“The genitive plural is curarum,” Sebastian said. “Used to happen all the time, back when the consequences for failing were higher.”
That long-ago Dwight, impaled on the old oak tree.
I took the flask from Tom and allowed myself the tiniest sip—smoked wood, gentian, and pecan pie. My first booze since the night of the crash. Strength for whatever was coming.
“Mary’s not the type for stage fright.” I took another sip. “She just wants to make a dramatic entrance.”
Those words, it seemed, were Mary’s cue.
The mors curaeis a rite of passage, but also a declaration of personal style. Despite what the Lindqvists think of us, our ceremonies are often spiced with flair, comedy, or folly. A few are legendary.
Grandmother Elizabeth’s vintage laundry wringer, starting with the tail. Veronica’s copperhead, one animal in each bare hand. Cyrus’s purple neoprene glove, his glass stockpot of boiling water. Peter in goggles, so close to Mister Fluffernutter that a week later his ears still rang.
But it was still surprising when Mary appeared in costume.
I wasn’t sure what she was meant to be. Overalls and boots, a paddy cap, pulled from the family stores—everything too large for her.
She cradled Trotsky in her arms, more kindly than I’d ever seen her before. She didn’t wait for my introduction, just stood behind the table and began her declaration of care.
“This rabbit is my pride and joy.”
Tom and I settled ourselves on a stretch of broken wall. Gertie sat down on Uncle Max’s carrying case, always a bit uneasy when she was not the center of attention. Sebastian stayed standing and ready, as if expecting chaos.
I took another sip from the flask. An ounce or two wouldn’t kill me.
“I wanted to do this at night,” Mary said, “because I like talking to Trotsky in the dark. She’s a good listener. She doesn’t interrupt, and she shivers at the scary parts.”
Like me, whispering to the other Jessicas in bed.
“I listen to her too,” Mary said. “So I know that she likes dried blue cornflower, timothy grass, and red clover best of all.”
As she named each, she took a treat from the table and let the rabbit nibble at it. Despite its guest list, this was a proper curae so far.
Care, then death.
“She’s warm and soft in my arms. She smells like hay and grass and sometimes rabbit musk.” Mary’s voice had gone high and sweet. “She’s not like any other rabbit—because she’s mine.”
She eased Trotsky onto the table, slipped her hands out from underneath. The rabbit waddled across to snuffle at the remaining treats.
Mary took up the ice axe in both hands. It gleamed in the torchlight.
“But she’s abunny.”
Red eyes flashed again from the carrying case beneath Gertie.
“Bunnies are weak. Bunnies don’t fight back. Bunnies have no idea when somethingbadis about to happen.”
I watched the rabbit—she ate contentedly, unaware of the change in Mary’s voice, the ice axe looming.
I tried to feel some connection, a bond that would snip when the pick came down. I tried to care about Trotsky the way I’d cared about Rabbit, so my weakness might ease a little when she died.
“Bunnies are dumb,” Mary said. “They can’t tell when someone they love, someone they trust, is about to kill them. It happens out of nowhere, like a knock on the door.”
A soft intake of breath came from Tom.
Mary looked at him and laughed. “Bunnies just sit there, while the whole world thinks about eating them.”
She looked at Sebastian.
