the six of us join hands, and I catch Clara’s eye. She squeezes them in my direction, our secret sign of endearment. Unending friendship.
Father is the first to stand, the rest of the village joining in, clapping so loudly that we don’t hear the screams at first. The cries of laughter from children still playing in the river edging, sharp and bloody.
My stomach drops to the soles of my feet, and Clara’s hand goes sweaty in mine. Fear blooms a thicket of brambles in my chest.
I find Mother and Father in the crowd, their faces pale, drawn tight.
We know these screams. We have heard them before.
They are the sound the village makes when they drag another body up from the riverbanks.
I surge from my pillow, sweat drenching my skin. My chest heaves and crashes. I pinch the webbing between my fingers, centering, grounding myself to the present. A memory. It was just a dream.
I peel back my blankets and slip into a sturdy wool dress and boots. My stomach swims sick. The mind is a cruel master, bringing back remnants of happier times. These reminders only make my illness worse. After tying my laces, I cross to the door and fling it open.
The vicarage is empty, hollow. The wooden steps protest when I make my descent, and the hearth in the kitchen has long been left cold. But it is no matter. Seeing Father now would be too much against the vision I just experienced. A sour taste to steal away the sweetness.
I am sick of the memories, sick of the pain and blackouts and the monsters, which seem now to be growing faces. When the cold air of the outside chaps my nose and cheeks, it all comes flooding back. Lilith Corley, Clara, the smoke curling from the trees, features stringing together like puzzle pieces…
I dig my fingernails into my palm. My illness could shoulder all the blame, but I am more than this jumble of bones and blood, more than the visions that rock me and make the world turn black.
I need answers, need to know what is wrong with me so I can fix it before it is too late. Before the monsters turn to things with hands and teeth and devour me whole.
Ahead, on the lane, the church rises from the gloom, the windows fogged with mist. I do not know why I am drawn to it. Is it not just a relic of all I have lost? But if my curse comes from the gods, then maybe the gods have the answers I crave.
I slip between the creaking, wooden doors and into the nave. Dark buttresses loom over a stone floor, leading me to the stained-glass window high above Ithrandril’s altar. It is set with enough gold to buy my mother’s soul back from Death. The colorful glass depicts a scene from the Rending, when Ithrandril threw his brother down to the shadow.
Ithrandril stands tall, golden hair streaming behind him while he holds a flaming sword above his head. Erybrus, beneath him, grips a human heart in his hands, his mouth ringed with blood. The brother-gods ruled over our world for thousands of years, splitting power, sharing glory. Until Erybrus got too hungry, wanted humans all to himself.
“So, his brother cursed him,” I whisper, my voice echoing off the walls of the empty nave. I drop to my knees before the altar, tears clouding my vision. “Cursed him and sent him to shadow, where he could only have the souls of those who chose him.” I lift a hand and suck in chilled air as the ruby light catches the blackened welts on my wrists. “I am not for Erybrus. I am more than this shadow.”
“Then what are you for, daughter-mine?”
I am up on my feet and spinning around faster than a flame.
Father stands in the aisle between the worn pews, cloaked in black robes. It takes me a moment to recognize him, older than he was in my dream. Sharper. No longer bearing kisses for my brow.
“Stay back.” The fear in my voice might be taken for gentleness, concern, but the truth is, I cannot have him come any closer. It will shatter me.
“Have you come to atone for your sins?” he asks, staying put but gazingup at the visage of our brother-gods. “It is wise to confess before the darkness comes. Before death claims your soul and you are faced with a choice.”
For the light or for the shadow. For Ithrandril or his hungry brother. I swallow a lump in my throat, following Father’s gaze to the gods.
“Do you think me soon to die?”
Silence. Only the steady drip of mist on the windows, wind whistling through the steeple high above.
“Reapers come for all of us, Adelaide. No matter the consistency of our souls.”
The fear in my gut carves deeper. Every child born into this world hears tales of Reapers. Agents of the gods, serving to ferry souls across into a realm waiting beyond. One where souls decide which god they are for. Which god claims their spirit for eternity.
I turn back to Father, mouth a tight line. There is a question ghosting my lips, scented of sulfur and white smoke. “And what is the consistency of my soul?”
