Page 91 of As Many Souls as Stars
Rosamund blinked; more tears spilled. She realised then, that the crying wasn’t a ruse, and she pulled herself out of Miriam’s grasp, bowing her head to hide herself.
‘You needn’t be ashamed,’ Miriam said.
‘Of course I’m ashamed,’ Rosamund returned, wishing she was still lying, wishing Miriam would leave her alone, wishing she would stay with her forever. ‘You think I want to live like this? Playing a lover scorned? You’ve been my greatest obsession, my greatest regret, ever since I could remember what you did to me. Rosamund Harding is your echo, Miriam Richter. My entire life is an aftermath.’
Miriam eyed her curiously. ‘Maybe Esther was blessed to live in ignorance.’
‘Maybe she was. I wish, sometimes, that I didn’t remember either.’ Rosamund took a step back from Miriam. ‘But that’s the thing—even if I didn’t remember, it wouldn’t matter. I’m like water twice boiled, Miriam.Almostright, but something will always be a little off.’
Miriam frowned. Then she stepped forward and hugged her.
Rosamund froze in her arms. Next to them, the mechanical boat continued to move blithely from side to side, gears turning.
‘Three lives, and I am still as alone as the first,’ Rosamund said.
‘You aren’t alone,’ Miriam replied, and Rosamund made a broken noise, sagging against her.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘But I will be, soon enough.’
Rosamund pulled away. She looked up at Miriam’s face—that terribly familiar face, the only constant in centuries of loneliness and shame—and she wondered whether, in a fourth lifetime, she might’ve learnt to forgive her. She would never know.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said. ‘For the last time.’
‘For the last time,’ Miriam agreed—and there was something in her voice that almost sounded like regret.
It was four in the afternoon, and the sun was already setting. Ice limned the porthole, and the sky—the same deep blue of the ocean beneath it—was clear of all clouds. The last, fading light refracted through that ice, making a prism of colour on Rosamund’s cheek. She had fallen asleep after their exertions. Her red hair, spread wildly across the pillow, crowned her with a halo of flame.
The first-class cabin the Jennings were travelling in was just as opulent as Thomas’s townhouse, as the vaulted ceilings of Harding Hall. Luxury had surrounded Harding for all her lives, and yet—ill-starred as she was—those lives had been unhappy ones. Miriam knew she was largely to blame for that. Each rebirth was supposed to provide a new opportunity, but they only seemed to compound the problems of the last.
Maybe Miriam was providing some recompense, then, in her inevitable end.
There was movement in the corner of the room. A mass of shadows, amorphous in shape, was watching her from the wall. As she observed them, they shrank a little toward the floor.
She is mine, she told them—and instead of cowering further, they rose up towards the ceiling, defiant, in the shape of a crow far larger than Miriam had ever been.
Hissing in anger, Miriam slid from the bed, careful not to jog Rosamund.You dare resist me?she asked the darkness.I, who feed you from my own hand?
The shadow-crow spread its wings, feathers squirming as if each were its own insectile creature crawling along the wall.
Where was this defiance coming from? This boldness, this discontent? It was as if the shadows’ loyalty had shifted, somehow—as if their fear of Miriam no longer moved them.
Frowning, Miriam glanced to the bed, and then back to the darkness.
She recalled, just a few hours ago, how tears had run down Rosamund’s face in the wake of her failed ritual. Was it trulyfailed, after all? This new Harding may have been different in some ways—in her scarlet smile and the sea changes of her moods, the gold gleam of her soul reflecting in her eyes—but she was still a Harding. She remained, fundamentally, the woman who had set the Hall alight, who had burnt Thomas’s corpse to ashes. The woman who had killed herself rather than have Miriam take her soul—and yet who now refused the same fate when offered the knife.
Miriam bent over the bed, considering. Rosamund was having a dream—her eyelids were fluttering, and soul-light was gathering in the hollows of her collarbones. Miriam pressed her finger to this light, and when she pulled back, a faint glimmer remained, lingering, on her own skin.
Miriam presented her finger to the shadows on the wall.
You want this, she asked them.Don’t you?
The darkness trembled.
Our deal is soon complete. You love her—I can tell. I love her, also. But she is mine. For centuries, she has been.
Miriam stretched her hand outwards. The shadows swarmed forward—at the last moment, she pulled back, placing her finger upon her own lips, flicking out her tongue for a taste. There was nothing there, of course—she could not truly consume Rosamund’s soul unless a deal was completed—but the theatre made the shadows writhe as if in pain.
If she betrays me,Miriam said,ifyoubetray me, you will have none of her soul to feed upon. I will complete our deal and keep her light to myself, buried within me, for the rest of my existence. If you are loyal, it will be different. Do you understand?
