Page 95 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘Three lives a witch, Miriam,’ Rosamund told her, voice straining with effort. ‘Three souls to sell, and centuries of fear to make reality. I didn’t waste this life, you know, on dancing and tapestries. You might be the same as you always were, but I’ve grown stronger. I’ve made many more deals while you were away.’
Reaching for the shadows, Miriam commanded, ‘Come to me.’ In her palm, she offered a piece of some ill-gotten soul—the darkness seethed over it eagerly. For a moment, the vision of Carroway House wavered, and then it began to strengthen. The music resumed; the stars roared back to life.
Rosamund gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain, carving another piece from herself, coaxing the shadows back to her.
The music stopped again.
‘Enough of this,’ Miriam said. ‘What—’
‘I’ll only ask once more. What did youdo, Miriam, before you called me here? Why did you say I’d have something new to avenge?’
Miriam paused, then grinned at her.
‘Avenge him,’ she said. ‘Why not? It hardly matters now. See if your anger will give this new life meaning, in the hours you have left.’
‘Who?’ Rosamund replied, and then she realised.
‘I fed him to the Atlantic,’ Miriam said. ‘He went quietly, too. I didn’t give him enough time to scream.’
Rosamund should have expected it. Because shewascursed, after all—that curse stood in front of her, smiling grimly, satisfied that she had taken her due.
That didn’t make it hurt any less. That didn’t make her throat loosen or her tears dry; and it didn’t douse the burning coal of anger that tumbled into the base of her belly, that set her alight from the inside out.
‘I’llkillyou,’ Rosamund snarled.
‘Oh, sweetheart. If you strike a match, you shouldn’t be surprised when it catches fire. But you can try, if you’d like.’
Miriam offered her the oyster knife. Rosamund took it from her. And, for a moment, she had the urge to slit herownthroat; to deny Miriam one more time. Another life, another soul—why limit herself? Why not stay this way forever, live ceaseless lives of mortal drudgery, watching those who loved her be destroyed? Too many memories, too many broken hearts, and any woman would become incapable of feeling. Someday, eventually, Rosamund would stop caring about what Miriam Richter had done to her, and she would finally be at peace.
But she felt the phantom flames of the ritual she’d performed, still licking at her heels; she could feel the fear of all those who’d hated her writhing beneath her skin. Rosamund would use that fear like kindling, set herself alight with it. She had a plan. She would see it through.
Stepping forward, she pulled Miriam in for a kiss. As her teeth sank into her bottom lip, she plunged the oyster knife into Miriam’s chest.
Miriam allowed the kiss to continue for a moment longer, then pulled away. She glanced down at the knife embedded in her skin and smirked. ‘Did that make you feel better?’
‘No,’ Rosamund said. ‘But this will.’
Then she tore off a piece of her soul that was so great, so fundamental, that she screamed and shattered at the pain, unmade, red-hot as a poker in the fire—but it was enough. Of course it was enough. It was more than anything she had ever given before, and more than anything Miriam could ever give. The shadows bowed to her entirely; they fell over her, grateful, loving, and Rosamund disappeared.
She had always been lonely.
Rosamund hadmadeherself lonely, across centuries, across lifetimes. She had made herself lonely because of the curse, but the curse hadn’t been real; and that wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. All of her relationships had been brief and fragile. There had only ever been one person who didn’t abandon her—and that person wasn’t a person at all.
Shadows are fickle, and they leave at the hint of light. But they return, always. They are the only thing that will never leave you. There was no Harding without Richter: she had accepted that the first time she died. Without Miriam, she would have lived an entire life as Cybil, miserable and isolated. She would have made that cavernous Hall a coffin to bury herself in. She would have never known the power she could wield.
Sometimes, Rosamund was relieved to be spared such a fate.
Sometimes, she wanted it so badly she could barely breathe.
Once, she had thought that to be human meant to love and be loved. Her curse, real or no, had prevented those things, and so prevented her humanity in turn. But now Rosamund knew thatfeelingwasn’t human, not inherently—Miriam had proven that. Although that swirling darkness in Miriam’s heart had once seemed an emptiness, a void, three lifetimes had shown otherwise. Miriam wasn’t human, but she grieved, she exulted, she angered. Shehada soul, just as Rosamund did. A soul of a different kind, maybe, but a soul still.
To be human: it was an impossible dream, and one Rosamund had finally had to discard. She had lived three lives, none of them happy. Like a gambler down on their luck, she was sometimes tempted to throw the dice again, to end this life and start a new one; hoping beyond hope that this time she’d find something in her own mortality that would make it all worthwhile. But Rosamund knew her life as a human was a losing game. If she wanted to be free, truly free, to love as she wished—toburnas she wished, to look at the world with defiance, not surrender—she needed to change the rules.
My soul will be yours, Cybil had once said.
All magic was exchange, after all.
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