Annoyance sizzles underneath my tongue. Scathing remarks, such as the ones Claret would undoubtedly deliver were she here, almost breach my lips – but I control myself. It has not been lost on me how Shepherd’s gaze never strays too far away from my face, studying the corners of my eyes and the pursing of my lips for any signs of anger, any hints of disdain.
I do my utmost to emulate an empty page, lest she read in my features truths I would rather keep concealed. Remembering her earlier suggestion, I reach out for a glass. The aqua vitae smells of yeast and barley, a scent familiar and mundane. Comforting. I take a sip.
Its warmth anchors me to the here and now, to the burning in my throat and the coolness of the glass between my fingers.
To the fearsome scent of flowers – and the sharp absence of Claret.
‘That’s better,’ Shepherd purrs. ‘Now, I believe you had a question?’
I have a million questions, a million beady eyes blinking within me. But only one question is urgent. ‘Claret,’I repeat, enunciating with more confidence, thanks to the liquor warming up my lips. ‘The red-cloaked one. We crossed through the arch together but then … Where is she?’ I can feel my cheeks blooming with colour.
Shepherd takes her time before responding, reaching for her own glass. Her own goblet, rather, tall and ornate and gold-rimmed, filled with a fig-coloured drink. I notice the Bard casting a longing look at it. Ignoring us both, Shepherd drinks, unharried. Moments stretch out in silence, coated in jasmine and uncertainty. My fingers itch for any kind of weapon, for Claret’s knife, for any way to assert my authority and make Shepherd answer me. I’m still wearing my cloak, my raven-coloured key resting in its depths. My key that must be kept a secret, from both of them. I don’t know how I know this, only that there’s a fluttering of wings inside me that demands it. A blessed, prudent darkness that urges me to play my cards carefully.
After I’m certain aeons must have passed, and the Bard has filled and refilled his own glass and mine, Shepherd sets down her drink and smiles at me. ‘Dear child, I believe you are mistaken about your acquaintance. Both of you, in fact,’ she says, broadening her gaze. Her teeth are stained the red of a fresh kill. ‘That lost, misguided story’s name is not Claret; it’s Klytemnestra. A rather old one, almost as old as me. Not a figment of your compatriot’s imagination, my Bard. And certainly notyour friend, my child.’ Her words drip with a syrup that supposedly contains sorrow, though I know better than to swallow it uncritically.
I could tell Shepherd I’m aware of Claret’s actual name. I could tell her why I call her that, and what she calls me in return, and how we’ve both grown like mismatched, invasive plants in foreign soil, changing ourshapes and aspirations since we found each other. I could tell Shepherd – but that familiar fluttering of ravens in my chest warns me I shouldn’t.
Let her assume I’m guileless, to beguile the time.
‘I’m sure you know best, Shepherd,’ I start, inclining my head ever so slightly. A show of respect; not so little as to draw ire, not so much as to draw suspicion. ‘Yet whether friend or foe, I wouldn’t have survived this journey without Clar—Klytemnestra?’ I make it sound like a question, blinking with feigned uncertainty.
Shepherd nods, gracious and pleased. ‘Do go on,’ she urges me.
‘You must forgive my insistence, but it was … disorienting to find myself here, without any knowledge of what happened after we crossed the arch. And I want to ensure my companion is well taken care of, even if she is not able to join us at this moment. Perhaps I could write a letter?’
Would Claret even know how to read it? Does the Fates’ meddling, which helps us to understand each other’s words, extend to writing? But it’s the only thing I can think of to try.
‘Look at you, so keen on writing! A letter filled with beautiful, convincing words, I’m sure.’ Shepherd laughs a sharp-edged laugh, too close to a growl for comfort. But then she softens. ‘Be careful, my Bard, your latest creation might just turn out to be competition.’
Creation? I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to bleed. Once more, I feel like I have stepped into a conversation I’m not privy to, being exposed to jokes whose meaning I can’t grasp. It’s infuriating. The only silver lining is that the Bard bristles at these words as well.
‘Yes, well, I don’t see how such a radical departure from her given part would even be remotely possible …’ He shakes his head, as if remembering himself. ‘But I am but a humble servant of ideas, and I’m afraid I have over-extended your gracious hospitality, resplendent Shepherd.’ He gets up from his armchair, wobbling slightly. ‘The Muse calls me, capricious as ever, and I’m afraid I must harken to her call. Unless … I’m needed for this next part?’
I shouldn’t be offended that he managed to deliver such a lengthy monologue about me without even looking at me once. I’ve come to terms with this one truth: he is not my husband. He is not Lord Macbeth. Which is just as well; I haven’t felt like Lady Macbeth lately either.
Shepherd nods. ‘You may go. Explanations are a writer’s least favourite part to write, this I know well. There isn’t much excitement to be found in exposition, when all plot mysteries have been revealed. So go ahead, search for your next story, or return to your pavilion. You know most of the paths by now. I shall join you later.’
If that’s intended as a promise or a threat, I do not know.
Relief apparent on his face, the Bard bows and exits through a side door I hadn’t noticed, one painted the same reddish colour as the walls around us, with a doorknob black as ink.
I know I mustn’t move to follow him. I’m in the presence of a predator, this much has been clear ever since I saw Shepherd shed her feline form outside the arch. It would be most unwise to run, to force her to give chase. Plus, I need answers, and the meeker I appear the more she might be inclined to offer them. Yet she did say the Bard knows most of the paths around. So as he closes the door behind him, a door that might lead somewhere better, somewhereclose to Claret, my carefully constructed facade crumbles. I get up, dashing towards the door. I refuse to look behind, see Shepherd’s reaction.
My hand has all but reached the doorknob when a wraith appears, blocking my way out. No scent of flowers heralds its arrival, only a silver thread of something pulsing, trickling like poison, reaching out to me amid the shadows of its hood.
Deadly tendrils of darkness reach for my throat, my nose, my ears.
20. Claret
As the brilliant light of the arch subsides, ten blackened fingers loom before my eyes.
For a heartbeat, I think they’re Anassa’s. But these are longer, sharper. Shepherd’s.
And she’s too close.
I instinctively recoil, my back hitting cold, unyielding stone.
‘Stay still, child,’ Shepherd chides. ‘I’m simply trying to get your measure, for my records.’ Her fingers trace my brows, then traverse my forehead, picking up strands of hair and letting them fall gently back on my shoulders, carefully avoiding touching my cloak. A half-frown flickers on her fig-coloured lips, as if she finds me somewhat lacking. Her hands carry on their exploration, patting down my head and doing something – scratching? – on the wall behind me. ‘Stay still,’ she repeats, her voice like daggers pressing at my spine, my neck, my shoulders. To my surprise, I do. I can’t move even when I try. Shepherd hums. ‘You’re shorter than I thought you would be … And certainly chubbier. Never mind. We can fix all that.’Why. Can’t. I. Move?Shepherd must sense my distress, see my widened eyes. Yet she ignores me. ‘There. Your mark is on the wall. We can proceed.’
