Page 40 of As Many Souls as Stars
Instead, she tapped her beak once more against the window, expanding the crack in the glass, just to see Esther flinch in response. The rush of possessiveness Miriam felt was dizzying.
No one else should ever make you feel fear, darling, she thought.No one but me.
Then she turned away and took off into the night.
Miriam was walking a tightrope, that much was clear. Esther was on the precipice of remembering her previous life—any event too jarring, a moment of shock or anger, could tip her over the edge. Meanwhile, Thomas Harding had ensconced himself in his salt-rimmed house, defended from Miriam’s intervention by the safety of his walls. He would have to leave eventually, she knew, but he seemed stubbornly resistant to the world outside; he spent the entirety of the next day in his library, flipping through old books and taking notes in a ledger. Miriam saw something of Cybil’s father in the man, in the wild twitch of his fingers as he turned the pages, in the minute pinpricks of his pupils as they caught the light of the sun outside. It was a bloodline, clearly, that was prone to obsession, prone to ambition. It was both the Hardings’ greatness and their ruin.
The afternoon came, and Esther bid Thomas farewell: she was going to some sort of society event. Miriam was torn between following her and watching Thomas for longer. Eventually, she settled on Esther—there was nothing more entertaining than watching her try to navigate high society—and she was about to fly away from the windowsill when Thomas stood from his seat, went over to the lefthand wall, and crouched down to pull up a floorboard.
Miriam watched, fascinated, as he lifted a book out of a hiding place. Thomas stayed there for a while, crouched, staring at it—perhaps considering whether to open it—before he squared his shoulders and stood up.
The book had a black leather cover. Even from this distance, Miriam recognised it immediately. The three-headed hawk pressed to the cover stared back at her, beaks open.Past, present, future.
Thomas gripped the grimoire with white knuckles.
‘Lily,’ he said to himself. ‘For you, Lily.’
He left the room.
Miriam slumped, pressing her head to the window, beak clinking softly against the glass. If she had been human in that moment, she might have groaned. But she had no choice. If the deal was to complete, Esther had to live her twenty-three years. Miriam had to warn her.
Isaac hadn’t wanted to accompany Esther to the Cheswick fete. Frankly, she hadn’t wanted him to accompany her—she avoided him as much as possible, as the curse demanded—but she still required a chaperone. Still, his dramatic sighs as they stepped into the carriage made her wish she could have asked someone else.
Esther understood her brother’s reluctance to attend society events, and she tried not to blame him for it. She knew firsthand how awkward these things could become for him, considering his parentage: the side glances, the sniggers behind palms. Once, at a ball, a man had tried to trip him over for sport, and Esther had borne the pain and bid the shadows to set the hem of his jacket on fire. It had been blamed on an errant candle, thankfully, but since then she had made a greater effort to keep her temper under control.
Afterwards, Isaac seemed to have known that she was the one to blame. ‘Thanks,’ he’d said, wide-eyed with appreciation. And she’d replied—chest constricting—‘You must learn to take care of yourself.’
If Isaac had ever blamed her for her iciness towards him, he never acted as if he did; sometimes Esther wondered if he had sensed, somehow, that she was maintaining distance for his own good. He didn’t know about the curse, of course, but he knew that Esther wasdifferent. He knew that she was incapable of closeness to anyone, family or not. Once, at a ball, she’d overheard him defend her notorious callousness to a group of friends. ‘It isn’t that she is rude, or cruel,’ he’d told them. ‘She is simply… honest about what she wants. People don’t like it, but I think it quite admirable.’
This morning, he was sitting across from her in the carriage, reading Byron. He loved poetry, even fancied himself a writer; Esther had never told him so, but he had real talent. He was in full mourning attire, with a black jacket and gloves. Esther had dared to dress in half mourning, despite the funeral being only a week ago. She despised wearing black, and besides, it wasn’t as if she had a reputation to salvage. Her dress was a deep, dark plum, and she was wearing a coral necklace the same shade as her hair.
‘God willing,’ Isaac muttered, as he turned a page, ‘this is the last of these things we have to go to.’
‘We have the Carroway Ball next month,’ she reminded him.
He groaned and pressed his head into the book. ‘Kill me.’
Esther rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll keep that solution in mind, in case all else fails.’
Isaac sniggered, eyes crinkling. Esther felt her own lips twitch, and she turned her head back to the carriage window, admonishing herself. When it came to her brother, kindness was cruelty, she knew that. But sometimes it was so difficult to pretend she didn’t love him. Esther often imagined putting her arms around him, burying her head into his shoulder, and telling him,Forgive me. Forgive me for all of it. But she knew better than that, and so here they were—the inch of carriage space between them vaster than an ocean.
They passed the remainder of the journey in silence.
The fete was being held in honour of an orphanage of some sort, and the Ton swarmed the green in front of Cheswick House like a collection of pastel-coloured gnats. White tables studded the grass, the strains of a string quartet floating through the air. As Esther exited the carriage, dusting off her dress, the other visitors suddenly all paused, and turned to look at her. Esther watched in silent shock as they each linked hands, forming a chain, and began to move in aslow dance around her; the sky darkened, and their shadows extended behind them like watercolours bleeding through paper.
‘Esther,’ someone said, grasping her arm. Esther shrieked, and the vision fell away.
It was Isaac, staring at her with abject concern. Many other members of the Ton were staring, too—the shriek had alarmed them—and Esther flushed.
‘Forgive me,’ she said to him, under her breath.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I…’ Esther shook her head. ‘It is nothing.’
The Langwith family passed by them, perfectly matching in their peach-coloured gowns and neatly pressed collars. Their youngest, Elizabeth, gave Esther a smirk, leaning towards her brother to make a comment obscured by her fan.
‘Prigs,’ Esther muttered, scowling. She stalked ahead into the crowd, and Isaac followed at her heels.
