Page 7 of Those Fatal Flowers
She reaches to brush a stray lock of hair behind my left ear. The act is so gentle that I bite my lip to keep from tearingup. It’s something Pisinoe would do. Pisinoe, who, in myplace, would never have lunged at an unsuspecting woman.
But I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. Raidne would have torn her apart.
“You’re quite a beauty.” Her eyes are somewhere far away, like she’s watching a bruised sunset sinking into the sea, and her voice contains the smallest touch of sorrow. Ah, how little has changed—drawing the attention of men is still a dangerous game to play.
A gruff voice barks an order from down below. The floor muffles the exact contents of the call but can’t mask its irritation.
The maid bristles, then moves to collect the empty trayfrom my bedside. “That’ll be Master Thomas wanting his breakfast. I’ll let Mistress Bailie know you’re ready.”
“Can I come with you?” I ask, but Margery has already retreated into the hallway, and my answer is thethunkof my door falling shut. She’s already gone, drawn by Thomas’s yell with more speed than men are drawn into the waves by our song.
Our song.Without the wings, without the feathers, without the magic, can I still claim it as my own? The gods gave us those forms to find Proserpina, and when we failed, they did not take them back. The dark magic that wove itself into our voices came later with Ceres’s curse. But our song, our beautiful song, has always belonged to us. Raidne, Pisinoe, Thelxiope: the fallen handmaidens to the Goddess of Spring, banished to Scopuli’s shores with the voices of Muses and the bodies of monsters.
Sirenum Scopuli. That’s what the sailors in the early days called our island home: the cliffs of the sirens.Scopulifor the literal cliffs, but also as a metaphor for something to overcome. Few did, save for those who were clever enough to stuff their ears with wax.
The first time I saw that wild piece of land, my hands were bound, and my mouth was gagged. But I left Scopuli free from restraints, blessed by a different goddess than the one who cursed me, and imbued with different magic—a human body in place of the monstrous one. That will last only five more turns of the moon.
Which means I must hurry.
Margery’s final words implied that Mistress Bailie would be my next visitor, but I don’t need anyone’s permission to leave this room. Margery didn’t lock me in. The wooden doorcreaks in protest, but I ignore it. In the pale light of morning, details emerge that darkness concealed last night: that the sconces that hold the candles are gold, that there’s a plush scarlet rug that pads the floor.
I extend my leg across the threshold to let my toes caress the rug’s fibers. They’re soft and warm beneath my bare foot, enticing me forward. Thomas’s voice floats up through the floorboards. Holding my breath, I take my first step down the stairs to the main floor. The weight of the unfamiliar gown catches me by surprise and I nearly lose my footing, but miraculously, I find my balance. I release my captured breath and continue, emerging into a large kitchen. Margery’s domain.
She’s folded over an iron pot, stirring furiously. Herbs hang from wooden beams that line the ceiling above as they do on Scopuli, although there are admittedly fewer varieties here. In fact, the entire kitchen is surprisingly bare. There are no baskets overflowing with dandelion greens, no salted meat spread across the table in the room’s center, no bins of root vegetables overflowing in its corners. Margery gingerly ladles some broth into a clean bowl, then exits the kitchen through a door on my right, too distracted by her current task to notice my presence on the landing. Directly ahead, on the opposite side of the wooden table that anchors the room, is a door flanked by two windows. My heart trips over a beat—it’s the only thing separating me from the rest of this strange world, and it beckons.
I rush across the kitchen and push open a window’s shutters to peer into the streets from a different angle. Here, the people who pass don’t linger; this entrance is for servants, and they don’t expect to spot me in its windows.
A cloaked woman floats past, glancing in my direction for a split second to reveal a flash of pale skin, lips the color ofwine, and curls as black as midnight. My chest constricts, and an overwhelming array of emotions threaten to swallow me: longing, mostly, and deep regret, but also a tantalizing thrill.
Proserpina?
How her eyes would sparkle as I chased her through her mother’s hedge mazes. It was one of her favorite games, running through the labyrinth, her hair a sea of black billowing in her wake, always just out of reach. I’ll never forget how mischief slithered between the green and gold flecks in her irises when I caught her, or how warm her body felt pressed against mine. I was never happier than when I was wrapped in her arms, in the safety of the world we built for ourselves. More than anything, I miss those moments after our passion’s blaze. When she’d hold me to her chest and stroke my hair, when we were equals. To know another person’s heart, and to have them know yours, is a gift not many are given. I never believed I’d be foolish enough to think I’d find that again, but…
Proserpina’s visited me in dreams, and I’ve heard her voice on the cusp of them. Is it possible she’s discovered a way to somehow be here? That this village is only a new maze to pursue her through?
My hand flies to the door’s latch, but a cold voice addresses me before I can dash into the streets after her.
“Going somewhere?”
Its owner materializes on the stairwell, still cast in shadow, but there’s no denying that it’s the same woman I heard through the floorboards last night. When she descends into the kitchen, the first feature that emerges from the darkness is her pale yellow braid, the color of early spring daffodils. Gray strands entwine themselves with the blond, but despite her age, she carries herself with the air of a queen. Her eyes are an icy blue, and I recognize that cutting stare. It’s one I’ve made countless times over the years: She’s assessing if I’m athreat, if she can handle me. Her lips curl up in a cold smile; so, she believes she can. “It’s good to see you’re awake. My name is—”
“Mistress Bailie,” I respond coolly.
She bristles at my interruption, which wasn’t entirely intentional. I’m so used to finishing Raidne’s and Pisinoe’s thoughts or having them finish mine. But this woman isn’t kin, and she interprets the interjection as insolence. Shit. I don’t need to make an enemy of her. Not yet, anyway. I lower my eyes to the floor and force myself away from the door, but each step into the kitchen, away fromher,drives a sword through my heart.
“Forgive me, I’m not myself.” My aching legs sway beneath me, and the truth of my words softens her accusatory stare into irritation. Thankfully, she decides that my rudeness isn’t worth berating me over. Not when she doesn’t know who I am, or why I’m here. My boat filled with centuries of wealth has bought me a little safety, if for no other reason than she’s desperate to know where it came from.
She sweeps into the kitchen. “It’s good to see you looking decent. You arrived dressed like a nymph from some sort of tragedy. That, or a harlot.”
My lips curl into a forced smile at her intended slight, which is a curious choice given the relatively opulent home I find myself in now. Of course, it doesn’t compare to Ceres’s palace from my childhood, but Mistress Bailie stands before me in a maroon silken gown, her slender neck dripping with pearls. This woman is wealthy enough to employ servants, and compared to the townsfolk I saw through the windows this morning, it’s clear that the Bailies are richer than most. Unless women are allowed to make their own wealth in this land, she sold her body in some way for this life.Or it was sold for her,I caution myself. But Mistress Bailie struts aroundthe kitchen with the confidence of a woman who’s only ever dominated; her hypocrisy is stunning.
Before I can reply, Margery bursts back into the kitchen, an empty bowl in hand. “Mistress Bailie, good morning! Thomas is requesting your— Ah! Mistress Thelia, is there something I can do for you?”
“No, no, Margery. I was simply stretching my legs.” Already, I regret burdening her with my presence. Her brows pinch together with alarm. She’s unsure of who she should address first: her employer or the mysterious newcomer.
“That will be Lady Thelia, Margery.”
I recognize this voice from last night, too. Low and penetrating, it makes my skin crawl at the memory of his hands on my body. Thomas.