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I study her, keep her gaze as I gather the sheath in my hand and stretch it, holding the marked spot out.
“I’m sorry,” her mother says.
I turn to the woman. She lowers her gaze, and her husband steps forward, then bows his head in apology.
Because what that streak of blood means is that she failed the examination. This one isn’t a virgin.
I fist the cloth and bare her feet, her knees, thighs, pussy. That’s when I look down, when I feel that thick mound of dark curls at my fingers.
She stiffens, exhales audibly, and if I listen hard, I think I can hear her scream on the inside.
“Lower your gaze,” I tell her, squeezing the hair, making her wince.
She lifts her chin higher, and I see the workings of her throat as she swallows.
“Do as he says!”
It’s her father. And I want to kill him for his intrusion. She’s mine. I will be the one to teach her. I will be the one to punish her.
“Lower. Your. Gaze.”
I curl my fingers down to cup her pussy.
She falters, and for the first time, I see the terror in her eyes. It overtakes the hate. She blinks, her spine bends, and finally, she drops her gaze to her naked feet.
I release her, step back, and watch the sheath drop to cover her. I feel her on my fingers, and I don’t wipe the damp away.
“Her name?”
“Helena, sir.”
It must burn to call a man half your age sir.
“Helena.” I try it out. I think I’ll keep it. “What’s this?” I pick up the silver streak of hair.
“It grows that way. She’s had it since she was a small child. It’s in my wife’s family.”
Yes, it is. I remember now.
And I know she’s the one I have to take. Perfectly imperfect. Opposite her sisters.
Flawed.
Her hair feels like silk in my hand. Heavy, smooth silk.
I nod, turn my back.
“Her,” I say and walk out of the room.2HelenaI’m given one hour to say good-bye.
I pack no clothes. I take nothing personal. I’m not allowed, not even a single photograph, not my books, nothing.
This is harder than I thought. Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought.
Sebastian Scafoni chose me.
I am to be the next Willow Girl.
There was no way I should have been picked—not with my sisters among the pickings, not with the blood marking my sheath—and I am unprepared.
I’m wearing a black dress. It’s my funeral dress. Yes, at twenty-one, I own a designated funeral dress. It’s an A-line that covers me from just below my knees right up to my neck. Lace creates a complicated pattern along my collarbones and down my arms that’s only relieved in a ruffle at my throat and wrists.
It’s pretty, but I didn’t choose it to look pretty. I chose it because this occasion, it’s like a funeral and I want them all—Willow and Scafoni alike—to know I am in mourning.
Along with the dress, I put on my favorite Dr. Martens. I’ve had them forever and they look like it, but like I said, I’m not going for pretty.
Inside the Dr. Martens I’ve slipped my pocketknife, and to finish off my look, my hair’s in a tight ponytail and I’m wearing no makeup.
And for as defiant as I may appear, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and hugging my pillow to myself and trying not to cry.
Crap.
What a fool I am, thinking myself stronger than my sisters. Better able to survive this.
What he did in the library, how he…handled me, for lack of a better word—it makes me burn with humiliation. But also something else. Something that makes no sense. And if he can make me feel so confused in a matter of moments, what will he do in years?
What will be left of me when this is finished?
I shove the thought from my mind.
I can’t dwell there. I won’t.
As much as I try not to, my mind wanders to the last Willow Girl. She was my mother’s older sister. I was five when she came home, and I remember how she looked when she did. I remember how afraid of her I’d been because I’d thought her a ghost.
And she became one, soon enough. I still remember how she smelled when I went up to the attic that late summer night.
My bedroom door opens, and I quickly wipe the tears off my face and stand, dropping the pillow back on the bed and turning to see my mother wheeling my Great-aunt Helena into my room.
It takes all I have not to break down when I see her. Because if I’m to be gone for three years, I know I won’t ever see her again.
“Close the door,” Aunt Helena instructs my mother sharply.
“Aunty—” my mother starts.
My aunt doesn’t take her eyes off me. Even at her age, they’re fierce. And I’ve never been able to figure out why she’s never liked my mother.
