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Elegance just scoffs, crossing her arms in that haughty way she always does. “Doomed to die? You mean you don’t know what that is?”
The way her pitch rises makes me wonder if perhaps I should know.
“Of course I know what it is,” I practically spit, though it’s not at all the truth, and Elegance can surely sense it.
“I forget sometimes that your mother didn’t bother to educate you in the ways of the world.”
The way she says it makes it sound as if it was my mother’s fault that she died before I could form any memories of her.
“Well, I’m sure the all-knowing Elegance will be happy to educate me,” I say, only half under my breath.
My stepsister opens her mouth, her face full of condescension, but then she hesitates and snaps it shut. She uncrosses her arms and walks over to my bedroom door. The latch clicks as she locks me in with her.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s trapped me in here so I’ll bleed out before I have the chance to alert Father’s physician, but then she says, “Don’t fret, little sister. You’re not going to die.”
“Coming from you, I can’t say that brings me much comfort.” I waltz past her over to the door, ready to throw myself at it and scream for help if I have to, but something about Elegance’s next words gives me pause.
“It’s a curse,” she blurts out. “I purchased it from Madame LeFleur’s shop,” she goes on to explain. “It’s relatively harmless, don’t worry. But once every mooncycle, it’ll have you bleeding for a few days. And in pain.”
As if in answer, my abdomen and thighs throb and ache, like they did throughout the night.
I should be more furious than I am, but at the moment, I’m just glad not to be dying. Besides, Elegance’s words pique my curiosity. If she could purchase a curse that causes me to bleed once every mooncycle, what kind of curses might the Madame be willing to sell me?
I can think of a certain stepmother who might be in need of a curse.
“What do you want?” I ask, ready to accept my Fate at this point.
Elegance strides over to my chaise and sits down. Well, she doesn’t as much sit as she perches. Elegance has a way of making everyday movements seem like a stage production.
“Whatsoever do you mean, little sister?” she says in that sickly sweet tone that she only ever uses with me and her mother. I know that’s not her preferred voice, because I’ve heard her talk to men twice her age in that deep, sultry growl that makes her sound a decade older and wiser.
I place my hands on my hips. “I know you cursed me for a reason. What do you want in exchange for the antidote?”
“Oh!” She makes an exaggerated gesture with her hands, her tacky rings sparkling in the sunlight coming through my window. Elegance glances around my room, taking it in.
My heart deflates.
My bed is lovely, bloodstained sheets notwithstanding. It’s made of glazed oak and has four posts, each of which has a carving of merpeople at the top. The walls of my room are a pleasant lavender, and my mother purchased the pastel, multicolored rug from a Naenden merchant when she was expecting me.
It’s the largest room in the house, next to my father’s.
Elegance claps her hands together gently enough that they make no sound. I wonder if she spends her free time practicing making every motion, every gesture appear as delicate as possible.
I know what she wants before she asks for it.
In the end, I bargain away my room in exchange for the antidote, though Elegance informs me after the fact that it will take Madame LeFleur up to six months to brew.
I don’t feel good about brokering the deal, but what else am I to do? My father is too ill to bother him with it—I’m just grateful he’s lived as long as he has—and Clarissa will probably find the situation to be an amusing prank, “the sort of thing young girls are apt to do and must figure out between themselves.”
That was three mooncycles ago, and though Elegance hasn’t provided me with an antidote yet, and I’m stuck up in the attic (because Clarissa refused to move me into Elegance’s old bed, claiming Chrys needed a room to herself), when I wake two months in a row without blood staining my sheets, I can’t help but be grateful the curse has worn off on its own.
The next timeI attempt cooking breakfast for my father, the noxious scent of eggs has me vomiting all over the kitchen floor.
I’m mortified, and once I clean it up, I inform the cook that the eggs must have gone rotten.
It happens again the next day.
By the third day, I’ve determined that our chickens must have contracted a disease.
