“A little fun,” Chamomile prods. A single string of a violin quivers into music. Dancers shuffle into starting positions. “You deserve it.”
It’s everything I left behind. The rush of heat to my cheeks during a quadrille. The swirls of smoke above the dancers. The laughter especially. My own, Chamomile’s. The jubilation that comes only when you’re part of something larger than yourself.
Chamomile leads me to the dance floor between vibrant, anonymous pairs. Up and down the aisle, we are a mix of dresses and suits, scattered in all combinations. I dance in lanes with Chamomile, then another woman in a vibrant emerald suit, and farther down the line with an endless display of beautiful, faceless people.
But I’m too aware, even in this rose-tinted dream. Sweat and perfume mix into a heady sweetness, beckoning me deeper into the fantasy, but my melancholia lifts me back to the surface.
You deserve it.Chamomile’s words echo as I arc around a woman with butterflies in her hair, wings beating in time with the music. The dance lures me with the promise of everything I can’t have. My breath doesn’t heave, my feet don’t hurt, and I’m not promised to anyone.
Chamomile, my angler fish. I could drown in my want. To leave the island, to stop the storm, to hold my parents close again.
Chamomile appears before me again. We touch hands, hers in white satin gloves and mine trembling. Her hazel eyes reflect the firelight like a cat. We move in a small circle, the rest of the room dissolved into soft brushstrokes of chiffon, mahogany, and firelight.
My steps splash. Shallow water coats the dance floor. It’s rising.
I often dream of water swallowing me up, pulling me somewhere I can’t see. Ripples of the first and last time I swam. But my ocean and rosy dreams have never crossed before.
The water doubles the reflections around us. Chamomile is everywhere. Excitement has hitched in my throat into something dangerous. The water billows my dress around me. Chamomile hasn’t noticed how our rhythm has slowed out of pace with the music.
You’re me, I want to scream,reflected back. Nothing more. Nothing at all.
“You look sad,” Chamomile says. She searches my expression as the water covers our joined hands. “Isn’t this what you want?”
“I want to wake up.”
Darkness. Cold salt air against my cheeks. I miss the heat of the ballroom immediately.
My eyes adjust to the snow-reflected red light through the shutter’s cracks. Chamomile’s over me, her face inches away. The light’s color makes her eyes shine.
Despite the warmth of the blankets, my exhaustion, and the presence of my imaginary friend, the urge to get out floods through me.
You’re safe here, Chamomile whispers.I’ll keep you warm. How about a dream in the garden? Sunflowers, sunshine—
“Get off me.”
My sharpness and the weight of my words surprise her. My voice is usually airy, untethered. Unlike Elle’s deeper resonance or Chamomile’s sardonic tone.
Chamomile shifts to the other side of the bed. Her big, sad eyes are framed by curls my grandmother might have fashioned, and her silk dress only heightens how out of place she is.
You must be careful,she begins, but any more is lost as I throw off my blankets and place two firm, bare feet on the cold plank floor.
“I can handle a little cold.”
Elle has the wool coat upstairs. I fashion a robe out of a blanket and tie it with a spare bit of rope instead. My socks are warm from the fire’s embers when I slide them on.
Do you not like me anymore?
She pierces the armor I’ve made for myself as I reach for the staircase banister. She’s still on the bed, collapsed like a rag doll. That’s all she is, and yet—
No. Not anotherand yet. When will my self-infatuations stop? Do I really need to be the center of attention so badly?
“This isn’t about you,” I hiss. “You made me fight Elle. You filled me with resentment. I’m going to make things right.”
And you think you can just climb up there? Where you’re not wanted?
A cold, rushing wave surges in me at her. Like the ballroom water, waking me. This is the distance I need from Chamomile.
“I know my sister.”
