The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  His mind had wandered for a moment, allowing Adam to strike his thigh with the épée. Muttering a curse under his breath, he recovered, launching an aggressive attack and pushing Adam back. The two battled for what felt like ages, trading blows and taunting one another as Olivia cheered for him from her place on the fence. So intent were they on their bout that at first, they didn’t realize Olivia had toppled from her place on the fence. It was not until they heard her sharp wail that he and Adam both halted, épées dropping to the ground at once, startled gazes meeting for a fraction of a second before they both went running to her.

  “Livvie!” Adam called out, skidding to a halt and dropping to his knees beside where she lay, flailing and crying on the ground. “Livvie, what happened?”

  Niall crouched on her other side, heart in his throat as she began to cry, the high-pitched sobs tearing at him like the sharpest of blades. The fall would not have seemed like much to anyone else, but at only eight years of age, she had only grown so much, barely larger than she’d been on the day he’d come across her in the corridor. The height would have been high to her, the fall knocking the wind from her before she’d been able to cry out.

  “Are you hurt?” Adam urged, raising his voice to be heard over her cries. “Show me where!”

  She continued to scream, writhing on the ground, her face reddened from the force of her sobs. Unable to take it any longer, Niall pushed Adam aside and leaned over her, bracing both hands on either side of her body so that he loomed in her line of sight, blotting out everything else.

  “Livvie, look at me,” he said, his voice firm but gentle—much the way he calmed skittish horses for grooming. “We cannae help if we dinnae know where ye’re hurt. Can ye sit up?”

  Her sobs calmed to whimpers and sniffles, her chin trembling as she allowed him to help her sit upright. He gave her an encouraging smile, and that stopped the trembling.

  “There now,” he crooned, using his own hand to swipe her tears away, then pluck bits of grass from her hair. “I think the fall scared ye more than anything. Show me where it hurts.”

  Bending her arm, she lifted it, displaying the place where the sleeve of her gown had torn, revealing her scraped elbow. The wound looked as if it stung like the devil, but he judged it to be minor. She didn’t seem to have hit her head or injured her neck, which had been his fear upon seeing that she had fallen.

  “Do ye know what my maw always does when I hurt m’self?” he asked, gingerly lifting her arm and examining the scrape.

  Sniffling again, Olivia blinked, her tears seeming to have abated for now. “What?”

  He smiled at her again, before dipping his head and pressing his lips ever so lightly against her marred flesh. “There. All better, eh?”

  When he glanced up again, she was watching him, open-mouthed. It was true, his mother had done the same for him when he’d been a small lad. He was far too old to believe a kiss could heal a wound now, but being the one doing the kissing just then, he could see why such a tactic had worked. It was the seeming faith of his maw that a kiss could heal and soothe. It had been her confidence when she’d kissed his scrapes and murmured ‘all better.’ She had made him believe it.

  Now, it seemed Olivia believed, as well, the expression of pain upon her face melting into one of awe.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, it is all better now.”

  “Good,” he said. “Can ye stand? Or would ye rather I carry ye back to the house on my shoulders?”

  Her eyes lit up at his suggestion, and she silently reached up, allowing him to lift her off the ground. Adam laughed, standing back as Niall swung her up onto his shoulders, holding tight to her little legs. His friend did not seem to suffer from any sort of envy or scorn at seeing his sister respond more readily to Niall than him. Perhaps that was because Adam never seemed to want anything more than for Olivia to be happy and safe. With two of them to see to that, instead of just one, her moments of sadness or pain were few and far between.

  As they made their way back to the house, Olivia clinging to his hair and giggling when he broke into a run over the grass, he felt deep in his heart that he would do anything for the little doll sitting on his shoulders. If he had any say, she’d never fall, never break. She seemed confident in his unspoken promise, arms raised and head tilted back as she embraced the sun.

  CHAPTER TWO

  he was cold … colder than she’d ever been. The biting chill seemed to sink past her skin and flesh, down to her bones and deeper still. It flowed through her veins, turning her blood to ice and penetrating all the way to her soul.

  Curling into herself, she shivered and squeezed her eyes shut. It seemed her skin was perpetually riddled by gooseflesh, the fine hairs on the backs of her arms forever standing on end, the chattering of her teeth as constant as the beating of her heart.

  She could not keep her eyes closed for long, as against the blackness of the insides of her eyelids, an image suddenly appeared. A demon with massive horns looming over her, a forked tongue snaking out from between jagged teeth. The tongue undulated toward her, wet and rough as it rasped her cheek, burning hot. One of its hands clamped down over her mouth, making it difficult to breathe, her body pinned so that she could not move.

  She cried out, forcing her eyes back open. Confronting her surroundings was preferable to facing the monster awaiting her in her dreams, every night without fail. At least here, in this cramped space comprised of stone walls, stone floors, and a thin cot, she was alone.

  That did not last long, the rough, wooden door on the other side of the room swinging open to reveal a dragon clothed in a nun’s habit, its scaly tail swinging about as it stomped into the room and flung something at her. It was a bucket, she realized, and it was full of water … frigid water, some of which sloshed out to splash her, intensifying her coldness until it felt as if she were being stabbed by dozens of needles. A rough scrub brush came next, the hard wood striking her shoulder, the bristles scratching her through her thin, wool shift.

  “Time to rise,” the dragon growled, flames spewing from her mouth. “Step lightly! If you want your breakfast, you’ll scrub every stair in this tower within an hour.”

  Despite the fire lighting up the room with an orange glow, she could not seem to get warm, the sharp, stabbing sensation created by the water persisting as she struggled to her feet, her bones feeling far too weak to support the heavy weight in her middle. It grew by the day even as the rest of her seemed to shrink, her skin stretched taut over sharply protruding bones.

  A hand came against her face, the sharp slap spurring her into action. There was no time to think of how chilled she was, or how hungry. She moved by rote now, her arms and legs propelling her, pushing past the fatigue and the pain. Each day, it was the same … work her fingers to the bone between meager meals and try to avoid angering the dragon who constantly stood over her, snorting smoke and ash, her scathing words bathing Olivia in fire.

  “Idle hands are the instruments of the devil!” she roared as Olivia scrubbed the steps, swept the floors, shoveled coal. “Idleness is why you are in this predicament to begin with. Unwed, used, and discarded, heavy with bastard spawn!”

  The little life inside of her kicked and squirmed, as if to protest such words, but she worked on, even when her knuckles began to bleed and her knees were rubbed raw from so much time crawling over stone floors.

  “Only through service to God can your sins be washed clean!”

  Yet, she did not think she could ever be purged of the venom that had been poured into her. Not when it increased by the day, filling her, overflowing, until it poured through the corners of her eyes, from her ears, the crack between her lips. Could no one see it, smell it? She was drowning in it, suffocating in the depths of its dark heaviness.

  She collapsed onto the stone steps, struggling to breathe, to swim free. Fighting it became futile, as the dragon’s foot connected with her ribs in a swift kick and a sharp pain tore through her middle, the
gush of warm liquid running down her thighs. Her mouth opened on a silent scream that echoed only in her mind, and she curled into herself, unable to escape the pain, the darkness, the streaks of red running down her legs as she was dragged to her tower room, the gnawing hunger and thirst mingling with the sensation of her body being torn apart from the inside.

  Falling onto her cot, she blinked, tears running down her cheeks, black and thick and smelling of blood, of death. The dragon hunched over her, rosary held in hand, flames spewing from her nostrils as she prayed that God would have mercy on the soul of a degenerate whore. Olivia turned her head away from the dragon, only to look back and find the demon had replaced her, his sharp horns jutting toward her, lips peeled back to reveal those jagged teeth. He ran his fingers through one of the rivers of blood on her thighs.

  “Just a taste, love,” he growled, chuckling as he lifted his bloodstained finger to his lips, groaning at the taste of her, shuddering as if it delighted him to no end.

  She was screaming again, but only in her mind. No one could hear her, as the dragon went on praying and the demon’s demented laughter echoed from the walls of her tiny chamber.

  And all the while, the pain tore through her, ripping its way through her middle, bowing her back, clenching deep into her inner thighs. As blood flowed from her womb like an ocean, she closed her eyes and surrendered, no longer able to swim free. She was dragged under, deeper, and deeper, until there was only darkness.

  Olivia came awake with a jolt, her entire body convulsing as her mind snatched her from the depths of a hellish nightmare. Her heart pounded, and sweat had broken out over her skin, dampening her hair and making her nightgown cling to her.

  Her vision was blurry at first, the entire world out of focus as she found herself standing on the line between reality and dream, past and present. Her chest burned, and she soon realized that it was because she held her breath. Her body had wound so taut that her fingers and toes ached from the tension, her scalp tight with it. Squeezing her eyes closed, she exhaled, the clench of her belly easing, her spine unwinding. Darkness encroached upon her vision, fatigue threatening to pull her back down into sleep, into Hell.

  She fought it and reached for the light. For so long, she had wallowed in darkness, that thick, suffocating blanket. Now, it took every ounce of her strength and will to pull free of it, to tip herself over the line between the real world and the wasteland her mind had made of her dreams, the very opposite of true reality. As she deepened her breaths and fought to maintain consciousness, she reminded herself of what was real.

  My name is Olivia Goodall. I am three-and-twenty. My daughter is Serena Grace Goodall, and she is four years of age. She is here with me, always, safe. I no longer live in that wretched asylum … the dragon was not a dragon at all, but a shriveled up old nun who can no longer touch me. The demon … the demon …

  She choked down a sob, shaking her head with a force that still was not strong enough to knock the memories loose. The demon was real, and the things he’d done to her … no, she would not dwell on that. Opening her eyes, she gazed at the ceiling, a vaulted affair with elegant woodwork adorning its edges. The space she occupied was unfamiliar, and it took her a moment to remember where she was.

  Maeve, the maid responsible for her care, had brought her to London. Staring down at her own body, she caught sight of the bandages covering her forearms, which throbbed and ached like the devil. She grinned at the sensation, remembering what had caused it.

  Everything had happened so fast, yet, somehow, she recalled it all with stunning clarity. The days before the incident had passed her by in a blur of numbness, the world around her dull and lifeless, without color. This was not the first time she’d felt this way. In truth, she had gone through life feeling this way more often than not since giving birth. This time had been different. It had all been darker, heavier, as if she might never find her way back out.

  She had been seated at her vanity table while Maeve brushed her hair, staring listlessly across the room. By then, she’d even ceased registering the beat of her own heart, the flow of air in and out of her lungs. Was she even alive? Had she died in her sleep and awakened in this purgatory—this place where voices came at her as if through water, where stepping into the garden offered not even the relief of a breeze against her face?

  Olivia had glanced down at the table before her, finding several items arranged there—vials of cosmetics she never used anymore, a silver comb and hairbrush set, a porcelain jar filled with hairpins, a few other odds and ends. A half-empty bottle of laudanum beside a silver hand mirror matching the comb and brush. Blinking listlessly, she had reached toward the bottle, then paused, remembering that she’d just had a measure not an hour ago. Maeve would not let her have more so soon, even though her fingers itched for the bottle, her mouth watering at the sight of it. She’d come to need it as she did water and air, its effects weakening so much over time that she required more and more of the sickly sweet-smelling liquid to survive, to escape the Hell that awaited her every time she closed her eyes.

  Her gaze had flitted to the hand mirror next, and for reasons she did not understand, something in her had been drawn to it. Its silver and glass had gleamed like a star in her muted surroundings, a beacon in the gray drabness cloaking her eyesight. She’d taken it up and gazed into it, frowning at what she had found. An almost gaunt face, pale as the moon: dark eyes that were too large looming over prominent cheekbones; a straight nose cutting through the middle; a sad, pouting mouth turned down at the corners, blushing pink; a tiny point of a chin, and the gentle slope of a soft jawline.

  Familiar, but foreign, this face. Olivia Goodall, the broken little doll.

  Unable to bear her reflection, she had focused instead upon the mirror itself, the feel of its raised, filigree etchings against her fingertips, the coolness of the glass when she’d placed her opposite hand over it. The first thing she’d touched in days that touched back, that created sensation. She’d become enthralled by that mirror, unable to stop staring at it and wondering what would happen if she smashed the glass to bits.

  The impulse could not be denied for long. Once Maeve had finished plaiting her hair for bed, she had gone to dispose of the clothing Olivia had just shed, murmuring that she would be right back in her cheery voice.

  Waiting until the maid was out of sight, she had then turned the mirror and slammed it against the side of the table. The glass had splintered, then shattered with the most musical sound, bringing a smile to her face. The tinkle had reminded her of cymbals, or raindrops, the first sound that had penetrated the haze in so long, ringing out clear as a bell.

  Those glittering fragments had called to her, offering sweet relief. Putting aside the silver frame, she had sunk to her knees upon the floor, unable to tear her gaze away from them … sharp, clear, gleaming in the candlelight. No force on Earth could have stopped her from reaching for one—the largest one, a knife-shaped shard that stood apart from the rest. Its edges had bitten into her thumb and forefinger when she’d picked it up, sending a little jolt of something through the delicate bones of her hand, into her wrist, stabbing up her arm. This sensation … she had felt it before, but it had dissipated too fast for her to remember what it was.

  But it had been something, and something was better than the nothing she’d been trapped in these past days and weeks. Clutching the glass tighter, she’d gazed down at the inside of her left arm. Slender and pale, her skin had showed the spidery blue veins running along it. They’d been the perfect guides for where she ought to use the glass, to test herself for that sensation again. If she was going to remember the feeling, she’d need to recreate it. Biting her lip, she’d moved swiftly, knowing she only had so much time before Maeve returned.

  The first cut had not registered, though the sight of her skin splitting and then welling up with blood had captivated her. It had been so beautiful and bright against her white skin, trickling warm and smelling so good, like a coin placed in
the palm of her hand. But the feeling still had not come back, so she’d tried again, and again, dragging the sharp bit of glass over those blue veins, becoming hypnotized by the resulting font of blood, its metallic scent, its warmth as it trickled over her arms and stained the rug. By the time she’d taken the glass into her left hand to attempt the same effect on her right arm, her body had begun to sing with that lost sensation, sweet and blissful.

  Pain.

  Perfect, excruciating, rapturous pain.

  She had closed her eyes, her head falling back as she’d sunk the glass in yet again, this time experiencing its sharp prick, the burn of it slicing her flesh, tearing her open. She had moaned, the sensation traveling through her entire body, piercing deep into her chest, her belly, between her legs. Again and again, she’d dug the glass in, alive with the pain by then, her every nerve ending awakened from a sound sleep, the surface of her skin crackling with electricity.

  From there, everything else had happened in a haze. She’d collapsed, weakened after so much feeling, such a tidal wave of delightful agony. There had been startled cries and screams, the sobbing of Maeve, who’d seemed distressed by the red stains and the state of Olivia’s arms.

  She had wanted to tell the maid not to cry … for, finally, she could feel again. Agony was so much more glorious than the heavy weight of nothing. Even the dizzying sensation of lying there as the room had begun to tilt and spin had felt good, as if she floated on a cloud. The darkness had returned, but this time, it had been warm and cozy, letting her drift on its black waters as opposed to dragging her down.

  Fading in and out, she had registered being carried, then the blood washed from her skin. She had shuddered and groaned as a needle was dragged through her rent flesh, pulling back together what she had torn apart. The maids assisting the physician had wept, thinking she cried out in misery. Little had they known she’d been practically delirious with the pleasure of it, of feeling so alive after being so long dead.