Page 20 of The Salt-Black Tree
SOLITUDE
It was almost exactly the same as in Ohio—the bedroom with a wide white damask bed on acres of thick emerald carpeting, sitting room and bedroom with enormous bay windows looking over a night-jeweled city skyline with a glitter of ocean in the distance instead of a river. The faint good scent of cut grass was the same too, as was the white leather couch and two white leather chairs crouching before a glassed-in gas fireplace in the sitting room. The furniture’s wooden bits still looked like birch saplings pressed into different shapes and left to grow over decades, their papery boles glowing. Again, no television, and once the door closed behind George—who thankfully didn’t seem to expect a tip—Nat Drozdova was left in blessed silence.
The bathroom was, if possible, even more luxurious—giant sunken marble tub with whirlpool jets, a glassed-in shower with four different chrome heads pointing at marble tile, shelves of high-end toiletries from no brand she’d ever heard of, a vanity with rosy bulbs giving a flattering light as well as a bench with a green velvet pad in case she needed to paint herself for a night out.
As soon as Nat saw the bed, though, all other considerations became secondary. The black horse’s gallop still throbbed in her bones, a dim faraway rhythm like a distant train. It had been a long damn night on top of a terrible, terrifying day, and though that uncanny sense of well-being and energy still filled her physical framethe rest of her felt like it was dragging through mud. Her eyes were dry as if she’d cried herself into quiescence like she used to in middle school, her neck ached, and if divinities had souls, hers was weary right down to the floorboards.
Even if sleep wasn’t a necessity, sometimes it was the only answer to your problems.
There was one more difference between this suite and the one in Akron. There was no connecting door to another room. The wall where it had been was smooth and blank, and if the Elysium was one weird interdimensional place with a lot of doorways, the change was either the best renovation job ever or the aperture had never existed in the first place.
The urge to drag some of the furniture across that space just to be safe was overwhelming, but most of the birchwood pieces looked disturbingly like they had grown from the floor itself. So she simply slid her coat off, tossing it over the end of the bed, and dropped onto the covers, snuggling into piled, decorative cream and green pillows. They didn’t smell like industrial fabric softener or the exhalations of other travelers; instead, a cloud of sun-dried linen scent enfolded her, and the young Drozdova immediately fell into a deep, dreamless state indistinguishable from mortal sleep.
For a moment, Nat was certain she was back in the little yellow house, safe and snug in the single bed Leo had built of scrap lumber. She was also certain it was summer, because warm sunlight fell across her face and the quiet was total, which meant Mom and Leo were both out in the garden because she’d overslept. Anticipating her mother’s disappointment brought her into full consciousness with a jolt, sitting straight up on a soft white bed scattered with fluffy pillows. Somehow she’d turned it into a nest overnight, and sunk into the exact middle like a weary baby bird.
Her head was clear, though her mouth was full of a thin, watery copper taste and at some point in the night she’d wriggled out of her bra, tossing it vaguely in the direction of her backpack. The white sheers over the window moved restlessly, a soft breeze slipping over every surface. Flames in the gas fireplace flickered; whoever paid the bill apparently didn’t mind leaving it on all the time like the one in the lobby.
She was alone.
At home there was always Mom and Leo, due at any moment if not already there. At work there was no solitude, even in the bathroom—retail or office workers were supposed to be ever-available. Even in transit, on the bus or subway, someone was always around. In Dmitri’s car there was the constant agonizing fear of the gangster divinity eventually turning on her; even at the Elysium in Ohio there had been the fact of the connecting door.
Nat had never realized just how much of her life was taken up with navigating between other people. It was… nice, to be all by herself, if slightly frightening. She didn’t have to wait for the front door to close and someone to callhello, house;she didn’t have to keep her expression neutral or her shoulders protectively hunched. She could probably take all her clothes off and dance around singing at the top of her lungs, if she wanted to.
Would someone in another room complain about the noise? A low, husky laugh surprised her. It took a moment to realize it came from her own throat; she pulled the backpack into her lap and unzipped its top.
The unicorn mug was still there, gilt-glowing as she held it in sunshine far too golden and vibrant to be winter. So far, California was just as bright as advertised; she traced the unicorn’s horn gently, a wondering touch.
What did you put in a grail? Wine? Water? Hot chocolate? Anything you damn well pleased?
The wooden box holding the Knife all but leapt open. Theflint blade gleamed slightly, as if oiled, and she touched the handle with a tentative fingertip.
A pleasant warmth flooded from the contact, hitting her shoulder and spreading down through her chest. Both Knife and Cup vibrated, as intensely real andthereas a divinity. The sense of rightness intensified, and if gazing into the Well had kick-started some weird internal process, the two arcana were magnifying and hurrying it.
“Holy hell,” Nat whispered. Whatever she had to find in Los Angeles was probably just as powerful, just asright. Maybe all this newfound strength would save her mother.
Or maybe it was meant for some other purpose.
If her mother wanted to… to eat her, why send her on a cross-country scavenger hunt? It seemed a little counterproductive, and if there was anything Maria Drozdova despised, it was inefficiency.
“She wanted me to bring everything and the Heart back,” Nat said, testing each word. The sunlight strengthened, skirting the edge of painful brilliance; going south for the winter wasn’t just for birds. “She can’t eat the Heart, but she can…”
She will eat you, Drozdova. After you bring her what she wants, so she can bargain with Baba Yaga to allow the theft of a native-born child.
Having uninterrupted time to think was a terrifying luxury. So not only would Nat bring back the Heart, but also the arcana. Trading the Dead God’s Heart to Baba Yaga would do… what? It didn’t matter, if Nat would be consumed afterward. Maybe divinities just needed de Winter’s rubber stamp if they wanted to eat their children? It was a gruesome thought, and Nat forced herself past it, to the logical end.
Maria Drozdova would be able to live in this new country without trouble, because her daughter would be… eaten.
“Dead,” Nat whispered. “Dead and eaten. Right? That’s what that means.”
Panicked denial turned her stomach over. She wasn’t hungry, but she could have done with a cup of coffee before contemplatingthis. Maybe that was why she’d never been alone before; it led to all sorts of things. Like thinking for yourself, or realizing that the bleak knowledge of a mother’s hatred had always been pulsing inside Nat’s own bones, like a black, malignant mass.
Like the cancer human doctors swore was eating Maria bit by bit.
Don’t be ridiculous. Mothers don’t eat their children.
But here Nat was, sitting in a divinity hotel, holding glowing arcana and being pursued by shadowy mouthless scavengers. She’d turned a jukebox on with invisible power just by looking at it and asking nicely, not to mention held an entire city street motionless while Dmitri’s car slewed between frozen vehicles. She’d gotten rid of Friendly, and danced with Jay before he was nailed to an X of raw lumber and a woman in green spilled from his dry-husk corpse.
There were hungry stepmothers in fairytales, gods who ate their own progeny in old myths. It wasn’t that much of a stretch. And now Baba de Winter’s behavior, not to mention Dmitri’s, made a lot more sense.
