Everything is exactly the same. Cook the breakfast. Wash the dishes. Bake the bread. Sweep the floor. Mend the clothes. Smile for Mother and fade into the wallpaper for Stepmother.
Nothing is the same. My smiles and my silent submission both feel like a heavy porcelain mask; my face is always tugging against them, trying to take another expression. Trying to speak the truth.
I’ll learn to wear that mask effortlessly again, just as I’ll learn to stop remembering every single word he ever said, every look he ever gave me. But for now, I remember every moment of him. Most of all, I remember when I pushed him back, and his dark eyes were wide in baffled hurt. He had offered to defy his father, his peers, and all good sense to marry me. And I threw him away.
Surely, if the gods have any mercy, he will hate me now. He will choose another wife and be happy.
The day of the ball, Stepmother is up with the dawn to give me orders. I don’t think she knows why; certainly her orders make no sense. First I must cook an extra-large breakfast, and then she tells me to abandon it on the stove because there’s no time. She wants the entire house cleaned, as if Lord Anax were coming to tea tomorrow. She sends me to the garden to fetch armfuls of flowers for the family shrine, where Father’s portrait sits next to the household gods.
Abruptly, while jabbing a finger and telling me to move the vase a little more to the left, stupid child, she drops to her knees and squeezes her eyes shut in prayer. Her eyebrows clench together; her lips hang softly open. For a moment, despite the pinched lines of her face, despite everything I know about her, she looks lovely. I think, Perhaps she felt about Father the way I feel about Lord Anax.
My stomach twists and I turn away, because we are nothing, nothing alike and never will be. I will die first.
And then there are the actual preparations for the ball. The dresses are already chosen, mended, and embroidered. The masks—commissioned at ferocious expense—sit wrapped in tissue paper. Thea can’t stop unwrapping hers and running her fingers over the swirling, golden surface. Otherwise she’s more subdued today; she keeps looking at me and drawing a breath to speak, then stopping. I think she feels guilty that I must stay home, but for once, what I tell my mother is true: I’m glad I’m not going. If I go, I’ll see Lord Anax, and then . . . maybe he’ll hate me and I won’t be able to stop myself, I’ll weep and destroy him. Or maybe he will still love me and I won’t be able to stop myself, I’ll say yes and destroy him just the same.
I won’t give in to him and I won’t hurt him. I will die first.
I seem to think that a lot lately.
Koré doesn’t appear all day, which is nothing new. She’s spent the last two days locked up in her room, probably writing out everything she wants to say to Lord Anax.
But then it’s evening and it’s time to dress. I lace Thea into her gown—butter-soft, pale green silk sewn with iridescent beads, and for once she doesn’t look like a smudged watercolor of her older sister but like a pretty young woman in her own right.
“Where is Koré?” Stepmother demands. She’s been watching the whole process; I don’t think she trusts me. “That stupid girl has been lazing about in her room all day.”
I’m pinning up Thea’s hair, so I can feel the tiny hunching of her shoulders. “I’m sure she’s just practicing her dance steps, Mother,” she murmurs.
“She should know them already. I’ve spent enough time teaching her. For any daughter of our house, that ought to be enough.” Her voice drops to a grumble. “For the honor of our house.”
“I’ll go fetch her,” I say quickly, sliding the final pin into Thea’s hair. If Stepmother’s talking about the honor of our house, it’s bad. “Just a moment, my lady.” I bob a curtsy and flee.
I have to knock three times before Koré answers. She must have been napping: she’s fully dressed, but her hair is a mess and there’s a pillow crease on her cheek.
“Yes, what is it?” she asks.
“Your mother wants you,” I say. “It’s time to dress for the ball.”
“Of course.” Koré’s lips tighten—they are colorless, though her cheeks are flushed—then she pushes past me, coughing.
When we get back to Thea’s room, Stepmother is pacing back and forth. She lets out a bitter laugh when she sees us.
“At last you deign to grace us with your presence.” Her voice is sugar and acid.
“I was . . .” says Koré, her face gone ghastly pale. She blinks rapidly. “I was only . . .”
Then she collapses, eyes rolling up. Thea and I are on her instantly. We drag her to the bed and loosen her corset. In only a few moments, she rouses.
“Mother?” she says faintly.
Stepmother stands a step away, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and twisting and closing, as if a hundred speeches are fighting each other to get out. She looks as mad as my nurse.
Koré sits up, pushing Thea back. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she says, her voice low and, despite everything, still elegant. “I’m not feeling quite well . . . but I can still dance—” Then she breaks into a coughing fit.
Stepmother’s face snaps into a hard, flat-mouthed mask. She crosses the room to us. “You stupid girl. What did you do? You know how easily you take ill.”
“I’m sorry,” Koré gasps between coughs.
There’s a crack as Stepmother’s hand slaps her face. Thea yelps and I drag her away.
“You stupid little bitch,” says Stepmother. “You’ve wrecked all our chances. Do we mean nothing to you? Does your family mean nothing to you?”
Koré shrinks back. For the first time I can remember, she looks terrified.
Stepmother seizes a handful of her hair. “Look at me, girl. Why did you do it? Why did you do it?”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean—”
Stepmother shakes her like a rag doll. “No daughter of mine would be so selfish. No daughter of mine. None.” Her mouth spasms, and then she shoves Koré against the wall. “Go to your room. Stay there till you rot.”
Thea whimpers, but I have my hand pressed over her mouth. There’s nothing we can do for Koré. There’s never anything we can do.
Koré wavers to her feet. Her eyes meet mine, and she nods fractionally: she understands. Then, head bowed, she stumbles out of the room.
Thea nearly breaks free of my grip, but I whisper in her ear, “The only way to help her is to make Stepmother happy.” And she goes limp. She’s stupid, but not stupid enough to think she can fight, and so I release her.
Stepmother opens the box of masks, pulls out Koré’s, and throws it into the fire. She watches the edges begin to blacken and curl; then she turns back to us.
“Come, Thea,” she says. “We’ll go to the ball together, and you’ll prove you are my true daughter when Lord Anax falls in love with you.”
Thea glances at me. Her eyes are wide and leaking tears. But she pulls herself up straight and bends her mouth into a smile.
“Of course, Mother,” she says. “I—I can’t wait.”
When I bring Koré a bowl of broth for supper, she’s wavering on her feet as she tries to put on her dress.
“Sit down,” I tell her.
“No,” she says, struggling with the buttons. “I must—Lord Anax—” She coughs again.
“He won’t be charmed by a girl who coughs in his face,” I say, grabbing her shoulders, and push her down to sit on the bed.
Koré glares up at me. “You don’t understand.”
“No. I don’t.” My chest feels full of ice and gravel. “You’ve driven yourself sick to win him, but even if he did marry you, do you think it would make Stepmother love you? Do you think she ever has?”
“No,” says Koré.
The low, flat syllable slices through my rage and leaves me staring at her like a gutted fish.
“But,” I say, and can find no more words.
“Mother can’t love me or Thea ever again,” says Koré. “I know that. I’ve always known.”
“Then why,” I ask slowly, “are you still trying to please her?”
“Because she got that way for my sake.”
“She stopped loving you because she loved you?”
Koré’s mouth twists into something like a smile. “No. She married your father because she loved us and it was the only way to keep us fed. She stopped loving us because she made a bargain with the Gentle Lord.”
Our eyes meet. I should feel dread or sadness to learn that someone else in the household has made the same ruinous, wicked bargain with the prince of demons and ruler of our world. But all I feel is a bright, desperate exultation: She knows what it’s like. She knows what it’s like. She knows.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Father died,” says Koré, and for a moment she lets the words sit between us as if they’re all the explanation I need. (Maybe they are. In the end, Mother died is the only thing that will ever need to be said of me.)
“He was rich,” Koré goes on, “but the way his estate was entailed—everything went to his cousin. We would have been reduced to living off his charity, except Mother had quarreled with him, so we had not even that. She married your father because it was the only way to keep a roof over our heads. But she couldn’t forget our father. The one she loved. It was driving her mad, grieving for him while pretending to love her new husband. She told me so and then she told me that she had a plan.” Koré’s fists clench. “She would call upon the Gentle Lord, and when he came, she would offer to pay him with all her best memories of her first husband, if in exchange he could make her love her second husband and his house. And he granted her wish. She loved her husband and his house. She loved them so much she had no room to love anything else, and when he died, it drove her mad.”
I think of the desperate way that Stepmother says the honor of our house. She’s as helplessly relentless as my own mother; I should have known that she, too, had made a bargain.
“And you think,” I say, “if you marry Lord Anax, it will make her happy? That’s why you’re striving so hard?”
A harsh laugh rips out of Koré and frays into coughing. “Oh, she’d be delighted at such an honor to our house,” she says when she has her voice again. “But it won’t make her happy. There’s nothing left in this world that can do that.” She looks up at me, and her face is no longer posed or scornful in the slightest. “But if I can marry well, I can get Thea out of this house. She won’t have to lie awake half the night, afraid the demons are finally going to crawl out of the corners and come for her. She won’t have to spend her days afraid that she’ll finally offend Mother too much. She won’t have to waste her time worrying about you. She’ll be safe and well fed and people won’t laugh at her—she’ll be able to marry somebody kind and be happy.”
I can’t seem to move. I’m not sure I can breathe. I knew my stepsisters must have heard the servants’ reports of something strange in the hallways, but it had never occurred to me that they might believe them, let alone realize that there were demons in the house. That they might be almost as frightened of their mother as I was. That they, too, might long for escape.
“I don’t care whom I have to marry,” says Koré. “I don’t care what he makes me suffer. I will get Thea out of this house.”
Her voice is a rough thread, thin and desperate and utterly unyielding. It feels as familiar as my own heartbeat.
We are exactly the same. Almost exactly, because I deserve my doom and can’t escape it. But maybe I can save her.
“You’re too sick to dance,” I say. “I will go for you. And this time, I will make him promise to marry you.”