‘You can’t,’ I say.
‘You can’t stop me.’ He stands up, holding a flaming chunk of coal in the tongs. I reach out and he takes an instinctive step backwards, swinging the ember away from me.
‘I forbid it,’ I say. He raises his eyebrows and walks past me, holding the tongs out to the side. The flame clings to the coal, shrinking in the draught. ‘Hey – you said – what happened to consent?’ But he’s not listening. ‘What about the other books? If you set light to mine – Farmer!’ He starts to go up the stairs. I grab his arm. He twists away, grimacing as the coal nearly slips. I try to get hold of him again and he stumbles up two stairs at once.
‘I said I forbid you!’
‘Let go!’ But I drag him down. He totters on the edge of a step, tries to grab at the banister, and misses. He staggers backwards, almost into my arms. I lean over him, trying to get to the tongs. He fights to keep them at arm’s length. I grind my thumb into his shoulder, until he gasps; but when he wrenches himself free he’s laughing. We wrestle, teetering on the same narrow step. It’s almost a dance. ‘Come on, just let me – oh, this is so stupid …’ He’s laughing.
I smack the side of his face. He drops to his knees. The tongs fall through a gap in the banisters and the ember skitters along the floor, spraying sparks. He blows air through his teeth. I take a helpless step down, and another, until I’m on solid ground. At least he’s not bleeding. I watch him get to his feet. His eyes flick past me to the tongs on the floor, and then to me.
We both move at once. As he dives for them I throw myself into his path. We grapple, pushing and pulling at each other like kids. He wrests one hand out of my grasp, but he doesn’t hit me. Instead he pulls ineffectually at my fingers, trying to prise them off his upper arm. He’s not laughing any more. ‘We don’t have time …’
I haven’t got the breath to reply. My throat is burning. I force him backwards. He gives way suddenly and we reel together towards the window. I feel the impact in my arms as his leg catches the desk and he sags, yelping with pain. I let my grip slacken. Instantly he grabs my wrists and slides away. ‘No!’ I launch myself at him, clawing at his shoulders, his collar, his throat, anything. He spins and ducks, trying to dodge. For a split second he pauses, staring over my shoulder, and a frown flickers over his face. I turn to see what he’s looking at and lose my footing. My elbow catches his jaw. His head snaps sideways and slams against the desk. He falls to his knees, his breath hoarse. There’s a silence.
Not quite silence. Something crackles, murmurs …
Fire.
It must have been the ember, skidding across the floor – or a stray spark – catching the pile of books that Farmer threw aside … It doesn’t matter how it happened. There are flames licking up the bookshelves, ragged ribbons of heat snapping against the glass. The varnished wood blisters and turns black. The books are burning like camphor: furious, exuberant. Light flares inside the bookcase, leaping up and up until the very top shelf is blazing. New sparks burst like seed-pods, take root, grow. Smoke pours upwards. Already it’s catching in my throat.
I glance stupidly at the buckets of sand beside the hearth. But it’s too late for that. A shelf collapses. Glass shatters. The fire pounces on a new mound of books. Talons of flame rake the pages apart. Volumes sigh and gasp their memories at the ceiling in a skirl of glittering ash.
I try to get my breath back. ‘It can’t be – it’s so fast …’
‘Books want to burn,’ he says. ‘They go up like that because – they’re unstable, memories don’t want to stay …’ He tails off into a fit of coughing. There’s a knock at the door, and Sally’s voice, pleading to be let in. ‘Stop this. We have to go,’ he says, forcing the words out. ‘Now.’
I bend and grab the poker from beside the hearth.
Then I run up the staircase, into the heart of the fire.
XXVIII
The smoke is so thick I could get lost in it. It chokes me. It scratches my throat and burns my lungs. I fumble along the walkway, blinded by tears. The fire roars underneath. The heat is like a wall. I keep my grip on the poker. The warmth of the metal seeps through the calfskin of my glove. I hear glass break close by. Dark stars swarm and pulse.
I don’t have time to think. I stumble into the bookcase. I try to right myself. Pain grows suddenly from nothing. It shoots down my arm. The iron grille. The glass has gone and the bars are hot. They’re burning through my glove. But it means I’m in the right place. My book is here, somewhere. The shelf at eye-level. I swing the poker back and smash it against the grille. It judders.
Shouting. Confused voices. Farmer calls my name. He’s pounding up the stairs.
I hit the grille again. I can’t get my breath. I cough and cough. Inside I’m scalded raw. The stars boil up over my vision. I try to blink them away.
One more time. But it’s no good.
I slide the poker through the bars and twist. I lean my whole weight on it. I won’t give up. If the bars don’t give way I’ll go on trying till the smoke gets me. At least I’ll be unconscious before the walkway collapses. I won’t feel the flames.
‘Lucian! Lucian!’
My heart is labouring. A flabby beat like a broken drum. Every cough rips deeper into my lungs. My mouth is clogged with phlegm that tastes of soot.
The grille gives way. I nearly fall.
I press myself against the case. Colours swim in a fog of grey that burns my eyes. I pull the corner of the grille out enough to get my hand past it. I scrabble at the spines. My gloves are scorched through at the fingertips. Somewhere there’s my book. Will I know when I touch it? Books tumble to the floor. I’m disorientated in the smoke. Someone whispers words of love. Scent of bluebells. There’s the high sickening creak of wood on fire. Shouting, too, somewhere. The floor lurches. Clouds of blackness threaten to engulf me. I’m breathing acid. My head is spinning. The books are warm. They feel alive. Any moment now they’ll twist out of my fingers, throwing themselves towards the flames. They burn so fast. They want to burn.
I fall.
I fall forever. I crash. Time flips: I land, I fall again. Pain lifts me up like a tide. I gasp for breath. I push myself up. I realise I’m not dead. My head spins. I’m on the floor. Down here there’s more space between the veils of smoke. More glimpses of bookcases and carved plaster. More colours that aren’t fiery amber-red or blank grey. There’s a sudden crash of wood. Books slither and thud. Then a new column of smoke gushes upwards. It spills and billows on the ceiling. Grey fumes dance in front of my eyes.
‘Lucian.’ A croak through the roar and frush of the fire. A sobbing laugh. Someone in pain. Emmett. ‘Damn it,’ he says, ‘are you trying to kill yourself?’ I blink away the tears and squint up through narrowed eyelids. The staircase is still there – it’s only a section of the gallery floor that’s given way—
‘Stop!’ He grabs hold of me. ‘This is dangerous – we have to go – please!’
I laugh. It hurts. The heat pulses in my veins.
‘They’re trying to break down the door now.’ There are shouts in the passage outside. Men’s voices. The door judders in its frame. ‘That bolt won’t last for ever.’
‘I’m not leaving without my book.’ I wrench away from him. He staggers. He’s still holding on to me; but this time his grip is weak, as if he’s at the end of his strength. He’s hurt. We’re wasting time. If I hit him, hard, he’ll let go.
‘Listen.’ He raises his voice. ‘Let it burn. If you ask me to rebind you afterwards I will, I promise I will.’
My eyes are watering. I glance up. The flames dance through the hole in the walkway, glowing crimson and gold through the haze. The bookcase with the broken glass will be the next to catch light.
‘What is it you think you did, Lucian? What’s worth dying for?’
I open my mouth, and the smoke rushes in. Stinging tears pour down my face. I thought I knew what I was afraid of – murder, perhaps. But how could I have thought that was the worst th
ing? Now, in the blinding heat and the fumes, as the fire roars and fists pound on the door, it’s as if something inside me – some last protective barrier – collapses. My mind floods with fragments of nightmare, vivid and plausible and sickening. The real memories are bad enough: Nell’s stained eyes as she hung from her makeshift noose, the blank-faced maids, de Havilland as he was attacked, my father … But behind them are shadowy pictures of worse things. Things my father might have done, things he might have made me do. Things that are so depraved and vicious I can only just imagine them. Only just … but if I’m capable of imagining them, I’m capable of doing them.
I fight for breath. My face is wet. ‘You don’t understand. I’m – if you knew …’
He puts his mouth to mine. It’s so rough it’s hardly a kiss: our teeth knock together, my skull jolts, a bolt of pain goes through my lower lip. I’m still speaking and for an instant I feel my voice in his mouth. He pulls back, just far enough to look into my eyes.
‘I love you,’ he says.
For a moment it’s as if I’m somewhere else. The furious heat and noise is only the foreground: I can hear the silence beyond, the emptiness at the furthest edge of the world. There’s such stillness inside me that I could be dying.
Then he glances up. Reflected fire glints in his eyes. There’s anxiety on his face, followed by a flash of something like triumph. The fire. The bookcase.
I push him aside. But it’s too late. I gulp a breath as heat washes over me. The flames leap, catch at my mind, throw sparks across my vision.
The truth flares in my head, dazzling, so bright I can’t see it. Then it burns through me.
When I open my eyes the world has changed.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. I’m cold. My lungs hurt. When I try to clear my throat it feels as if I’ve swallowed a live coal. Vicious pain. My face is scraped raw by smoke.
Under everything is happiness so deep and rich it’s like dark wet earth. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why it’s there. But I could reach out and grab a fistful of it.
‘All right?’
Emmett. His name comes to me before I remember my own.
‘I – think so …’ My voice creaks. It hurts to speak. I sit up. I’m dizzy.
‘Stay still. Don’t worry. You’re safe.’
I blink until my vision steadies. I don’t know where we are. Some kind of stone structure, the sides open to the air. Flaking pillars frame a field bordered by trees. The grass is the tired green-brown of winter. A greying mat of snow clings to a slope. No time has passed. It feels as if I’ve been away for years. A whole life.
‘Better?’
I nod.
‘It’ll get easier. The first few days will be … strange.’
‘Yes.’
‘After that, it’ll settle.’
‘Right.’
I breathe in the smell of mud and dead leaves. Old smoke. Scorched calfskin. Vomit. There’s a puddle on the stone floor. I must have thrown up. Like Emmett, when he burnt his book … I grimace. I’m glad I was unconscious. I look down and peel off my gloves. I was lucky to be wearing them. Underneath my fingers are pink and tender. Pain prickles on the skin. Why am I so happy?
Because of the colours. Because the drab wintry world is so bright I can hardly bear it. Because the pain is closer and the taste of soot in my mouth is as solid as any food I’ve ever eaten. Because I can smell roots and things asleep and seeds waiting to grow. Because …
I look sideways. Emmett meets my eyes. He looks afraid.
I laugh. Now he looks afraid.
‘It’s all right.’
He nods, unsure. There’s a smudge of black on his forehead. His eyes are red at the edges. A wine-coloured bruise covers his jaw.
On the roof there’s a bird singing. A raven answers from the other side of the field. High watery chirrups and truculent cawing. Both of the sounds are lovely. Beyond that there’s a bell ringing and distant shouts. A tall column of smoke rises over the trees to our right.
‘I think we’re safe. Sally won’t tell anyone she let us in.’
‘I wasn’t worried.’ It hadn’t occurred to me to worry.
‘Probably best not to stay here, though. I don’t know where we go now.’
I glance at him. It sends a shiver to my heart. Soon I’ll want to stare at him and go on staring. I’ll want to relearn every freckle, every trick of his mouth, every eyelash. But not yet. It’s as much as I can do to catch his eye and go on breathing.
When you’re starving, it’s dangerous to eat too much, too soon. But it takes an effort to turn away. I blink at the green field and see a ruined castle, a farm yard, a jagged hole in a frozen moat. Too many memories to get hold of. They spin round me like a merry-go-round. Gradually they slow down. Now I can glimpse shapes, details. The light glinting on a blue-purple stone in a jeweller’s hand. A line of playing cards on a dingy quilt. A terrier pup wriggling in my arms. A garden, an unbuttoned shirt, a bleeding scratch on sun-warm skin. If I slide my mind’s eye sideways there will be worse things: a locked door, food congealing on a tray, my father with his belt in his hand … Weeks later, a farmyard baked to dust. Alta spitting at me. The open window above, and screams that died to sobs. Her face as she shrugged and stepped aside. Go on, then. If you really want to see what you’ve done to him … Emmett at the bindery, looking at me with a stranger’s eyes.
But even those memories are bearable, now. I breathe. It still hurts but it’s getting easier.
Remembering and not remembering overlap with each other. After I’d been bound … Those months of numbness. Contempt from my father, snide looks from Lisette. Distant misery, like it happened to someone else. And – I wince – the first time I saw Emmett … When he came to bind Nell. Something inside me shrivels at the way I spoke to him. Then, and later. And the night we spent together, when he knew, and I didn’t.
I push that thought away. It wasn’t his fault. If it had been the other way round I’d have done the same.
I turn to him. He looks back at me, wary.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘For leaving you. And for – everything else …’
He shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I never even asked about your book. Your memories. I saw you burn it and I never even …’
‘It does funny things to you, being bound,’ he says. A hint of a grin tugs at his mouth. ‘Especially if you were pretty self-absorbed to start with.’
‘Hey.’ We catch each other’s eye and look away at the same time. I lean back against a pillar of the summer house and push my hands into my pockets. My fingertips touch something soft and damp. I pull it out. It’s the rose I was wearing in my buttonhole this morning. It seems like an eternity ago. I throw it on to the grass, as far away as possible. Emmett’s eyes follow the movement but he doesn’t say anything. I take a deep breath. I don’t know what I mean to say, but it isn’t what comes out. ‘Did you mean it?’
‘What?’
‘What you said. Just before …’
‘Oh.’ He shifts. ‘I was trying to distract you. Stop you throwing yourself into the fire.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘No, well …’ He gets up. He stands with his back to me. At last he says, ‘Ask me again tomorrow morning.’
I nod. I go on nodding. A huge grin is building inside me but for the moment I can keep it at bay. ‘You burnt my book. I forbade it, and you did it anyway.’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’ A pause. The smoke mushrooms over the trees. ‘And you burnt all those other people’s books. You burnt the whole library.’
‘Yes.’ He turns to look at the smoke.
‘Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, all those people, remembering?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He glances at me. ‘It’s just a guess, but I think most of them were trade. They won’t mind getting the memories back, if they sold them in the first place. I hope so
.’
Where are they now? Dropping to their knees in the streets. In fields. In kitchens. Stopping halfway through a kiss or a fight. Imagine getting it all back. Your daughter’s wedding. The first time you held your son. Bluebells. An ache builds in my throat that has nothing to do with the smoke.
I get up. My head spins. I walk past Emmett, out of the summer house on to the grass. The wind buffets me. Even though it’s icy it’s laden with the scent of soil and moisture, the end of winter. I lean against the pillar, drinking it in. Out of the whirl of memories, one surfaces: a damp, blue evening last spring, when I walked back to the New House from the farm. I’d stayed to dinner, because Emmett had asked me to. When I said goodnight he’d grinned at me, that awkward quick-quenched grin that made me feel like we were the only people in the world. I walked home whistling, dancing on the path like a music-hall turn, laughing softly to myself. I was wearing Emmett’s shirt. My heart was so light I could have flown. The memory of it takes my breath away. I didn’t know happiness was that simple.
It won’t ever be again. Things have been broken that can’t be made whole. But now … I tilt my head back, taking in the blank sky, the criss-cross paths of birds. I’m not a rapist. I’m not a murderer. I start to laugh; and then I start to cry, and Emmett keeps his gaze turned away from me, and finally I wipe my face on my sleeve.
‘Emmett,’ I say, and then I can’t think of anything else.
He offers his hand, with a crease between his eyebrows as if he isn’t sure of me. I take it in mine. Our fingers knot together. His ring digs into my knuckle.
He swallows. ‘You remember, then?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Everything?’
‘As far as I know.’ Another laugh catches in my throat. It’s so true it shouldn’t be funny.
He closes his eyes. His eyelids flutter as if he’s asleep and dreaming. His eyelashes are clogged with soot. His bruise is already darkening. Soon I’m going to kiss him. But right now I stay where I am, watching.
The Binding Page 40