Page 35 of As Many Souls as Stars
Richter continued. ‘A new life. A happy life. One free of loneliness. I can offer that to you—I can re-form you in a place, a time, where you are guaranteed companionship. You could be free of the curse, even: a second daughter, or a third—someone part of a large family, with people who love you. And with a second soul, merged to your first, you would be twice as powerful as you are. Would that not please you? Would you not be glad?’
‘But you would still take all of my soul, in the end,’ Cybil said.
‘Yes.’
‘How long would I have?’
‘As long as the life you have already lived—that seems fair to me.’
‘Twenty-three years?’ Cybil asked, and in the emptiness, her anger echoed endlessly, a chorus of voices. ‘That is not enough!’
Richter grinned at her, an animalistic grin, teeth pulling back to the gums. ‘It is more than nothing,’ she said. ‘Which is what you will have otherwise.’
Cybil shuddered at her expression, which was so cruel in its aspect, so alien, that she wondered how she could have ever felt attracted toher—but then their gazes met, Miriam’s eyes liquid and dark, and she remembered.
Mayhap Cybil’s desire for her was some convoluted attempt at self-destruction. She had always known she was destined for an early death—the curse made it a moral imperative—and now Miriam offered a death more perfect than any other. Because that was what this offer was, in the end: a second death, later than the first, but an ending still. Twenty-three more years, but those years lived while indebted to a higher power. Was that not another curse? Another obligation, another destined misfortune?
And, oh, while Cybil found herself a new life, and played at normalcy, another First Daughter would eventually be born. There were other branches of the Harding family, more magicians to be made; someday, some poor girl would be left to the wolves again, or thrown to the sea, or locked away to live her life alone. Perchance Miriam Richter would find her too, and offer her this same deal with a smile and an open palm. And she would take it, because she would be desperate, and afraid.
Cybil was desperate, and afraid.
But Cybil wanted more.
‘You told me all magic is balance,’ Cybil said. ‘A trade: light for shadow. Does that extend to wagers, also?’
Richter paused. She frowned. ‘Wagers… ?’
‘The next time there is a First Daughter—the next time a Harding girl is born cursed. Make that daughter me.’
Richter laughed so harshly, so incredulously, it emerged as half a shout—a wolf’s snarl, teeth gnashing. ‘Youwishto be cursed again?’
‘I have seen my power now. I can break it myself this time. I am certain I can. The family grimoire has rituals my father designed. He tried it himself when I was born, but clearly, he was not strong enough. IfIam reborn, you said I will have two souls, and twice the power. Twenty-three years to break the curse. If I succeed, the shadows leave me alone, and allow me to live my full life in peace.’
‘And if you fail?’
‘If I fail,’ Cybil said, ‘my soul will be yours.’
Richter replied, sharply, ‘My deals are never conditional.’
‘But the souls you take are never so powerful—you said so yourself. Surely that balances the scales.’
‘Twenty-three years to break the curse,’ Richter murmured to herself, considering. ‘Hm.’
Cybil began to reply, but then her view of Richter dimmed momentarily, and she felt a strange coldness begin to grip her. Richter’s expression transitioned into one of alarm.
‘What is happening?’ Cybil said.
‘We must work fast. You are fading.’ Richter moved forward to take Cybil’s hand, cradling it in her own with surprising tenderness. Darkness coalesced within Cybil’s grip, making the form of a quill. ‘Very well,’ Richter said. ‘As you suggested: twenty-three years to break the curse. If you succeed, I will leave you to your mortality. If you fail, your soul is mine.’
Cybil looked at the quill. She thought of the curse in the grimoire, the three-headed hawk on its cover.
Past, present, future.
Cybil adjusted her grip on the quill. Richter, smiling hungrily, flipped her own hand over and presented her palm. ‘Here—sign.’
Cybil signed her name.
She felt something click into place—a latch sliding shut—and as it did so, Richter gave a triumphant laugh and pulled her closer, sealing her mouth over hers. It was less a kiss than a claim, with a hand closing around the back of Cybil’s neck, fingers pressing bruises into her skin. Richter’s palm was still bleeding—was it blood? It felt too cold—and the liquid ran in freezing trails down Cybil’s back. When Richter released her, she felt lightheaded. She looked down at her own arm, still outstretched from where it had fallen around Richter’s waist, and she could barely distinguish it from the darkness.
