by Ash Krafton
She spent the remainder of the evening alone, reading. Pretending to read, at least. When the candle began to sputter, she decided it would be best to go to bed.
But she wasn’t tired, not in the least. No fatigue, no tired eyes, not even the pretense of a yawn.
But what else was there to do?
So, she went about doing the things she did every night. Brushed her hair, changed into a sleeping gown, sought out her parents to bid goodnight. Mother eyed her, part suspicion, part concern, and pressed a kiss to her forehead that was perhaps a bit more emphatic than the night before.
Normal, normal, normal. Senza had to pretend that everything was normal.
When it was anything but.
Her rounds made, she wandered back to her room. Della had turned down the blankets while she was out of her room. She slipped off her dressing shoes, draped her robe over the vanity chair, and slid into bed.
Leaning over the candlestick, she hesitated before blowing it out, half-afraid of what the dark would bring.
No. No more fear. That which she had dreaded most had been conquered.
Quickly, she puffed out the dying flame, breathing in the tiny curl of smoke, and pulled her blankets up to her chin, watching. Waiting.
Nothing.
Nothing was different. No drifting shadows, no strange other-worldly noises, no phantasms. It was another night in her room. Nothing more.
Without another thought she closed her eyes and let herself settle off to sleep.
High-pitched screaming, close to her face, made her open her eyes right back up, her heart in a painful squeeze of terror.
“Oh, master! Oh, mistress! Fetch help, help, quickly!” Della’s voice took on a shrillness she’d never heard before. “She’s dead! Oh, my miss is dead!”
Della’s screams had retreated into the hallway by the time Senza sat up, her curtains still drawn. Dead? Who? She shoved her blankets aside and clambered out of bed, sprinting toward the door, squinting in the sunshine. Footsteps and shouts, a dizzying flurry of action and panic, seemed to come from all directions.
At the doorway, it struck her dumb. Sunlight. But she’d only just gone to bed—
Della, her parents, Henry—they all poured into the hallway from different directions, seeming to head in her direction. When they saw Senza, they stopped in their tracks.
Her sense regained, Senza ran to them. “What happened? Who’s dead?”
Her mother turned a scalding look at Della, who stuttered and looked completely baffled.
“You, miss. I thought you were—but you’re not—but you were cold, and not breathing.” Della gave up trying to make sense and began to cry.
Mrs. Fyne was less than sympathetic. “Really, Della. Making us all worry like that. Don’t ever give us a scare like that again.”
Cupping her hands around Senza’s cheeks, she cast another glare at the distraught maid. “She’s fine, the very picture of perfect. How could you have mistaken?”
“Just a mistake, is all.” Mr. Fyne reached a hand to stroke Senza’s hair. “She hadn’t eaten last night, remember? She was probably a bit faint, is all.”
Senza held onto her father’s hand, trying to hold a smile that just wanted to slip right off.
Dead. Della had thought she was dead.
She’d only closed her eyes one moment, and it was bright morning the next, and Della said she had no life—
Was that what she looked like when she slept? Just a body?
“And I’m sure she’s more than peckish now,” her father continued. “But she’ll take breakfast in bed. Won’t risk you fainting on the stairs.”
“Of course.” With both hands on Senza’s shoulders, Mrs. Fyne turned Senza around before she had a chance to protest. “Back to bed with you. Della, fetch her something light. None of those fruit tarts, they’ll sit too heavily.”
Mrs. Fyne marched Senza back to her room and tucked her into bed, muttering the entire while.
“Really. What a goings on. Hollering out like that, frightening everyone in the house.”
“I was just sleeping soundly, Mother. The walk to town yesterday, and the headache—I was overtired. That’s all.”
“Overtired and dead are two completely different things. She should have known better.” Smoothing the blanket, Mrs. Fyne sat down on the bed and smoothed the hair from Senza’s forehead. “Giving me a scare like that. I ought to reprimand her.”
“No, Mother. Don’t do that, it was simply a mistake.”
She turned her head but not before Senza caught the shine in her mother’s eyes. “You are everything to me, Senza. I don’t know what I would do. My heart still aches for…”
Standing abruptly, Mrs. Fyne smoothed her gown. “Well. Just rest, then, will you? Della will be up with a tray. You’ll be on your feet in no time.”
With a strained smile, she nodded and hurried out of the room, pulling her handkerchief from her pocket.
Senza watched her go, feeling very loved, and very, very worried for each morning that would arrive. Sleeping was looking very much like it would present a challenge.
Another challenge, it turned out, was eating. She simply had no appetite, not even in the slightest.
She didn’t even touch the haddock and toast Della had brought up, except to push it half-heartedly around the plate. Appetite had completely abandoned her.
Her cheeks were rosy enough that Della relented and let her out of bed shortly afterwards. A walk in the meadows, an afternoon of needlepoint, an evening of cards with Henry in the sitting room. So difficult it seemed to go about doing the normal things. And meals—that was the worst time of all.
She’d manage to slip a small portion of her meal into a kerchief and scatter the rest about the plate. Barely enough to avoid suspicion. Was this what life was going to be? Dreading meals, dreading bedtime, going through every hour like a clock keeping time?
All the while, a gnawing sensation burned at her, the locket heavy around her neck. It became difficult to think past it.
Heartbeats. She needed heartbeats. That was all that mattered.
The burden of so heavy a secret began to wear on her and, by the afternoon of the fourth day, she’d withdrawn into her room, refusing to come out even at her brother’s pleas.
“She’s still grieving her dear friend.” Della’s voice was muffled through the closed door. “It’s natural.”
“But surely, even a grieving girl needs to eat.” Mrs. Fyne replied. “See that she does.”
A moment later the door opened and Della came in. “Still sitting there? You’ll make yourself ill. Please, miss. At least have a bit of soup.”
Senza shook her head and kept her back to the maid. She was hungry, but not for soup, or breads, or fruit. The pulse of life was a quiet hum under the surface of Della’s skin. Senza could almost smell it, so keen was her appetite.
It had been hours since she’d taken a beat from anyone; the last had been from the unsuspecting vicar who’d visited the day before. Little did he know the sustenance he’d given along with his well-meaning counsel.
“But you haven’t eaten! Your father frets. He’s called a doctor—”
That was enough to animate her. Senza spun, eyes wide with fright.
A doctor would first reach for a pulse and find none. Panic zinged through her, and despite the lack of a heartbeat to pound madly, she felt the rush of adrenaline light her up like a bonfire.
She swallowed and hurried a smile into place. “But I am fine. Just a bit melancholic today. Soup smells delicious, Della, and I am hungry.”
Smile firmly in place, Senza lifted the warming dish. She hadn’t eaten a thing since her Unbirthing. What would happen?
She lifted her spoon. The soup did smell wonderful, her favorite. Even Cook had been worried about her, sending up every temptation he could think of in an effort to break her fast.
She stirred it, experimentally, before scooping a spoonful and blowing across it. Slowly, slowly she bent h
er neck toward it, watching Della out of the corner of her eye. And when she lifted it to her lips…
The soup lingered on her tongue, the flavor and the aroma just as enjoyable as it had ever been. Fresh vegetables and tender meat, a pleasure to chew, a comfort to swallow. The delicious mouthful warmed more than her belly—it gave her part of her existence back.
Eating. It would not be denied her in this altered state. She looked up at Della, unable to convey the real reason for her relief.
The maid grinned and nodded. “That’s a real relief, miss. You eat now, and I’ll let your parents know they can pull back the forces. I think you’ll be just fine.”
She set the warming dish on a side table in the hallway and scooted out of the way, narrowly missing being trampled by Henry.
“Bess!”
“In here, Henry.” She stood and hastily scurried behind the bed, wishing to keep her distance from him. If Della’s life had tempted her so—no. She could not.
“Della said you were all better. You look better. Not that you ever look bad. But now mother can stop pecking at me.”
“At you?”
“She’s charged me with restoring your spirits. Although, by the looks of it, the soup’s already done the bulk of my work for me.” He swiped a chunk of bread and dipped it in the broth, stuffing it all into his mouth in a single bite. He chewed only enough so that he could speak around it. “All the same, I plan on taking full credit for your recovery.”
“As you wish, Henry.”
“A soiree is in the works, you know. At Pembroke’s. I heard Mother chirping about it. He’s insistent you come. You should put in an appearance—”
She cut him off with a flash of her hand. “Please, no parties.”
“But you must. You can’t stay hidden away forever.”
Couldn’t she? She wouldn’t hurt anyone if she did.
But was that the kind of life she traded her death for? She’d wanted to live…but was hiding in her room living?
She pretended to blow on a spoonful. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“I know what you’re feeling, Bess.” Henry approached her, sending her scooting back into the bed curtains. “No one denies you the need to heal your heart. But we all know how close you were. You have to go. You have to be the one to show everyone that life is still worth living. We all must go on, even after someone dies. They look to you for indication. They look to you for affirmation that we may go on living.”
She scowled. Was that what she’d become? The beacon for life going on?
Exceedingly hypocritical. How could she do that, when she’d become someone who had to steal the lives of others, beat by beat? She was a liar, a thief—
And this was what she would be, forever more.
Henry reached for her hand. She jerked back from his touch but he seized her, holding her hand in a firm but tender grip. “You can’t keep running, Bess. Please. Just live. For me.”
She held her breath, eyes squeezed shut, dreading the thump and the pull of his heartbeat.
But no beat came. She did not steal from Henry.
She let the air leak out between her teeth. So. It can be controlled. Maybe.
Cracking her eyes, she peered at Henry. His expression was open, eager. Not the least bit suspicious.
She drew a breath and summoned a smile, knowing it would be mirrored by her brother. “For you, Henry. I will live for you.”
“Not for me,” he said, a bratty smirk on his mouth. “Live for the man in your life, the one who obviously is in love with you.”
He’d meant Winston, but she side-stepped it as easily as compensating for a less-than-perfect dance partner.
“I’ll be sure to do that.” It would be the first of countless half-truths, and she imagined she’d be skipping around more than one truth in the days to come.
So begins the dance, she thought.
Now, to wait for her true partner’s return.
Days and weeks passed without a glimpse of her seducer, without hearing so much as a whisper. A darkness seeped into her heart, creeping in on spider legs and wrapping the remnants of her heart in the webs of darkness and doubt.
Most of all, she was disappointed.
She distracted herself by making a game of thwarting Winston’s advances. Aggie seemed more than agreeable to being thrust between them, and made no effort to conceal her enjoyment of the situation. Winston spent most of his time painting, and Aggie was only too happy to read to him.
She never questioned Senza, not once. And that made Senza feel all the worse.
Her secret was a burden. If Aggie were to ask her why she was out-maneuvering Winston and her mother, Senza would spill that secret. The consequences were terrifying in their possibilities.
Even though she was surrounded by her family, her friends, she’d never felt more alone. Her interlude with Knell was a terrible weight and there was no one with whom she could share her burden.
No one could ever know what she’d done. If they knew that she had met with him, that she allowed him to touch her body and whisper against her throat…if they knew what dark deal she’d struck.
A harlot. A demon. A woman ruined.
No. Better to hide, if only to keep up this charade, to keep her place within her family. The loneliness was a thorn that stuck in her heart.
Finally free of the fear of death, her unease was replaced by another. Afraid to touch another person, for fear of stealing their every heartbeat. Afraid of anyone getting close, she kept to herself, talking long walks and spending endless hours reading. Winston eventually turned his attentions willingly toward the cousin, much to Mrs. Fyne’s dismay.
Winnie Thomas was a decent person, Senza came to realize, and deserved a good wife. Even had she been inclined toward him, Senza would never have fulfilled that role.
Inspired by Senza’s turnaround, life at the manor quickly returned to normal. Her mother eagerly sent word to the Pembrokes of Senza’s acquiescence. Once word had spread of her intention to attend, the other invitations came flooding in.
Society had missed her. They’d craved sight of her after so long a famine. At last, the winter season had passed and the sunshine that was Senza blessed the world once more.
And the suitors lined up, more arduous than ever.
She attended every ball, every dinner, and never turned down an event. Never turned away a request for a dance. But she never grew closer to any particular person, never showed more favor to one over another. Never hinted at having a preference. All were kept at equal distance and they swarmed around her, bees seeking honey.
And news of an engagement finally bloomed and spread, although the couple involved was a bit of a surprise.
To everyone, that is, but Senza. When Winston asked for Aggie’s hand, Senza nearly fainted from relief alongside Aggie, who had swooned herself.
The summer’s end brought a modest but beautiful wedding, and Senza held Aggie’s bouquet as the happy couple spoke their vows. For once, Senza was not the center of attention.
It was an alien sensation, one that she relished.
Even though the next year passed in a dim haze, she did not change. Not as much as a single curl. Her skin remained fresh and clear, her teeth as strong and straight as ever. Every time someone would ask her what the secret to her beauty was, she’d smile and say “Beauty sleep.”
Most times, she was able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Sleep.
That’s what changed. Sleep had become a completely alien process. Before her Unbirthing, sleep was something she did at the end of the day, when she’d close her eyes in bed and dream until morning.
Sleep was no longer a simple loss of consciousness. It was a mechanical reset of her physical form, a renewal of flesh and bone. Anything that had been done during the day erased itself and, when she opened her eyes, she looked and felt exactly as she had the last time she awoke.
Such was the nature of her new life, the secret
of her eternal youth.
When she lay down to sleep, she simply stopped. No dreams, no awareness, not even the passage of time. She stopped and renewed and awoke immediately to find eight or nine hours had passed in a breath. It was unsettling, to say the least, and on more than one occasion, horrifying.
Like the time she cut her hair.
It was a fit of temper that led her to do it, a frustration and an impulse. One evening, as she braided her hair for bed, she spied the scissors on her sewing basket near her bed. Snatching them up, she tugged her braid straight and sawed through her hair, close to her nape.
What freedom. She dug her fingers into the shorn locks, shaking them loose in a fiery halo. She looked older, reckless. Her beauty was only made sharper, the now cheek-length fringe drawing the gaze to her bright eyes.
Tossing her head, she primped in front of the mirror, fluffing it about her cheeks. She liked it.
She knew mother would not. That made her like it all the more.
She toyed with the braid for a few moments before dropping it on her vanity. Crawling into bed, she breathed a deep sigh of comfort. Even the pillow felt better without the rope of hair making a lump beneath her. She lay awake for several minutes, enjoying the new sensation, before closing her eyes and surrendering to dreamless sleep.
And when she awoke, her braid was once more wrapped over her neck, as if it had never happened.
Senza sat up and stretched, just as she always did, thinking nothing amiss until she saw the scissors on the vanity, the severed braid lying abandoned next to it. She remembered—saw her reflection, unchanged, unchanged—
And it hit her with a solid wall of terror. She was exactly as she was the morning before. Her locket was a searing blaze upon her skin as the horror thumped in her chest, three beats in rapid succession, before fading.
So. This was what her life would be like. This was the secret. A stream of thoughts rushed through her head as she sat in bed, staring at the mirror.
In that sleep of death, what dreams may come…when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause.