Page 52 of As Many Souls as Stars
Esther looked back at her. Miriam’s eyes were so dark, her features so dramatic—a face unearthly enough that Esther felt she would never grow used to looking at it, even if they knew each other for the rest of their lives.
She cleared her throat. ‘If you continue to teach me magic, I will see what I can do about the grimoire.’
Miriam bared her teeth at her derisively. It felt shockingly crude. ‘You still believe you can break your curse?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be able to, eventually? It is all magic, ultimately.’
‘Such hope; it feels incongruous with your nature.’
‘All the hope I have goes towards the curse’s end,’ Esther replied, sharply. ‘I have no other optimism left to me.’
Miriam had been hunched over, leaning forwards; she pulled back, shoulders lowering minutely. ‘I have been harsh,’ she conceded, although there was little apology in her voice. ‘Of course you would wish to free yourself.’
Esther swallowed. ‘It—it is a burden. I do not know the exact details, only what my uncle and my cousin have spoken about when they thought I wasn’t listening, but… only the firstborn of each generation is supposed to have magic, and when that firstborn is a woman—the Seed of Eve—that magic becomes corrupted. I may have power, like yours, but I also bring misfortune to those around me. Those who love me, and those whom I love.’
‘What sort of misfortune?’
‘Death, usually. Grief, and injury. I can list to you now those who have died because of me—unhappy accidents too common to be accidental: my mother, when I was born; my nursemaids, as I grew; my uncle; my father; even Thomas’s wife, Lily. They were only married a year, you know, before she died on the childbed. She and their baby both. If I were him—’ Esther’s voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. ‘If I were him, I would hate me, too.’
The cab came to a standstill. They exited, and Esther paid the driver. Miriam walked her up to the front door.
‘Esther,’ Miriam said.
‘Yes?’
‘Regardless of this curse, you deserve to be loved,’ she told her. ‘Not hated. Not in the way you think.’
It was a sweet sentiment, but her tone made it sound like a warning, not consolation.
‘What sort of love?’ Esther asked.
‘Eternal,’ Miriam replied. ‘Eternal, and undying.’
Esther had a nightmare that night.
She was standing in a hallway she’d never seen before, picking a fraying tapestry apart with her bare hands. She pulled and pulled at the threads until her fingers were bleeding and raw, staining the fabric scarlet.
‘Esther,’ a voice said. ‘Esther, Esther.’ But when she turned around, she saw—herself, and yet not herself; this not-Esther had a necklace of bruised flesh around her neck, and she wore an old-fashioned gown covered in blood.
Then again, a voice came from behind her: ‘Esther.’ And when she turned around, she saw herself again, but this self was not injured. Her neck was clean, and her hair was cut shockingly short, up to her chin. She wore a curious slip of silver silk, covered in shimmering beads.
As Esther turned back and forth between her two selves, they began to multiply in endless lines—it was like standing between two mirrors, surrounded by infinite reflections.
‘Weave us back together,’ the short-haired Esther told her. ‘Those before, those after; you can weave us all together again.’
Esther turned back to the tapestry and scrambled to twist the threads back into place. But she didn’t know what she was doing; there seemed to be no way to undo the damage she had done. The fabric slipped between her bloody fingers, as intangible as spider silk.
‘Weave,’ commanded the bloody Esther.
‘Weave,’ commanded the other.
Esther felt a tear slip down her cheek. ‘I can’t,’ she told them.
‘Weave,’ short-haired Esther repeated. ‘You have to kill me to do so. Remake history, so I’ll never exist.’
And then Esther saw that she was offering her a knife.
She took a step back. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t, I—’
