And my future without him?
I close my eyes, visualizing floor six at EFG with its predictable, gray, ninety-degree-angle lines. That stupid, boring office, where I’m forced to stare at spreadsheets and sit through meetings I can barely endure with my eyes open and make small talk with colleagues about the weather and what we did over the weekend. Where I’m exhausted by the constant, endless work of making myself unnoticeable and plain. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.
There’s nothing for me if I go back to New York. No chance my stable accounting job will lead to a nice, well-settled suburb that makes me any happier than EFG has. It’s not going to be enough to own a cute rescue dog. Not even2.5 childrenor a boring, sports-jersey-wearing husband will do it.
A future with Hanry, a future without him, it’s… no different.
I see now what I’m made of, and what it is that I want.
And it’s. Too. Damned. Late.
28THE PUPPETS OF DARKNESS
I’M CRYING.
That’s fine. It seems appropriate.
I throw out my hands, wandering the pitch-black Royal Wing, a trail of snot and tears littering the floor behind me. I have no idea where I’m going or where I am. Most likely, I will fall into an oubliette. Okay. That’s okay. It’s not much change from my present dark imprisonment—the one of my own making.
I’ve no other option but to go back to New York tomorrow. To resume living with Jane in my boring, cramped apartment. To typing out meaningless numbers on a computer under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. To be an auditor forever. I put everything on the line to save Hanry, for naught. And now, the sabotage I’ve coordinated for this wedding will ruin the Spüktacular wedding brand forever. Even if I did want to go back to Salem and restart my business, no bride will want to work with me ever again.
So, this is it. I’ve made my beige, medium-firm, hospital-cornered bed. And I have no choice but to sleep in it.
Or at least wither away restlessly on it.
Grandma Rose, if you hadn’t had the audacity to leave earth for your heavenly Italian buffet, I bet you’d know how to guide me out of this mess. But you’re not here. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance after that Halloween night when I was twelve. I’msorry for avoiding you that summer you gave me a place to sleep. I’m not super great about externalizing my feelings. You probably thought I’d had food poisoning instead of an existential crisis. As you can see, I’ve had my share of misunderstandings too. Look at all we have in common.
I liked your yard flamingos, actually. I admit it. They were an absolute vibe. I even like Salem, if we don’t count Matilda and your other witchy, bodily-autonomy-disrespecting friends.
It doesn’t matter now. Maybe all that matters is finding a trapdoor that would be too creepy for the October Halloween edition of an HGTV home renovation show, and jumping in. Maybe, for once, that’ll take me to a place I can belong: somewhere I can lick my wounds in peace.
No, no. I don’t want to die in this tacky dress. I can’t let Mab and Tits and all those stupid fairies win. Oh god. If the wedding is this bad, imagine theirfunerals. I want to die with dignity. Or better yet, mope with dignity. Hidden away in the powder room of a ladies’ toilet.
But what I want is irrelevant, because any hope of finding an alabaster throne is cruelly snatched from me in the form of a harsh tug to my hair. And to my dress. And ankle. It takes a moment to realize what’s happening. Why I’m not allowed to wallow endlessly in my despair.
The reason is that I’m being pummeled by crows.
“You can’t do this!” I flail, striking in vain at the birds’ feathery bodies. “Dark fiends! I knew you were against me!”
“Sabby!” cries Bulan’s voice. “There’s a hole there! Watch out!”
“Iwaswatching!” I shout into the black. How dare Bulan witness my tragedy? “Did anything I was doing look accidental to you? I—I… Hnngghhhkkk. I can’t even find a bathroom.”
The crows deposit me on the floor, cawing in a way that indicates they’re reveling in victory. Oh, I hate them.I hate them. I really wish they weren’t solid black, so I could see them and strangle one to prove it.
“Surely you know this is an inappropriate place to relieve yourself, Sabby,” Bulan says.
“I’m going to pluck out every feather from your friends’ wings,” I say darkly.
“CAW-aw-KKK,” a crow says in answer to my threat.
Bulan sighs. “No, no! I can’t have you doing that—these birds are my friends! Think of it, Sabby! Their centuries of loyalty, their intelligence. Why, this corvid here is the twenty-seventh generation of my first and bestest friend, who I made as a wee child. Back when I still had possession of my body. Which I would’ve explained if you’d given me the opportunity. Oh. This is strange. Why aren’t you stopping me from regaling you with my life stories? Sabby, truly, what’s wrong?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I mean to growl, but the sound that comes out instead is hiccups. “I have no future.”
“Hmm. That’s dramatic.”
Dear god. If Bulan thinks I’m being a drama queen, there really isn’t hope. I sink deeper into the puddle of my dejection. I’m forming an actual puddle again, and this time, it’s not the fault of a magical binding on Grandma’s will. It’s my own damned fault. Maybe my tears will create an ocean to lift me up someday. Or maybe not.
