I don’t move one muscle in my face. I was a pupil of stillness my whole adolescence. It’s as natural as breathing.
Mr. Pratterman shrugs, looking back at the lighthouse. Candlelight flickers to life in the window of our living quarters, and a figure appears in profile. Liney. Her button nose and stubborn chin. A steam of breath is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Caroline would still answer to Forsyth,” he continues. “She did nothing but follow you. Certainly didn’t murder her parents.” He grins. “While you’ve given up the surname, she remains.”
“You made a deal with me. Not her,” I seethe.
Liney’s silhouette turns away from the window. But she was never there. Nothing in the dark dream is real. Not her, not the lighthouse, not the red wax spreading around my feet.
“When we made our deal, I was promised Miss Forsyth,” he reminds me. As if I could forget. As if I don’t dream of boiling candles and his lips on mine and wake up shivering. “She…could be argued to be the last remaining Forsyth.”
“I’m Miss Forsyth. Legally. You can’t take away my name for telling a ghost—”
Laughter drowns me out. His Highness of damnation holds too much merriment.
“It’s not that simple, Elle.” His face rearranges to feign sympathy. Lightning arcs above us. It lights the pallor of his face plainly: No shadows to hide within, no masks. Skin pulled taut over the bones underneath. Skeletal. “Words on paper don’t change the truth. You’re a kin slayer. But Caroline, darling Liney, belongs at home. With her fiancé.”
I can’t hide my scowl atLineycoming from his mouth, but I bite back a retort.
“Have you considered”—he pauses to catch my gaze with his white-beam eyes—“that if you’d left without her, she’d be Mrs. Seymour instead and wouldn’t be touched by our contract? In a way, this is your fault.”
My dream heart pounds. That’s not true. It can’t be. I saved her.
But there’s no use arguing with the Devil. It’s reverence he’s after, not pleas for mercy or semantics about surnames. Our truth is simpler. I wronged him, tried to cheat our agreement, so he’s hurting me. He once searched me for strength; now all he requires is compliance.
I kneel. The rock burns holes into my chemise. I swallow down a gasp at the pain.
“I’ll sacrifice the ship. If she’s off the table permanently.”
The fog around us whips into a flurry. Waves mix with the boiling wax. Mr. Pratterman’s clothes remain untouched, as do his stony features.
“I prefer the old Eleanor,” he admits, rubbing his palms together slowly while the edges of my vision blur. “You’re useless to me burnt out. Show me your fire. Then I’ll consider new terms.”
7Liney
To Fear
I dream of parties.
Dancers pack into hazy rooms with flickering candlelight and pyramids of flutes overflowing with champagne. Mirror walls and debutants. String music soars into my heart.
I’ve missed music. Dishwashing humming doesn’t compare.
“You look beautiful.”
Chamomile. I turn and there she is, still in her old-fashioned red silk. The other guests between us move out of our way like puppets, faces vague and shifting. She takes my hand in hers and turns us toward one of the wall mirrors.
The warm light plays well off my rosy cheeks and dark eyes. My hair is set in a complicated pile of braids and curls. Pink flowers weave through the blond segments in silk ribbons. The dress has a wide collar nearly falling off my shoulders and lined with delicate roses. It cinches into a deep V at my waist, but nothing constricts. Soft, short sleevesare edged with floral lace. Bows and more floral accents adorn the skirt itself, which poofs out thanks to the crinoline cage beneath.
I’m a bouquet, beautiful as the illustrations inGodey’s Lady’s Bookthat I use to paint in vibrant colors in lieu of attending parties myself. I was too sickly for most of my adolescence. It wasn’t until deep into my sister’s engagement that I was permitted to attend.
“The next dance is about to begin,” Chamomile says softly.
The music floats down to a stop. Voices rise to fill the silence, but I can’t grasp their meaning, only their applause to musicians I can’t see.
Chamomile squeezes my hand in hers. I can’t take my eyes off myself. I miss this. For the short time I was allowed, I excelled at society. The dressing, the dancing, the merrymaking. I’ve no head for figures nor a green thumb. But I could make the sourest lord laugh when my family needed the social cogs greased. No dance floor stood still once I entered. The rare occasions I was invited—with promises not to overexert myself—I was finally alive. Elle had her stories. I had a dance floor.
My eyes well with tears, but they’re not real. This is a dream. I can concoct an entire companion, but my mind can’t give into the temporary peace of believing this place.
