Page 67 of As Many Souls as Stars
Miriam took a step forward. ‘I have it.’
Esther expected him to react with fear, but Thomas was too far gone. He turned his face to her, snarl deepening, revealing the pink-white line of his upper gums. ‘You.’
‘Release her,’ Miriam said.
His fingers tightened around Esther’s arm. ‘Why should I? Kill me, demon, if you’d like. I have nothing more to lose.’
Esther saw heads turning towards them, as the dancers sped up their movements—the music was coming to a crescendo, and soon their conversation would be far more audible. Panicking, she called to the shadows. A sharp pain, and then they were her servants once more; they slipped into the skin of her arm, where they burnt so hot that the fabric of her sleeve began to smoke. Thomas flinched away, hissing in pain.
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Esther snapped. ‘We’re surrounded by people. We will be noticed.’
Miriam’s eyes were so dark they reflected the candles surrounding them, a thousand flames whimpering in the shadows. ‘We should not have let him live.’
‘Ignore him,’ Esther said, desperately. ‘He is merely an—aninsect, Miriam. He isn’t worth the bother.’
‘I have had enough of yourmercy, darling. It is a weakness of yours, and one that must be excised.’ Miriam rolled her neck, and a dark smile stretched over her face. ‘I shall hand you his heart before this night is finished. A fitting gift.’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ Esther replied, as Thomas took another step away, his eyes wide and unfocused. He crashed into the candelabra, and—although it didn’t fall—it sent the candle flames billowing, the fire growing taller, plumes of smoke rising to the ceiling—
Then it all fell apart.
She looked into the flames reflexively; they swallowed her whole. The fire was growing, the fire was catching, the fire was a memory and the memory was ashes filling her throat, bitter and hot. She was choking on them. Esther thought,The Hall is burning, Harding Hall is burning, and she panicked, tearing herself away from Thomas and Miriam like stitches pulled from a wound, stumbling back into a table of drinks. Gasping, she pressed her palms against the tablecloth, gloves slipping halfway down her arms, chest heaving.
The glasses of claret beneath her outstretched arms smelt cloying, oversweet, and it made her stomach turn. There were bowls of food here, too: cups of trifle oozing blood-red compote, sliced calf’s tongue accordioned along its platter, and gnarled, walnut-like oysters piled in a silver bowl. The servant beside the table mistook her horrified stare for interest, and he raised an oyster towards her in offering.
‘Fresh in season, miss,’ he said. Without waiting for her reply, he took an oyster knife from his belt: a stubby thing with a blade the size of Esther’s thumb, its handle twice as long, a filigreed ivory the same shade as Esther’s dress. As he began to lever the oyster open, Esther felt a presence at her shoulder.
‘Esther?’ Miriam murmured. ‘Are you with me still?’
Esther didn’t respond. She was watching the servant struggling with the oyster, which was evidently harder to crack than he’d first presumed. Hands slipping against the knife’s handle, he made a little grunt of frustration. Esther saw the glint of the blade, felt terror well in her throat, and reached forward to snatch the knife from his hands. The oyster flew from his grip, skidding across the floor.
‘Madam,’ said the servant, horrified.
Esther looked down at the knife, and then up into Miriam’s face. ‘What is happening to me? You know, don’t you?’
‘Esther, you must sit down—’
‘Enough!’ Esther snarled. She felt a presence rise within her, a second voice, both the same and discordant with her own. Heat built in her hands. ‘I willnotforget again!’
‘Esther,’ Miriam said, more urgently. But Esther wasn’t listening; there was a fury in her, ancient and terrible, and flames were beginning to dance along her palms. ‘Esther, stop, you will raze this place to ashes—’
Esther reached toward her, burning,burning—
‘Cybil!’ Miriam cried. ‘Stop.’
Cybil. The word tore Esther apart, remade her, all in an instant. The flame in her hand flickered and died.
‘Cybil,’ Esther echoed. She took a stumbling step back, repeating, ‘Cybil.’ Then her foot came down upon the discarded oyster, and she slipped.
Miriam leapt to catch her, but someone else had already been standing behind her. Esther felt arms loop around her back. She looked up to see Thomas’s upside-down face peering at her, grinning with a rabid intensity. He said, ‘Lily,’ poppy-bitter breath washing over her face.
Esther’s back was bowed over his arms, her feet still on the floor. Blood rushed to her head; she felt dizzy. The back of her skull was pressed against his stomach. He was stooped over her, cradling her as if he intended to pull her into his arms. His hands were pressed into her waist, and they were smoking with heat—Esther could smell the terrible stench of charred flesh, but he did not seem to notice or care that she was burning him.
Esther tried to pull away, but Thomas’s grip was iron. She looked up at him, and his face changed. Looming over her, there was now another man: hairline receding and features aging, a black hat on his head. And Esther knew with a sudden cold certainty that if she didn’t escape this person, she would die.
Her right arm was limp beside her. The oyster knife was in her hand.
She raised the knife and stabbed Thomas in the stomach.
