There they were—the intruders. Three strange women gathered at the far side of the room. One, tall and pale and bony, faced the fire—its paper-fed flames flaring yellower, hotter—one, older and pinch-faced, stood guard at the far door. The last, young and pretty and visibly pregnant, sat on the overstuffed red chaise longue I had so often curled up on, my own favorite spot to sit daydreaming, reading my books, nestling under my blankets with Marlowe. Now my dog was splayed out by the fireplace, belly angled to its warmth, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady. He seemed relaxed and vulnerable, as if only his masters moved inside the house. In the past, his comfort would have appeased me. Four months prior I would have immediately let down my guard.
Now, I stood back by the east entrance, the women before me so absorbed in their task that they failed to notice my arrival. As in Peter’s office, most of the library books had been pushed to the floor, vines and branches breaking through the wooden backings of the bookshelves to topple them. The tall woman ripped pages out at random, from histories and treatises on science, from my old picture books and glossy tomes of replicated art. A portrait had been pulled from the wall and fully ravaged, the canvas torn so that only the bottommost oil-drawn button of the model’s brown morning suit remained, but I thought it the painting of my great-grandfather, John Blakely, that had hung in the hall by the ballroom. On the carpet near Marlowe sat a large pile of laminated papers, unusual symbols, drawings and maps, which I recognized as years of Peter’s work.
If ever there would be a time for caution, it was now, myself a stranger in the home that had so altered in my absence. I might have run, telephoned Matthew, might have hid, prepared to fight. I might have done anything other than what I found myself doing next, giving in to my emotion. But I was no longer afraid to exercise my talents; I knew I could protect myself if needed. My father was still missing, and these papers were my only clue to his whereabouts. If I did not act, they, along with centuries of Blakely collections, would be gone.
“What are you doing?” I shouted, rushing forward, reaching down to gather as many manuscripts as I could hold, stumbling on a stump hidden under the carpet.
None of the women turned in my direction. Not even Marlowe acknowledged my outburst. The tall one who’d been supplying the fire with pages continued to do so, not shying from the popping of its blaze or the foul smell of the plastic as it burned.
“Stop it!” I stepped over Marlowe, intending to stop her myself if she would not comply. The woman simply crouched lower, moved closer to the fire, and ripped another page of Peter’s notes.
Thinking only of saving my father’s small legacy, I grabbed the woman’s wrist with the pads of my fingers. I expected her to crumple, drop the papers, and fall forward, into flames. Instead, she clasped my hand in both her own. She turned toward me.
“Maisie,” she whispered. Her lips were a peculiar sort of blue. Her hands were very cold, much colder, I thought, than living hands should be.
“How do you know my name?” I pulled back. Her face was familiar, but I could not quite place it, summoned only a few notes of some forgotten tune.
“I’m your mother,” she said. “And I’ve been waiting for you.”
Insatiable Hunger
Kathryn watches Matthew Hareven as he hurries through the forest. She positions herself a little ways behind him, following silently, suppressing a smile. Hundreds of years of education have prepared her for this conquest, this final confession. The veil hiding the forest has lowered. The black-eyed girl stalks her own prey between the trees. Kathryn knows she is nearing her end.
When Matthew stops to get his bearings, Kathryn steps across the boundary of true forest and false. Matthew is startled by her shabby dress, her certainty. The accent of her speech, both foreign and familiar at once.
“Have you lost your way?” Kathryn asks him. Matthew is clever, senses something is not right. But he has lost his way, and he knows that to refuse help at this hour would be unwise. The light, once it begins to fade, goes quickly. Creatures more dangerous than a pretty young woman make their home here in this wood. And on the other side is Maisie—alone, waiting.
“I may be lost,” he confesses. “If you could point me toward the Blakely estate, I’d be forever in your debt.”
“Oh,” says Kathryn, smiling. “I can do much more than that.”
He blinks at her, the confusion that descends upon all the men who enter the shadow forest threatening to overtake him. He tries to fight the tide of it, blinking hard to beat back the hazy waves. Then his shoulders loosen, his jaw relaxes. He smiles, and lets Kathryn take his hand.
THE BLACK-EYED GIRL waits until Kathryn has hidden Matthew under a tangle of ivy, nuzzled him, straddled him, coaxed him close to climax, before moving toward the pair. Matthew’s eyes are closed, but Kathryn sees her. She pauses to acknowledge the arrival with a nod.
“Mine.” The black-eyed girl mouths the word, tasting its shape, listening to the suck of her own saliva as it pools behind her teeth.
Kathryn consents. She presses herself farther, sends Matthew deeper, lifts her small chin up in blessing to the sky.
In the midst of her pleasure, Kathryn summons the thought she has buried, the words she prepared so long ago to declare proudly at the block, before the pyre; the defiance that she swallowed with the creaking of the iron door the morning one fate spared her and another took its place; the thought she hated, and then loved herself for branding into her brain: I am not sorry. I would do it all again.
A Sisyphean task, desire’s fulfillment: content that will not sour with time and with touch. A spring that will not spoil in summer’s heat.
The black-eyed girl cracks Kathryn’s neck quickly, suspending her, forever, in her joy.
28
If my mother were alive, had, as foretold by Mother Farrow, been constantly watching me, why had she taken so long to appear? Where had she been when, as a child, curled fetal on my four-post bed, I pressed my palms against my neck, my chest, my burgeoning hips, aware that no one else would? When, months ago, I made eyes at Rafe, lapping up each drop of his poison? If she truly cared, why had I seen no sign of her while I was held by Coulton? What use was she if she’d abandoned me during my hour of greatest need?
And yet—
I had lost so much; I felt it right I should gain something. My time imprisoned had not fully turned me. Despite all my experience, I was still disposed to trust. Despite childhood indoctrination, despite betrayal, despite torture—it was the sort of anomaly that made me feel there was something greater than reason that guided me. Peter would have said that behaviors are determined by principles, theories. That the difference between Theory of God and Theory of Not God was actually quite slim, each a slightly different lens through which to choose to view the world. One a shade lighter, the other negligibly darker—what mattered was that both were held up to the eye and used to filter our experience. It was easier to change the lens than to remove the vehicle of understanding, easier to adjust my sense of how I fit into the world than reconceive of the world entirely.
Maybe life was gentler than my previous conceptions had allowed me to believe. Maybe my mother had spent all these years invisibly beside me, ready to step in if she was needed, but allowing me to first learn from my mistakes. Maybe it was she who had inspired my escape, who could absolve me. Maybe she’d been captured in the forest all this time, could leave its confines only now that some boundary had been broken. This was something to ask her, if I could conquer my sudden shyness. One of so many, many things.
There she was. Sixteen years gone. Come back for me.
“There, there,” she said, taking me into her arms, stroking my hair.
A mother who was not only alive, but could hold me. A mother I did not repulse. A mother I had not killed. My chest began to spasm with deep hiccups.