I looked about for something familiar, beyond the acres of honeyed wood and glinting teeth, surrounded by smiles. Eldric stepped forward and with him came Leanne. She’d foamed herself up with pearls and lace.
She looked like a rabid dog.
“I want to give Briony my present first,” said Rose.
“That’s right, Rose,” said Father. “You be first.”
“It’s not against the rules to give you a present.” She handed me a slim packet wrapped in a sheet of the London Loudmouth. “That’s because you have no birthday.”
Beneath the sheet of newspaper lay more sheets of paper, but these were precious papers from Rose’s collection. Creamy paper, and linen-y paper, and pebbled and ragged-along-the-edge paper. I looked at them, sheet by sheet.
“Do you like them?” said Rose.
“I like them very much, Rose. They’re beautiful.”
I found myself extending my forefinger and after a pause, Rose did the same. We touched fingertips. I’d all but forgotten this old ritual. It’s a way to hug Rose without actually hugging her. Rose doesn’t much like people to touch her. Father suggested it, I think.
“Now you can write your stories again,” said Rose. “I like the ones where I’m the hero.”
I drifted about the library. It was a crisper, younger version of its old self. There was even a scatter of books on the shelves, David Copperfield, Jane Eyre, a collection of Yeats. We used to spend a great deal of time in the library before Stepmother entered our lives.
The tea was already laid out: lovely little sandwiches and blueberry pie—the blueberries were at their peak.
Cecil waved me over from one of the window seats. He’d been lying in wait for me, with two plates of pie. I took the one with more whipped cream, set it on the seat between me and Cecil. How convenient to be unable to hold it. I let my left hand take the fork; no one could expect me to use my right. My hand was like a puppy, delirious at being let out at last.
A train shrilled into the square. The London-Swanton line had been launched while I was ill. How I wished I’d been clever enough to talk the Boggy Mun into curing Rose of the swamp cough, rather than pausing it in its course. Then she and I would be off on one of the trains. Good-bye, Cecil. Good-bye, Leanne. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.
But at least I needn’t worry about Rose getting worse. The Boggy Mun had promised that Rose would survive Halloween. She would likely die later if the draining didn’t stop, but for the moment, there was no need to take special care of her. She wouldn’t get better, but she couldn’t get worse.
The library was divided into little fiefdoms: Cecil and I on the window seat; Father, Mr. Clayborne, and Mr. Thorpe at the table; Rose at the piano, plunking out random notes; and Leanne and Eldric leaning against the back wall, far from the fire, despite the chill. I remembered Fitz always teasing me, pointing out that Stepmother never liked to stay too long near a fire. He didn’t care for Stepmother and loved to provoke me into defending her. I always thought he’d change his mind once he became better acquainted with her, but you can’t become better acquainted with a person when you refuse to spend time in her company.
Here came Leanne, marching across our border without so much as showing her papers. Eldric followed, wagging his tail.
“Eldric has a gift for you,” said Leanne. Eldric reached past her, a chain of crystals dangling from his fingers. He’d gone pale and ill, just as he’d been at the garden party. That would teach him to take up lessons without me!
“It’s beautiful,” I said. Eldric had strung the crystal pendants of a broken lamp onto one of Father’s fiddle strings. It was as lovely and mysterious as a snowflake.
Only Father and Mr. Clayborne did not quite admire it. Father said nothing, but I suppose he’d envisioned another future for his fiddle string. Mr. Clayborne said it was lovely but when would Eldric ever find a focus in life?
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Clayborne,” said Leanne’s dusk-lined voice. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but I cannot agree with you.”
Didn’t she ever get sick of wearing green?
“I believe there are many things about Eldric’s playful projects that are useful. It’s his gift, don’t you see?”
“I have a gift,” said Rose.
“So you do,” said Eldric, but his eyes never left Leanne’s face.
“He creates the most astonishing pieces from absolutely nothing.” Leanne smiled at Eldric as though she’d invented him. “Just imagine what he might do if he were to turn that sense of play and humor into a business. Designing children’s games, perhaps.”
“With firemen!” said Rose.
“And treasure maps,” I said, but I had to swallow hard. Why hadn’t I been the one to recognize Eldric’s gift? I swallowed again. Jealousy lodges in the throat like a hard, green apple.
“And lollipop trees,” said Eldric, swiping at his brow. He was sweating. “We mustn’t forget the lollipop trees.”
Even Mr. Clayborne laughed, and everyone drifted away, except Cecil.
No wonder Eldric sought out Leanne. She defended him to Mr. Clayborne. She recognized his gift.
“Come here, Rose.” I patted the cushion beside me. “Tell me just what sort of story you want.”
Rose sat between me and Cecil, thank goodness. She made a better shield than the pie plate.
“What heroic act do you want to perform, Rose?”
I almost called her Rosy. Rosy Posy, Briony Vieny.
“I want a story where I save you.”
I could do that. I could imagine Rose into saving me. “Which of the papers shall I use first?”
I began writing when everyone had left. I wanted to let my left hand frolic. No need to make the poor thing feign the awkwardness they’d expect.
I read the ending aloud. “And thus it was that clever Rose saved her sister from the monster of the sea.”
You could write your way into happiness. It might not be the happiness you’d experience if Eldric pushed Leanne from a cliff, but there’s a firefly glimmer in writing something that would please Rose.
“And they all lived happily ever after.”
21
Comin’ Thro’ the Rye
The moonlight slipped and shifted beneath my feet; my legs dissolved into mud. The swamp has no beginning, it has no end, it’s all fringes and wisps and foreverness.
I was porous. I had my own fringes—my ten fingers, my fringe of mucky toes.
It was September 29, it was Blackberry Night, and I dissolved into the swamp. My naked foot merged with iris and orchid and lily. My frock of moonbeams purred against my legs. The earth quivered as I ran, I quivered as I ran, as I ran on spider legs of moonlight, in an ecstasy of fear, in a fear of ecstasy.
My feet were naked, my hands were naked, no more plaster of Paris. My right hand was a shriveled root. But that’s all right, here in the swamp.
I avoided Cecil; I avoided Eldric. I chose to come alone, even though Eldric had invited me. But I’d rather be alone than with Eldric, when what he really wanted was to frolic with Leanne.
Feet sloshing and splattering, shouts and screams. I brushed through fringed gentians. I brushed through comb-edged alder leaves. I brushed through netted moonbeams. I brushed—but an arm caught me round the waist.
“Drink up!”
My throat was tilted back. Bees-wine buzzed down my throat. The drink-up voice ran his fingers down the curve of my neck. My elbow jabbed, sank into belly. The belly grunted. On I ran.
My moonbeam skirts were pale moths, fluttering past the skulls of giant mushrooms. I sank into peat moss and autumn leaves, into the musk-stink of dying cabbage and the splosh of decay.
Voices laughed and ran past me in the shadows. I ran through a tangle of moonlight; I ran into a copper sea. If a body meet a body, comin’ thro’ the rye.
I was wild, I was wolfgirl. I was light as a moonbeam, my bones were filled with lace. I ran past chiming voices. “Pretty girl love pretty boy.”