A flash of white among the roses draws me further into the thicket. There, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight slanting over the cliff face, is a marble swan. I trace the stone feathers, each one exquisitely detailed. The wings are slightly extended, as if the swan is about to take flight. I frown as knowledge stirs sluggishly under my skin.
My eyes travel over the proud curve of the swan’s head, and two flashes of insight blaze in quick succession. First, a word. The word, the one Ismeni uses to call me. I know what it means— swan. She’s been calling me Cygnet. That’s my name.
Second, denial. My name isn’t Cygnet. I know it in my bones. But if Cygnet isn’t my name, what is?
Frowning, I back away from the swan statue and turn. Nestled against the rock wall is a small, empty pool surrounded by a beautifully carved wooden rail at waist-height. I lay my hand on it, still troubled by my newfound realizations.
Maybe it’s just that unease that makes the carvings under my hand feel wrong. I want the rail to be smooth. But the motion feels natural, more natural than anything I can remember feeling for…I don’t know how long. My other hand rises, seemingly of its own volition. I bend sideways and reach over my head. The stretch in my side feels nice. I do the same thing with my other arm.
I do it again, this time bending my knee over flexed toes. I don’t know where the motions are coming from. It scares me, but it feels too good to stop. I sink into deep squats with my toes pointed outward. My skirts get in the way, so I pull them up around my waist and use one of my many sashes to keep them there.
Next I rise on my toes and stretch my feet. I bend down over straight knees, feeling the tension at the back of my legs. I reach out with pointed toes to the side, in front, behind, each time rotating my leg from the hip. I sweep each leg across my body and back, dragging my toes along the ground. I touch pointed toes to my knee and stretch my leg out from my body in a perfectly straight line before bringing my toes back to my knee.
Each movement flows into the next, as naturally as one breath follows another. I continue, enthralled, as strange words pass through my head: Plié. Relevé. Passé. Tendu. I don’t know what they mean, but I like the shape of them. I turn them over in my mind, examining each syllable. Like the touch of the wooden rail, they feel familiar. But why?
* * *
I come to on the floor in the hallway outside my room. My breaths are short and shallow. My head spins. Images flash through my mind, sharp and painfully clear: An auburn-haired woman beams as she ties a silk ribbon around my wrist and leads me from the line of slaves; sunlight flares as I step out of a litter, then disappears into shadow as the lady leads me into the shadow of a narrow ravine; a tiny, dark haired woman takes my hand and leads me through the halls of an opulent villa.
The visions—or memories—come hard and fast, tumbling over each other. I moan into the carpet and clutch my head, hissing in pain. Is this another panic attack? Emily knows what to do about those. I need to find her—no. No, I need my phone. I remember, now. Emily is at the theater, dealing with some snag in the production.
I lurch first onto my hands and knees, then to my feet. Where is my phone? I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last place I saw it. The kitchen, I think. I take a step toward the stairs, and weakness floods through my legs. I clutch at the banister and make my way one stair at a time. It takes ages, so long that I begin to notice things I never thought about before. Has this scratch in the bannister always been there? Has that step always creaked? And the carpeting—was it always so mottled? It’s all different shades of beige and brown. Is that right?
By the time I reach the bottom, I know something is terribly wrong. This isn’t my house. I must have left the house while I was—asleep? Unconscious? Bozhe, where am I? Whose house have I broken into?
I creep into the kitchen and whimper in relief when I find my phone on the kitchen table. I hadn’t imagined that, at least. I snatch it up and navigate to my favorites. My finger hesitates over Emily’s name. What am I going to tell her? She’s going to freak out. As she should—she didn’t sign up for this. She may have agreed to be my guardian, but she’s not even thirty. She shouldn’t have to deal with this insanity. No. I won’t call her.
I scroll down and click on a different name. The phone begins to ring, and I hold my breath.
“Hello?”
“Dave?” My hand shakes as I press the phone to my ear. “Are—are you doing anything right now?”
“I just got home. Don’t tell me you want to rehearse again. We have three performances this weekend—”
“It’s not that.” I close my eyes. “I need—I’m—Can you come get me?”
There’s a beat of silence, then, “Where are you?”
My gaze skitters over the tall stools nestled against the counter, the vase of flowers on the windowsill, the bright yellow wallpaper. I don’t recognize any of it.
“I don’t know.” I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. “I don’t know where I am.”
“Okay—okay, stay calm. Um, look around,” he says. “What do you see?”
“I’m in someone’s kitchen.” My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, but I force myself to focus. “Yellow wallpaper, white curtains. There’s a painting of a chef next to the stove. I shouldn’t be here. I should leave.”
“No,” he says sharply. “Stay there—I’m coming. I know where you are.”
I scan the room, desperately searching for some spark of recognition. My eyes catch on the refrigerator, and everything else goes dark. Sound—music—replaces vision, shrouding my mind like a mist.
Bayu, bayushki, bayu.
I draw a ragged breath, my chest heaving with the effort, and whisper into the phone.
“Dave—there are pictures on the refrigerator. Pictures of me.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just hold tight. I’ll be there in ten.”
Dave stays on the phone with me while he drives, trying to help me stave off the panic attack. I’m too scared to be annoyed at his overly earnest tone. I just huddle on the floor and do as he says, breathing in through the nose, and out through the mouth until he appears at the kitchen door. I get up immediately and try to push by him.
“Let’s go,” I gasp. “Hurry—someone might come. I want to go home.”
“Sasha.” He stops me with his hands on my shoulders. “You are home. This is your house.”
“What? No. It’s not, it’s… it’s…”
I look around, suddenly unsure. But then a door slams in the hallway. My heart slams once against my chest, then flutters weakly. I turn to Dave, clutching at him with shaking hands.
“Someone’s here,” I hiss. “We have to go.”
“No, Sasha—”
“Sasha?” It’s a man’s voice. “Is that you? Em?”
“Who…?” I lean away, trying to tug my arm out of Dave’s hold.
“It’s just James,” he says. “It’s okay, calm down—”
“Dave?” The man pokes his head into the kitchen. “Oh, good, I thought it was just going to be Sasha. You’re here to rehearse?”
I don’t say anything. I just stare at him, my whole body shaking. His eyes sharpen and he raises a hand, as if to reach for me. Another man flashes before my eyes, red faced and red robed, laughing as the auburn-haired lady ties the ribbon around my wrist.
“Don’t touch me." My voice comes out in a harsh, strangled whisper. The younger man’s hand is still on my arm. I wrench away and press my back to the wall. “Get away from me.”
The men’s eyes flick to each other, then return to me. They move back to a safe distance, but don’t look away. The older one pulls out a cell phone as I sink to my knees, my hands plastered against the wall for support.
Dark spots dance in front of my eyes—I feel sick.
“Emily,” I hear the man say. “You need to come home. Now.”
en Dedans
Ismeni’s husband Orean bellows at her, veins popping out in his neck. Her only respo
nse is to throw a vase at his head. She does it with only a flick of the wrist—she doesn’t lay a finger on the vase, but it somehow flies through the air like a missile. It surprises me every time I see her do something like that, though I’m not sure why. She does it all the time.
While Ismeni and Orean snarl at each other, Dove and I do our best to melt into the wall. Orean likes to hit things, and all too often an unlucky slave is what gets hit.
I’m not totally sure what they’re fighting about, but I think it has to do with the dark-haired beauty Orean brought home. I know she’s not a slave; I heard her speak. Even if I hadn’t, I would have known. No slave ever carried herself with such supreme self-assurance. She confronted the gathered household not like a newcomer under scrutiny but like a lioness observing a herd of gazelles.
No, she’s no slave. I think she must be Orean’s lover. I can’t imagine what else would make Ismeni so angry.
Ismeni hurls a silver goblet next, this time aiming lower. As Orean frantically shields himself, she turns on her heel and sweeps away. Dove and I trail after her. I wonder idly how Ismeni can move so quickly without any appearance of hurry. If it weren’t for the telltale flutter of her skirts, you’d think she was floating.
I hope Ismeni isn’t too upset to let us into the garden. I need to go back to the wooden rail.
I feel my brow furrow into an unaccustomed expression of anxiety. The muscles of my face feel stiff, as if they’ve gone unused for too long. My heart pounds, rattling against my rib cage with each beat. The physical sensations scare me. I think I haven’t felt this much for a long time. I think I forgot how.
I forget so many things.
* * *
I open my eyes and flinch at the glare of sunlight slanting through the car windshield. Where am I? Who—I squint at the driver and go limp with relief. Emily came. Emily saved me. A whimper slips through my lips, and Emily squeezes my hand. Her fingers are slick with sweat, but her voice is as soothing and steady as always.
“It’s okay, baby, we’re almost there.”
She brushes my hair out of my face haphazardly, her eyes on the road. I moan and twist against the seat belt digging into my hip bones.
“Pull over,” I croak. “I’m going to be sick. I—”
* * *
I hurry through the garden, drawn relentlessly to the rail—the barre. I need it. It’s like a drug…or like medicine. The more I practice, the more alert I feel.
At first, I thought it was just a byproduct of my growing physical strength, but I’ve become increasingly certain that it’s more than that. My dreams have become more and more vivid, filled with fantastical images and people who seem familiar despite their outlandish clothing. They speak to me in a strange language—and I understand them. But I can never remember what they say.
I’m sure my grasp of my mistress’s language is improving much more quickly than it was before I found the barre. I responded appropriately to more than half her commands yesterday, without Dove’s help. I even understood her when she said goodnight at the end of the day.
I reach the barre and begin the familiar-not-familiar motions. My muscles stretch and contract smoothly with the occasional twinge as my limbs form new shapes seemingly on their own. I lose myself in it, thinking of nothing but the moment.
“Beautiful.”
I spin around, clutching the barre for support. The girl—Orean’s lover—approaches and lays a hand on the barre. She imitates me, stretching her leg out behind her in what’s actually a pretty good arabesque. She grins and motions for me to continue, but I back away, my heart pounding. My eyes dart to the path. I wonder if I should make a run for it.
The girl moves to block me off, holding her hands out. She speaks softly and soothingly, but I catch maybe one word in five. She must see the confusion on my face because she stops chattering and places a hand on her chest and says,
“Sadra.”
She looks at me half expectantly, but she must know that I can’t answer her. Just in case, I try. Cygnet, I try to say. My name is Cygnet. Nothing comes out, but that’s not why I frown. It feels wrong—Cygnet. Definitely wrong.
But if that’s wrong, what’s right?
“My name is Sadra,” she says again. “I’ve come to help you.”
She moves her hand from her chest to mine, and I flinch away. She holds me firmly by the shoulders and looks me in the eye. I get distracted by the unusual color of her eyes, a light honey-cinnamon that contrasts oddly with the smooth brown of her skin. Dark, wild curls tumble over her shoulders and kiss her cheeks. She taps my collarbone to get my attention, and my gaze catches on a swirl of inked roses on her chest, just below the hollow of her throat.
“Understand?” she asks. “I will help you.”
Help me? I frown. Help me do what? I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong, exactly, though I suspect that Ismeni—and Orean—wouldn’t like it. Perhaps she knows what the motions are. Yes, that must be what she means. I return to the barre and continue with my routine. She watches me, her eyes sad. But after a while, she joins me.
She copies my motions, following my lead. It makes me feel good, somehow. Like I know something. She lets me follow her, too. She shows me a short series of movements that incorporate her whole body, even her head and hands. It’s lovely. I try to copy her, and she puts a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. She shows me again, more slowly, while I watch and move with her.
This time I get it.
She points to me, raising her eyebrows. I spin, whipping my foot around. Fouetté. As before, the word appears out of nowhere. Or like it was there all along and I never noticed it.
As I turn, my skirt flies up. This time Sadra can’t hide her amusement. I smile back sheepishly, wishing I could laugh with her. She seems nice.
I let her come toward me, though I watch her warily. She plucks my sash away, letting my skirts fall.
“Tie them,” she says, making the motions with her hands. “Like this.”
She points to her own skirts and pulls aside a flap in the front, showing me that they’re not skirts at all but very loose trousers. I tie my skirts between my knees to make trousers of my own—sort of. They’ll do, anyway. I wish I’d thought of it sooner.
“Again?” Sadra wiggles her finger in a circle and points to me.
I show her the fuette once more. Her first attempt is no better than mine, which makes me feel better. I can’t laugh when she falls on her behind, but she can, and she does. I decide I like her. I’m sorry when I have to leave. Before I go, she squeezes my arm gently.
“Tomorrow,” she says, laying a hand over her mouth and mine. “I won’t tell.”
* * *
I clap my hand over my mouth as if I can physically force my stomach back into its proper place. The glowing red letters of the emergency room glare down at me through the car window. Emily’s already fumbling with my seat belt, unbuckling me like I’m a child. I need to get a hold on myself. Right now.
I know the truth. I know I’m not going to get better. But Emily can never know how bad it really is, not until I’m gone. It’ll be quick—for one of us, at least. She won’t know. I won’t let her suffer the descent with me.
I wave Emily away and step onto the cracked asphalt of the hospital parking lot, breathe in the sharp spring air. The sun hasn’t yet set. I’m awake. I’m in control. I’m fine.
* * *
I sit huddled in my chair with my arms and legs crossed, limbs drawn so tightly together I feel like a pretzel. A wrinkled old man in a white coat sits across from me, his eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. His demeanor is friendly and warm. Charming, even.
I want nothing to do with him.
“So, Sasha—”
“Aleksandra.” I lift my chin and look him in the eye. I don’t smile.
“Sasha!” Emily glares at me; I ignore her.
“Aleksandra, then.” The doctor glances at his pad, unperturbed. “I’m Dr. Hadley. I understand you had a bit of
a scary moment this afternoon.”
I shrug. “Yeah. But I’m fine now.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
“Sasha, please,” Emily hisses. She looks apologetically at the doctor. “It was a long wait.”
I snort. “That’s what happens when you go to the emergency room and you’re not gushing blood.”
Dr. Hadley’s mouth twitches before he looks down again. It makes me like him a little better. Or hate him a little less, if it even makes a difference.
I’m mad at him, mad at Emily, mad at myself. This petulant, snotty brat—it isn’t me. I’m supposed to be mature and responsible and poised. Once upon a time, I was all of those things and more. But now more than ever I can’t let anyone know that I’m sick. That I’m going to die.
“So tell me what’s been going on,” the doctor says, and I press my lips together.
Emily fills him in instead, glancing from time to time at a little red notebook. My eyes widen in a sort of awed horror. She’s been writing down everything that’s been happening to me, both physical and—I force myself to acknowledge it—mental. She’s been taking notes, just like Baba Nadia did for my mother. Emily tells the doctor everything, even the sleeping pills I’d been sneaking when I thought she didn’t notice.
Even the voices I heard after opening night.
Even the nightmares.
“Dave told you.” I swallow, blinking back tears. “He had no right.”
“He was worried about you,” Emily says gently. “We all are.”
“It could be side effects from the sleeping pills,” Dr. Hadley says. “Do you drink?”
I blink. “What?”
“Alcohol compounds the pills’ effects,” he says. “It could explain some of your symptoms.”
I gape at him, then turn to Emily, waiting for her to laugh.
“It’s okay,” Emily says quickly. “No one’s going to be mad.”
My lip trembles. What have I done that she’s so ready to think the worst of me? Unless she knows—and she might. She had all those notes. She’s clearly noticed more than I thought. A cold knot of fear tightens in my chest. But I clear my throat and answer as if a piece of me hasn’t just died.
The Chalice and the Crown Page 5