Page 7 of The Butterfly
The impulse could not be denied for long. Once Maeve had finished plaiting her hair for bed, she had gone to dispose of the clothing Olivia had just shed, murmuring that she would be right back in her cheery voice.
Waiting until the maid was out of sight, she had then turned the mirror and slammed it against the side of the table. The glass had splintered, then shattered with the most musical sound, bringing a smile to her face. The tinkle had reminded her of cymbals, or raindrops, the first sound that had penetrated the haze in so long, ringing out clear as a bell.
Those glittering fragments had called to her, offering sweet relief. Putting aside the silver frame, she had sunk to her knees upon the floor, unable to tear her gaze away from them … sharp, clear, gleaming in the candlelight. No force on Earth could have stopped her from reaching for one—the largest one, a knife-shaped shard that stood apart from the rest. Its edges had bitten into her thumb and forefinger when she’d picked it up, sending a little jolt of something through the delicate bones of her hand, into her wrist, stabbing up her arm. This sensation … she had felt it before, but it had dissipated too fast for her to remember what it was.
But it had beensomething, and something was better than the nothing she’d been trapped in these past days and weeks. Clutching the glass tighter, she’d gazed down at the inside of her left arm. Slender and pale, her skin had showed the spidery blue veins running along it. They’d been the perfect guides for where she ought to use the glass, to test herself for that sensation again. If she was going to remember the feeling, she’d need to recreate it. Biting her lip, she’d moved swiftly, knowing she only had so much time before Maeve returned.
The first cut had not registered, though the sight of her skin splitting and then welling up with blood had captivated her. It had been so beautiful and bright against her white skin, trickling warm and smelling so good, like a coin placed in the palm of her hand. But the feeling still had not come back, so she’d tried again, and again, dragging the sharp bit of glass over those blue veins, becoming hypnotized by the resulting font of blood, its metallic scent, its warmth as it trickled over her arms and stained the rug. By the time she’d taken the glass into her left hand to attempt the same effect on her right arm, her body had begun to sing with that lost sensation, sweet and blissful.
Pain.
Perfect, excruciating, rapturous pain.
She had closed her eyes, her head falling back as she’d sunk the glass in yet again, this time experiencing its sharp prick, the burn of it slicing her flesh, tearing her open. She had moaned, the sensation traveling through her entire body, piercing deep into her chest, her belly, between her legs. Again and again, she’d dug the glass in, alive with the pain by then, her every nerve ending awakened from a sound sleep, the surface of her skin crackling with electricity.
From there, everything else had happened in a haze. She’d collapsed, weakened after so much feeling, such a tidal wave of delightful agony. There had been startled cries and screams, the sobbing of Maeve, who’d seemed distressed by the red stains and the state of Olivia’s arms.
She had wanted to tell the maid not to cry … for, finally, she could feel again. Agony was so much more glorious than the heavy weight of nothing. Even the dizzying sensation of lying there as the room had begun to tilt and spin had felt good, as if she floated on a cloud. The darkness had returned, but this time, it had been warm and cozy, letting her drift on its black waters as opposed to dragging her down.
Fading in and out, she had registered being carried, then the blood washed from her skin. She had shuddered and groaned as a needle was dragged through her rent flesh, pulling back together what she had torn apart. The maids assisting the physician had wept, thinking she cried out in misery. Little had they known she’d been practically delirious with the pleasure of it, of feeling so alive after being so long dead.
Then, that accursed bottle was back, being pressed to her lips. She’d shaken her head to avoid it, but once the laudanum flooded her mouth, she had latched onto it like a babe suckling at her mother’s breast. Her throat had convulsed as she’d swallowed it, its taste sweet and medicinal, familiar and poisonous all at once.
She had come and gone, the pain bringing her back, the laudanum putting her under. She could remember leaving Dunnottar, being in a carriage, then an inn, then the carriage once again. Maeve had always been present, armed with her bottle of laudanum.
And so, here she lay in a townhome in London—one she had never resided in, but felt safe in, nonetheless. Her Niall was here, which meant Adam must be, as well. It was all she needed to know. If they were here, she would be cared for. Together, they could always be relied upon to keep her out of the doldrums. They had left her, and she’d found her own way out this time. She doubted they would approve of her methods. What else was she to have done when the substance that had once been her succor was now becoming her destruction? A thing that had previously rescued her from the terrors of her mind now forced her to drown in it, holding her under like a rough hand upon the back of her neck.
A commotion from outside the chamber drew her attention, and she glanced toward the door. Was Niall returning to her bedside? Where had he gone, anyway? She felt certain he could not have left so long ago, not after having just declared he did not intend to let her out of his sight.
Olivia had her answer when footsteps on the stairs seemed to shake the entire house, the heavy tread bringing someone down the corridor. A moment later, the panel swung open to admit someone—not Niall, but another person who made her heart ache and her eyes well with tears at the sight of him.
To others, Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, proved an imposing man, a downright frightening one. As massive as a great oak, with a wide chest, long legs, and arms that looked as if they could crush a body with a single squeeze, he was built to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. No one knew better than Olivia just how considerable that burden could be at times, her own condition comprising most of the heaviness. The unrelenting hurts he’d suffered—since birth, it seemed—had carved his face into one like stone—a stubborn jaw, sharp ridge of a nose, a hard, cruel mouth. Despite all that rigidity and darkness, his eyes always spoke the truth, as open and clear a path into his mind and heart as one could find.
Just now, as he approached the bed and studied her, the dark mahogany had taken over the tongues of green and gold fire, smothering them almost completely. He was saddened to find her like this, to be confronted with the evidence of what had happened at Dunottar in his absence.
For a long while, neither of them spoke, and she simply studied Adam, whom she had given the nickname Hart to years ago. She wasn’t certain why she referred to him by the shortened version of his title, but it had stuck and fit him as much as the overlong strands of dark hair hanging down his back. Her Hart, as well as her heart … one of only two men she could trust with her entire self. The one who had taken the place of the father she had never really had. Her own sire had died not long after her birth, and her mother, widowed and destitute, had quickly remarried, joining with Adam’s father. Rowland had provided well and seen to her practical needs, but as a fatherly figure, he’d been lacking. And so, Adam had become her light, her firm, guiding hand, her confidante and protector. For so long, he had been her only true family.
As he came toward the bed, his iron façade began to crack, the despair she’d caused showing through. His gaze shifted from her face to the linen bandages wrapped around her arms as he sank onto the bed beside her.
“Ah, butterfly,” he murmured, his deep, guttural voice tinged with just the slightest hint of a Scottish burr. “What have you done to yourself?”
She could only stare up him, her eyes stinging as she allowed him to take her hand, gingerly lifting her arm to begin unwinding the bandages. Her throat constricted, the guilt of distressing the people she loved washing over her. She hated making them worry. But, how could she help them understand that she hadn’t wanted to die? That she’d only been trying to come back to life somehow?
They thought her mad … deranged. Perhaps she was. Her thoughts certainly did not seem like those of a normal young woman. However, they felt true to her; they felt real and visceral and such a part of herself.
She watched him open her bandages, finding the pink stains on the strips closest to her skin, his eyes welling with tears she knew he would not shed. Adam had not wept since the day her mother had died, when they’d both been so young. He had already lost his own mother years prior, and had developed a closeness with his stepmother, a woman Olivia barely remembered. She knew that Lady Edith Callahan had been kind, warm, accepting of a boy who had not been her own son. Olivia could remember holding tight to Adam’s hand as they’d stood at her bedside and watched her take her last breath.
“I am sorry, my son,” she had said to Adam, before turning to tell Olivia that she loved her.
That young boy had lowered his head and shed tears for the last time, deep, painful sobs shaking his body, which had already been so much larger than others his age. From then, he had been unwavering in his stoicism. Olivia often wondered if he’d felt he had to be this way in order to care for her, to stand between the dangers of the world and the little girl he had loved as if they’d been born of the same womb.
For all his efforts, here she lay … tarnished, ruined, destroyed.
The last of the linen fell away, revealing her wounds, still ugly and ringed in bright red bruising, the stitches pulling and itching. A rough sound emitted from him, like a sob or a tortured growl, the sort of sound she might expect out of a wounded lion.
“Why, Livvie?” he rasped, shoulders shaking as if he sobbed.
But, when he raised his head to look at her again, there were no tears, only the tortured visage of her beloved brother.
