It tastes like that goddamn lake.
“Stop,” I whisper hoarsely, flicking the hot switch in a desperate attempt to burn. I need it more than my next breath. “Stop,please, it’s just water—” I gag on the words, but there’s nofood to heave. Whatever I ate was already buried in the reeds. My body doesn’t believe my words. It thinks I’m dying again.
The locket.
Of course, it’s the locket.
That pretty golden thing is what pulledthisout of me; it’s what cracked the surface like a sledgehammer. I thought I buried that part of me, wrapped it in years of therapy, enough to tell people, ‘Yes, I had a sister, and yes, I watched her die,’without breaking down. I haven’t thought about Lucy’s arm in years, nor remembered the taste of her blood on my tongue, but now it’s back.
I’m back there, and I hate it.
The weight of the water crashes over me, and I’m no longer standing on the shore, watching the bodies of my family be wheeled away. I’m still in the lake, something heavy curling around my waist. A thick, muscular arm. Another arm works upwards, a hand seizing my throat and forcing my head back, and I see a black sky, clouds of cotton wool soaked through with pomegranate juice.
I cry out for my mother, and that cry receives only water. This man isn’t letting go: I think he’s trying to drag me under. Thrashing and clawing are futile, and his grip constricts. There’s a voice somewhere in my ears, deep and warped, but I can’t understand any of it. He smells like pomegranates and something else.
Like sweet rot.
Where’s Lucy? Why isn’t Lucy holding me?
The man is asking me to stop but I won’t—I keep fighting, keep kicking his shins and biting at his fingers, baby teeth meeting the metal of a signet ring. I fight until I’ve dragged myself from the memory, stumbling back into the shower wall with my hands around my throat.
Oxygen tastes like blood, yet I drink it regardless. I drink it in fear because my lungs are aching and my throat still feels the press of his ring. It makes no sense. There shouldn’t have been a man in the water with me, but his scent’s still in my nose. Another warning. Another cruel joke at my expense. Another version of his voice whispering‘Remember, little duchess’,when all I wish to do is forget.
The water grows hot, and I wash myself at lightning speed, still choking on every second breath. I don’t stay longer than needed before I’m grabbing my towel and drying off like my skin is made of porcelain. Thanks to Lydia’s new candle, my room has a calming lavender scent.
There’s still an ache in my chest, I’m still counting backwards, and soon enough, I’m in my underwear and standing before my wardrobe. It feels as if I’m dressing a stranger, but I grab the green dress anyway and slip into it. My fingers are trembling with nerves, and I huff before letting my hands fall.
With no time to dry my hair properly, I twist it into a low knot with a few tendrils framing my face. Lydia would’ve had me ready in seconds, without even a flicker of worry on her face.‘Your hair never listens to reason, meisie’, she’d say, dragging a brush gently through the waves.‘Just like your mommy’s. ‘The ache blooms in my chest, and I almost dial for her anyway, just to hear her voice in that soft, lilting accent.
I look into the mirror and wonder what she’d say. The dress is cinched tightly at the waist with a skirt that flares mid-thigh, saved only by a pair of black opaque tights. Scandalously short for a duchess, with sleeves that fall heavy and wide enough to hide daggers up each arm. One wrong bend and the ghosts will see more than they should, but I wear it anyway because it looks like hers.
Adelina.
She wore green too, the night after she killed Godwyn and took a knife to her wedding gown. Same cut, same flared sleeves and hemline with the black lace. My hope is that it reads like history; whatever memories lie deep in Eric’s bloodline, I want it to recognise me. Recognise this colour and the blade it carried across centuries.
The toilet flushes suddenly from beyond the open bathroom door. I freeze. There’s nothing but the sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears and water rushing down pipes. Then comes a faint wetslap. The puddles I’ve left on the tiles are rippling, and I can see an indent of feet that are too large to be Tommy’s. Another slap, and the footprints make their way forward, water gathering in places to make space for a heel, for some toes. It walks straight towards me, leaving wet little marks on my room floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask it, praying my voice doesn’t sound as frightened as I am. The last thing I need is to give it ammo. Redford may be full of ghosts, but they’ve always been content to keep to themselves. But it doesn’t stop, just keeps walking, and paranoia rears its ugly head again.
Loyal people aren’t the only ones who died here, supplies my mind. Godwyn’s men died here too; his friends, his servants—his sympathisers. Not all passed with Adelina’s name upon their tongue, seeking blessings from the lady of this castle. Some went screaming, cursing our family name to hell and back.
“Fuck you,” I mutter to whoever’s listening, refusing to step back in fear.
Some part of me has already realised what’s at play. When I was little, the ghosts would sometimes wake me up, drag me from bed and trap me in my blankets. Sometimes I’d wake with my back burning and find deep scratches all along my spine. After a good crying session in Gran’s arms, she’d rock me backand forth, tearfully whispering into my hairline that they were never allowed more than that.
The dead can’t interfere with the test, but Godwyn’s loyal do enjoy circling the duchess-heir, taking liberties where they can. Bruises in the shape of hands would bloom on my biceps, on my calves, and if they were truly gutsy, sometimes even around my throat. Just enough to remind me that this house is theirs as much as mine.
They stopped when Gabriel died.
Now, I watch a wet footprint appear on the wall, toes upwards as though put there to climb. And then it does. Two handprints, and then up, up, up they go, an unseen body crawling towards my ceiling. I take the first step back, tilting my head to keep an eye on every movement. They haven’t done this insolong. The prints stop directly above me. There’s probably a knife in its hand; if it lets go, it’ll fall right through my skull—but these are the fears of a little girl talking.
Don’t move, I tell myself, because they always notice when I do. This is the part they enjoyed, watching the anticipation of it all nearly kill me. I think back to how tight they used to hold my pink blanket around me, suffocating me until the first panic-sob broke through the material.
Always stopping their cruel game just before I shattered.
But at twenty years old, after a lifetime of living with them, I don’t think I have enough left of me to put together if they decide to play again.
“If you’re going to do something,” I say, gritting my teeth against the panic, “justdoit.”
