For a moment, that’s all I want. I want to die here in the dark, dancing for my grandmother one last time. I want to be with her there in the mirror, or in heaven, or in a fresh grave next to hers. It doesn’t matter where as long as I can see her again.
But I promised Emily. Last night I promised her that I would try to live, to believe that I can be saved. Baba Nadia wouldn’t want me to go back on my word. She always said that you have only one promise to give and if you break it, you can never truly make another one.
I promised Emily I would try.
I lower my arm, letting it fall forward onto the mirror where it meets Baba Nadia’s reaching hand.
“Skora uvidimcya,” I whisper.
See you soon.
I make my way through the shadowy corridors of the studio, retracing my steps back toward the light. My breath feels thick and sticky, the air pushing in and out of my lungs as if fighting against a barrier each way.
The house and studio are separated by only a small garden, but it might as well be an entire content. Halfway across, the pain in my chest returns and forces me to my knees. With shaking fingers, I brush away a low-hanging lilac blossom that tickles my face as I lean against an artfully placed boulder for support.
“What is your name?”
I squint. Sadra stands before me, a determined glint in her eye. I’m standing, too, wondering when and how I got to my feet. But then Emily calls me, and I’m crouched again in the shadow of the lilac bush. Or are they roses?
* * *
“Give me your name, Cygnet.”
I don’t like to hear her call me Cygnet. It’s not my name. Coming from her, my friend, it hurts. I want to tell her—I can almost remember—I want to say it out loud, but I can’t. She knows that.
“What is your name? Tell me.”
* * *
“Sasha,” I mumble. “I’m Sasha.”
“Sasha?” Emily is calling me again. She sounds scared.
* * *
“Cygnet! Pay attention.” Sadra holds me by the shoulders, looking deep into my eyes. She’s so pretty and strong. I wish I could be like her. “You must tell me your name. You must speak to me.”
Why does she keep demanding that I speak, as if I have a choice about it? I have no voice. We both know that. I’m a slave, a nothing. That’s just the way it is. How could it be any different?
But a little voice in my head protests. I do have a voice, it says.
I do have a name.
Remember.
Speak.
* * *
I force myself to my feet, but fear makes my legs weak. Emily. I want Emily. I need to tell her that I’ve changed my mind, that I want to go to the hospital. I want them to fix me.
I don’t want to die.
I open my mouth to cry out, to call for Emily, but the words don’t come.
My voice is gone.
* * *
“That’s it.” Sadra squeezes my shoulders. “Yes, that’s it. You can do it.”
“Ss…Ssaah…” I hiss through my teeth, my face scrunched up with effort. I feel like I’m trying to do something that my brain just doesn’t want to do. But I want to do it. I want it so badly it hurts. My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. My body shakes. Speak, I shout inside my head. Speak.
Speak.
II
Act Two: Sotto
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”
-Edgar Allan Poe
Couru
“Ssss…Ssss…Sa-SASHA.”
Sadra’s eyes go wide. I stare back at her, my mouth hanging open. Then she whoops in excitement, grabbing my hands and swinging me around in a circle. I break away from her and stumble into the barre. I clutch at it, my head spinning.
The wooden carvings under my hand turn into a whirl of images tearing across my eyes: A dead boy, a man with a scar reaching for my necklace and tearing it from my neck. Hunger, cold, fear, despair…and pain. Terrible pain. A woman slapping me then kissing my face—Ismeni. Cimari, Dove…Sadra.
They’re memories. My memories, yet at the same time completely foreign. They belong to the other girl, the other Sasha.
They belong to Cygnet.
“Sasha,” she says. “That’s your name?”
“Wh-What? What i-isss…” I don’t recognize the words that I force out of my mouth, but I understand them. “How—”
“Sasha and Sadra,” she says. She smiles at me and taps her ear. “It sounds nice together, doesn’t it?”
I back away from her, dragging myself along the barre. “Y-you did this. You took me. You huhh…huh…hurt me.”
“What?” Sadra’s face goes blank with shock. “No, Sasha. I’m your friend. I helped you. You were—”
I shake my head, cutting her off, because I already know. I was empty, lost in the fog. I was without thought, drifting through each day, my only emotion a dull sort of cheerfulness. I followed orders placidly, never thinking to question my state, my being.
People poked me, prodded me, slapped me around, and I never lifted a finger to stop them. I never wanted to stop them. I just wanted to do better.
A low moan escapes my lips. The weight of my shock, my shame, sends me crashing to the ground. I brace myself on hands and knees, my wrists trembling from the impact. Bile scorches my throat and sinuses, but I don’t let it out. The muscles in my neck seize and twist with the strain, making my head and shoulders heave.
As I fight to recover, Sadra rubs my back and murmurs soothing nonsense under her breath. Finally, the pressure subsides, and I let my head hang between my shoulders. After a moment, I push Sadra away and struggle to my feet, wiping my mouth and nose with the back of my hand.
“Stay away,” I say. “No more. No more.”
“Cygnet—I mean, Sasha—wait!”
But I’m already gone, staggering through the garden paths. I’m confused—I know my way back but not how or why I know, or where I want to go. Sometimes I see the garden of my dreams and sometimes I see my garden at home—or was that the dream?
Dogwood trees merge with rose of Sharon; irises shiver and blink and become day lilies. All around me, colors and shapes swirl together as my brain struggles to make sense of this new reality.
Dove finds me braced against the garden wall; my forehead pressed against the cool stone. I whip around as she approaches, falling into a defensive crouch. Her eyes are almost as frightened as my own. She takes my arm, her fingers digging painfully into the flesh above my elbow as she hauls me roughly upright.
I open my mouth to protest. She slaps it shut.
Holding a hand to my face, I stare at her in shock and start to back away, preparing to run—if I can. She holds a hand up in an easily recognizable message: Stop.
I do. I hate how natural it feels, how automatically I obey her command. She breathes deeply in through her nose, motioning upward with her hand. She blows gently, letting the air slip out through rounded lips. I almost laugh. In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like Emily used to say.
When I’m calmer, Dove takes my face between her weathered hands and looks me in the eye, making sure she has my attention. She passes a hand over her face, smoothing away all expression until it forms a familiar, doll-like facade. Then she makes eye contact once again and draws her finger across her throat. Her eyes bore into mine, willing me to understand.
She draws her hand across my face and her finger across my throat. Pretend, she is telling me, or they’ll kill you. I believe her.
* * *
I lie awake.
My heart pounds; saliva floods my mouth. My head and my stomach spin around and around until I think I’m going to be sick. I swing my legs off the narrow cot and put my head in my hands. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Don’t moan. Don’t cry. Just breathe.
I spent all day carefully, almost obsessively, monitoring my expressions, my posture, my every movement. Through it all, I kept waiting, hoping for some secret message,
some sign from Sadra that she would keep her promise. I remember, now, how she found me in the garden and tried to make me understand.
I’ll help you, she said. But how? When? And, above all, why? I doubt very much that she found me by chance, and I doubt even more that she’s doing—whatever she’s doing—out of simple curiosity or the goodness of her heart.
I should just go to sleep. Even if unconsciousness doesn’t transport me back home—and I strongly suspect that it won’t, despite the initial surge of hope I felt when the idea first occurred to me—it will at least reduce the amount of time I have to spend waiting for answers.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Every breath is a struggle against the waves of panic beating against my mind. My feet itch with the need to move, to do something. Anxiety ripples up and down my body, making the skin of my back crawl and twitch with nerves.
Every instinct screams at me to run, or fight. But there’s no one to fight, and nowhere to run.
I lift my head from my hands and stare at the door, lit by a small strip of moonlight coming in the window. My heartbeat grows louder in my ears as my vision begins to blur and shift. The walls seem to expand and contract with each ragged breath, drawing closer and a closer around me. Panic spills over. I can’t do it—I can’t wait.
I have to go. Now.
I rise, driven by a single, all-consuming thought: Find Sadra. But where does she sleep? In Orean’s chamber or in her own? Not that it matters, since I don’t know where to find either. But I do know where the garden is, and I know that’s where it happened—whatever it is. Sadra might realize that it’s the only place I would think to go, and that I might be desperate enough to try.
I slip into the night, scurrying down the stairs and through our small courtyard until I come to the garden door. I ease it open and flit from shadow to shadow, every nerve ablaze with fear. The garden looks different at night, the beautiful plants and sculptures transformed by moonlight and shadows into something sinister and grotesque. My legs shake so badly I’m afraid I can’t go on. But I do, because I must. I’ve done a stupid, dangerous thing, and now I have to try to make it worth the risk.
Finally, I creep into my corner of the garden and look around. My heart plummets. The clearing is empty. But I try, just in case.
Softly, I call, “Sadra?” And again, “Sadra, please. Sadra.”
She’s not here.
Blood drains from my face and seems to pool somewhere around my feet. My head swimming, I lower myself to the ground and crouch among the roses with my arms wrapped around my stomach: Inhale, exhale. Repeat.
For several long minutes, I do nothing but quiver in the shadows. My limbs seem locked into place, paralyzed by fear. But staying here would be even more foolish than leaving my room in the first place, and the longer I stay, the more likely discovery becomes. I have to go.
Shaking, I take one step onto the path. Then another, and another. I block out the little voice that whispers of terrible possibilities and unknowns. If I think about what will happen if I’m caught, I’ll be too scared to move.
It takes less than ten minutes to cross the garden, but it seems like several years. When I reach the door, my legs go weak with relief and I have to lean against the ivy-covered wood for a moment.
It’s alright, I tell myself. You did it. You’re safe.
I reach for the wrought iron handle and pull.
The door doesn’t move.
I try again, harder this time. Nothing happens.
Breathing hard, I yank on the handle as hard as I can, putting every muscle I have into the effort. The door doesn’t budge, doesn’t even creak. Instead, it remains spitefully, unnaturally still.
I turn away and press my hands against my head, desperately considering my options. Can I climb the wall? No, too high. Can I break the door down somehow? No, too loud—and too stupid. Is there another entrance? No—wait. There is.
I set out once more, making sure to stay in the shadow of the wall. There’s a small tree beside the kitchen courtyard that I think I can climb, and the vines covering the walls there are thicker, sturdy enough to hold my weight.
I hope.
The short dash to the kitchen courtyard, though agonizing, passes without incident. I try the door, just in case, but this one too seems to be equipped with the same strange locking mechanism. I find the tree and ascend as silently as I can manage. The top of the wall is just close enough that I can stand on the last sturdy branch and haul myself up, though I scrape my elbows and shins in the process.
I slither over the other side immediately, clinging to the climbing vines and scrabbling for a foothold that isn’t there. My stomach lurches as the vines break, sending me tumbling. I hit the ground with a thump that knocks the air right out of my lungs. My diaphragm seems to have forgotten how to function, but my ears work just fine: Someone is inside the kitchen.
I drag myself upright and cast around, desperately searching for a place to hide. But there’s nothing, nothing! I have to move, at least, away from the tell-tale broken vines.
Oh, I am so dead. So dead and so very, very stupid. But it’s too late for that—focus!
The kitchen door swings open, revealing a slim silhouette. When the figure steps out into the courtyard, the light spilling out of the door reveals Cimari’s face, alight with curiosity. A glowing orb appears in her hand, seemingly from nowhere, and she holds it up, peering into the shadows. I force my muscles to relax and my eyes to soften into mild neutrality. My only hope now is to play my part as convincingly as I can.
Cimari’s eyes find me quickly and immediately narrow in suspicion. “And what are you doing out here, little doll? I wonder.”
She studies me for a moment and then nods abruptly, turning on her heel. “Come with me,” she calls over her shoulder.
She doesn’t wait or even turn to look and make sure I’m following because of course she knows I’ll obey. I’m a thrall.
So I trail after her, my movements as smooth and calm as I can make them. While we walk, I wrestle with my body’s reaction to this latest disaster. A thrall’s heart wouldn’t race, nor would a thrall’s breath come so fast. A thrall’s forehead wouldn’t bead with sweat.
If she sees any of it, the game is up, and I don’t want to know what happens if I lose.
It’s hard, nearly impossible…but only nearly. Though my mind is racing, wondering where we’re going and what will happen when we get there, my face and body form a perfect facade of indifference. I am, if nothing else, a performer. I control my body, my face. They can’t take that from me. If Cimari looks back, she won’t see my fear or confusion. All she’ll see is a thrall.
Finally, Cimari stops and raps on a door. No one answers.
My heart gives a little lurch in another attempt to start pounding again. While we were walking, my attention was so consumed with maintaining my mask that any notice of my surroundings escaped me completely. Now, I let my eyes flick ever so slightly over the dark corridor. Torchlight illuminates tapestries depicting scenes of violence and domination: hunts, battles, boozing—and women. I look away in disgust. I’ve never been in this part of the house before, but I have an idea of where we might be. And if I’m right…
I’m right. Cimari knocks again, and this time the door cracks open to reveal Orean’s angry face. His expression softens, though, when he sees his sister. The door opens wider, and he leans against the doorframe. His hair is rumpled, and his robe looks as though it was thrown on in haste over…nothing. Ugh.
“What is it, child?” he asks. “You should be asleep. You have your lesson with the Premier in the morning.”
“I know,” she says, dimpling.
I blink at the sudden change in her demeanor. She seems almost…nice. No, more than nice. Engaging. Charming, even. It unsettles me.
Cimari moves, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “And I wanted your permission to present this thrall to him.”
Orean closes his eyes and sighs.
“Cimari, no. We’ve already lost one thrall to this foolishness—a thrall that turned out to be perfectly safe, may I remind you.”
“But it was out of its chamber, wandering about,” she insists, her gray eyes wide with innocent concern. “My betrothed said—”
“My wife is overly indulgent with her pets,” Orean says dismissively. “Nothing more. I will not be embarrassed again, Cimari. Go to bed.”
“But—”
“No,” Orean says firmly. “I’ve only just returned from Council, and I am weary. I will tell you once more, sister, and you will obey me without any more tricks—Go to bed.”
Cimari blushes. Her lower lip creeps out ever so slightly and I realize with a start that she’s no older than I am: Her usual haughty expression and cruel little smile make her seem older. The thought that someone so young could be so cold is unnerving, even in my current state.
“What shall I do with this, then?” she asks, jerking her head in my direction. Her veil of sweetness is gone as suddenly as it came.
“Leave it here,” Orean says. “I’ll deliver it to my wife in the morning.”
Cimari smirks at this. She gives me a long, measuring look and then turns, leaving me alone with Orean. He pulls me into the chamber with a sharp jerk. I stumble and land hard on my hands and knees but get up immediately, resuming a poised, neutral stance.
“My sister has brought us a toy,” Orean announces.
“I see that.”
My heart stops; I know that voice. I peek through my lashes and see Sadra reclining against the pillows, clad in nothing but bedsheets and the rings on her fingers. Revulsion creeps over me in a slow, clammy ooze as I realize what Orean has in mind.
Sadra rises, wrapping herself in a length of silk, and moves toward us with a sensual sway in her hips. There’s a glint in her eye and a wicked little smile on her lips—nothing to suggest she knows me or cares at all about what Orean means to do with me. I force myself to relax as Orean slips my shawl off my shoulders. It puddles on the floor, followed a moment later by the shift I wore to bed.
The Chalice and the Crown Page 8