Emma dropped the doll to the floor, letting it land facedown on the thin nursery carpet.
“Besides,” continued that same sister, primly, “yours is only on the one cheek, and it doesn’t wipe off. Everyone knows that beautiful women look the same from one side to the other.” The sister knelt to retrieve the doll, straightening its petticoats, brushing a bit of dust from its forehead. Emma hoped that its nose might have chipped in the fall; that the rouge of one cheek might sport a fracture. When her sister sat the doll down on a rocking chair, hands crossed demurely over its skirts, Emma saw that its downward plunge had done nothing. The face was still vacant, serene, symmetrical.
Emma was left at the house when her sisters went into the city. She was warned not to stray to the edge of the yard, where passersby might see her. Eventually she was no longer invited to perform for the guests with her sisters, and would sit up in the nursery with the governess when company came, listening to the clinking of silverware, the parade of voices laughing down below.
CECILIA BLAKELY FELT sorry for her youngest daughter. Loved her, in her way. Emma’s sister was right: everyone did know that beauty was symmetrical, that symmetry and balance, not just in appearance but in management of household, in marriage, in bearing, was the secret to the gentry’s success. Cecilia’s youngest had burst from the womb at extreme disadvantage, consequently putting her nearest relations at extreme disadvantage. No one of any worth would want Emma as such, and with so many other daughters to consider, the Blakelys could scarce afford the sort of dowry that might influence a husband. The only solution to Emma was to slice the mark off, but no doctor would attempt it. Lye soap did nothing. Lavender and liniments and laudanum all failed. Cecilia had nightmares of her child grown old, confined to an attic, sold off to the circus. She shuddered when she saw Emma’s face in the light.
And so she decided that despite her reservations, despite a firm faith in the ordinary and a lifetime of belittling the silliness of villagers and their myths, she’d venture down from the great house, disguised in her serving maid’s shawl, and beg for aid from the wisewoman who lived by the river. It was September, the year 1817.
“Ask the wood,” advised the woman. “Draw a circle in the dirt and tell the trees what you desire. Leave the girl there overnight, and they will grant you what you wish.”
And so as a last, desperate resort, Cecilia took her little daughter to the forest. She dressed the child in a hooded fur cloak that would cover the birthmark and, said the wisewoman, scare away the wolves. Emma rubbed its plushness against her unmarred cheek. She was used to luxury, having spent her short life at Urizon, but had never felt something quite so sensual, lined in such a lovely, lusty hue.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked her mother, who had paused at the lowest tier of the back garden. Cecilia said nothing. Her mouth had turned lipless. She sniffed.
After a brief journey on an unmarked path, angling around prickly branches and ducking to avoid low-flying birds, Cecilia stopped near a patch of purple hyssop. As instructed, she drew a series of spirals in the dirt, then spread a checkered blanket at their center.
“Sit,” she said to Emma, who had never seen her mother even crouch to pluck a flower. Emma was hesitant. “Sit,” said Cecilia again. Emma sat.
“You must stay here tonight.” Cecilia’s voice already sounded far away, though she’d moved only a few feet from her daughter. “I’ve packed you a basket with supper and snacks. Don’t eat too much at once. And don’t get dirty.”
“What will you eat?” asked Emma. “Won’t you stay with me?”
Cecilia ran her tongue over her top set of teeth. “No,” she said. “No, you’ll be here alone. But this will fix you. When I come for you tomorrow, you’ll be beautiful.”
Emma nodded. It was early autumn, and her new cloak was warm. The basket was filled with breads and cakes, and Emma nibbled at the edge of a scone while she watched her mother leave. It would be worth a night in the wood, she thought, to be beautiful. To protect herself and her family from the feeling that clotted in her throat when people pointed or laughed. She lifted two fingers to her cheek, feeling for the mark, but without view of her reflection she could not distinguish fair skin from foul.
Emma sang to herself. She ate several biscuits. She watched the suncast shadows of leaves stretch their borders and expand with the twilight, until the wood was entirely in shade.
Emma thought it to be long past her bedtime—the air had grown chilly, the sounds of the forest were sharp. Emma shivered. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of leaves, could be a creature about to attack her. The darkness made the stretch of wood seem endless. Emma tried to keep up with her singing, but found her voice thinning and quavering, until her courage failed her and her song fully died out.
“Mother?” Emma whispered. From the edge of her circle came two glowing sets of eyes, four yellow orbs, each with its own black, pinpricked pupil.
Emma burrowed deeper into her cape, pulled its hood over her head until her face was covered by sanguine silk lining. The newspaper had reported the slaughter of the last wolf in the region just several months prior to her outing. Her father had read the account of its death aloud to the family, applauding the industrious hunters, savoring the gory details. Emma had wondered how they knew that single wolf had been the last one.
The wolves came cautiously closer in slow, languid lopes. Emma could feel the air crackle as they sniffed, could hear the heavy panting of their breath. She hoped the scent of the beast that had first worn the skin now resting on her shoulders remained, deterring them from whatever nastiness awaited little girls in the night wood. That was what Cecilia had promised when presenting Emma with the cape. She said the wisewoman had blessed it. It would keep Emma from harm.
But the wolves were so close that Emma felt the musky heat of them. A tear escaped each of her eyes, wetting the cloak’s lining. When she shook the hood away, she saw a black snout stretch across Cecilia’s circle of protection.
The wolf licked Emma’s cheek with a long, wet tongue, like a cat grooming its young. Emma was frozen, her heart pelting her ribs. Instinctively, she held out a hand, as she would to her own dear pets. The wolf opened its mouth. Spittle hung from sharp teeth. Strong jaws snapped shut.
They closed around the place where Emma’s hand had been mere seconds before. The animal took a step forward, onto the blanket where Emma had been seated. The girl was gone. The wolves gathered.
THROUGH THE VEIL of the forest Emma heard them, their howls echoing from far away. She shrugged off her fur-lined cloak, much too warm for the new midsummer climate. She covered her eyes against the sudden burst of light.
7
I sat at Mrs. Blott’s kitchen table, drumming my fingers on a plastic place mat set out to protect me from its wood, while Matthew relayed the events that had transpired, to his knowledge, three days prior.
At first, as I’d predicted, he and Peter had stood dumbstruck as they watched me follow Marlowe into the rain. I imagined Peter watching me go, my green rain jacket receding, hood pulled tight atop my head. I’d been so proud of my defiance. I’d stomped through Mrs. Blott’s garden, fraught with the knowledge she’d no longer see it bloom.
“That was the last I saw your father. He said he hoped you had gone home,” Matthew told me, “but he seemed pretty nervous. His mouth was sort of . . .” He contorted his own into a perfect mimicry of Peter under pressure, the jaw stretched in an uncomfortable way so that when closed, all of the teeth sat misaligned.