Page 3 of Caging Darling

I smile. It’s the Mary Darling one. “Peter stole me.”

The woman’s smile falters, her eyes widening. There’s a flicker of confusion there, but then she lets out a startled laugh. “Oh, like the legends of old. You know, I used to believe those aswell. But Peter has me convinced the fae are much more civilized than the propaganda we’ve been handed.”

I don’t answer. I just wait, my hand still on the goblet full of the elixir that could extract me from this miserable existence for a while if I let it.

There was a time when I would have let it.

“Oh…” Her face falls, slowly. Wax dripping down the shaft of a candle. “You’re utterly serious, aren’t you?”

She glances toward the parlor door. They all do that. Stare off like they can see through the walls. Like looking in his direction will help them make sense of how such a beautiful male, one with such a pleasant demeanor, could be such a monster. So cruel.

In the end, they all reach the same conclusion.

“I envy you,” she says.

It’s not their fault. Their scales for measuring cruelty are broken. Skewed. There’s no use being angry with them.

“And why’s that?”

She picks at the napkin in front of her. Her rouged cheeks sag. She looks five years older with that single shift in expression. Perhaps this is why my mother always smiled through the pain.

“You never longed for it, as a girl? To be stolen away by a dark and terrible creature?” Her throat bobs. When she looks at me, she must find the answer she desires on my face—people always do—because she grasps at her chest, ruby bracelets jangling at her wrist, and says, “Why is it there? Why is it in our hearts, from such a young age? And why is it so difficult to shake? Why do we long to hurt?”

An ornate brass letter opener lies dormant on the desk situated against the wall. I feel as if it’s caught in my throat. Fortunately, I have become accustomed to swallowing sharp objects. I reach across the table, hovering over her wine for but amoment before I take her hand. Her fingers are so cold, the chill seeps through both of our gloves.

Lady Estrias wilts, a thirsty day lily I’ve overwatered with nothing but the truth of my situation. It only takes a moment before she switches the position of our hands, placing hers atop mine. She pats it, her entire demeanor changed, the only sign of her anxiety over what she just confessed the urgency with which she takes a swig of her wine.

It takes three seconds for the poison to settle in. Five for the lady to realize something is wrong. Her face contorts, brows drawing together. She thinks she’s having an anxious fit. But the change that overcomes her as the truth settles in is all too familiar. The bulging of her confused eyes. The way they focus on me, horror morphing into betrayal, settling into fear.

“What did you put in my drink?” she asks. “My arms, my legs! I can’t?—”

She slumps against the back of her chair, her arms sinking into the armrests of the wooden chair.

“Don’t fret,” I say. “It’s only rushweed, and a low dose. It won’t cause any permanent damage.”

“Is he taking me, too?” The question they all ask.

It shouldn’t sting anymore. Not after how many times I’ve heard it. It’s not the question, so much as the way it’s asked. It’s fearful, of course. Pitch-heightened with a raspy quality. But there’s something else there, lingering underneath the surface.

Hope. Hope that’s been soiled, twisted into something else. Lust, perhaps?

“No,” I say, taking off my gloves, one by one. The satin feels decadent against my skin. “No. He wants only me.”

All of me.

The emerald ring Peter gave me when he proposed shines on my finger. Shines. Not glitters. It used to glitter, but I don’tremember the last time we bothered to clean it. The last timehebothered to clean it.

“Will you rob us, then?”

“In a way.” I glance at the woman. She’s afraid now. And not the hopeful sort. The shaking could be construed as either, but there’s a bead of sweat forming on her dewy brow.

She should be afraid. But not of Peter. Certainly not of me.

Glass shatters in the parlor, the sound muffled by the closed door between us.

“Edward,” the woman says, though I can’t tell if the fear is for her husband, or if she’s calling out for help, or if it’s a little of both. Emotions are so complicated.

Mine were once complicated.

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