Some of the Best from Tor.com: 2014: A Tor.Com Original

by Various Authors

  Oh, my love! You must forgive me. I know that we had our own tongue, you and I—a language of glances and touches, heat and quiet—but I had forgotten how much real conversation could excite me. The novelty of having another voice to spar with mine, someone who could speak back when I spoke to him, someone who would spill himself to me—I grew giddy on it. Words, wonderful words! He admitted, after a week or two, that he was in love with me. I looked demurely at my hands and told him that his company warmed my heart.

  Eventually my leg grew well enough for me to walk around the castle with Cecil’s support, treading with the utmost caution down the stairs that had precipitated my injury. He did not complain of my weight upon his shoulder.

  “You are so perfect, Claire,” he said, on one of our evening walks. I leaned my head against him and thought of you, and how the nights we had spent together felt like someone else’s dreams. I saw you the very next morning, through my window. You were riding, and I witnessed for the first time how ugly and ungainly you were in the saddle: you kept your head forward, your neck tight, conscious of your half tongue bouncing in your throat. I turned back to my book and you were gone before I looked again.

  * * *

  “Your brother hates me,” Cecil said one morning, peeling fruit. Garrick had been up and limping around the castle for the past few days, roaring like a stricken bear. His head was still a mess of bruises. “And that tongueless slave,” Cecil said. “I’m sure she’s been following me.”

  “Garrick hates everyone.” I was fiddling with the stone that you had given me, turning it over and over in my hands. It refused to grow warm no matter how long I held it.

  “Kiss me,” I said suddenly, and reached for Cecil like I used to for you. The stone dropped onto the bedclothes as I slid my hand behind his neck. His lips were like a girl’s. I pushed my tongue inside his mouth, wanting to find his, but he broke away.

  “Wait.” He was breathing heavily. “Claire, we should wait until we’re married. Betrothed, at least.” He closed his eyes until he had regained his composure and went back to reading me a chapter on the Siege of Rhye.

  He glanced up every now and then as though he were afraid of me.

  * * *

  Father came to my chamber the day after, looking even greyer than he had done in the winter. It was obvious that there was a purpose to his visit, but he made sure to talk of nothing but my health and my reading until he could restrain himself no longer.

  “Claire.” He took my hand. “Lord Faxsly tells me that his son’s letters are of nothing but you. Tell me that you share his feelings. Tell me that there isn’t—that there wasn’t—” He stopped and rubbed his forehead. “Your brother has been … concerned for you.”

  I went very still. “You don’t need to worry,” I said slowly. “Cecil and I—we are betrothed.”

  Warmth rushed back into his face. My mother was fetched and told the news. The three of us shared an awkward embrace, after which I asked to see Cecil in private—I needed to tell him that he had proposed to me, after all. I heard the “good news” fanfare buzzing in the air below my window. I wondered where you would be when you were told of my betrayal.

  Someone knocked on my door a few minutes later. I sat up, expecting Cecil, but my heart went cold when I saw that it was Garrick.

  “Congratulations,” he said. He opened his arms as wide as they could go. I didn’t move. He limped over to me and grabbed me in a hug.

  “If you think you’ll go unpunished for the mockery you’ve made of me,” he said, “then you are very, very wrong.”

  * * *

  Part of me feared that Cecil might be angry, but I need not have worried. He said that the fact that it had been me who had proposed marriage to him was perfectly in keeping with my character, and that the sooner our families knew of our love, the better. I didn’t have to wonder long about when you would hear the news. The next morning, Cecil complained of being followed through the castle by “that tongueless witch.” There would be no one like you, he said, at Castle Faxsly.

  I had been foolish, I suppose, to think I would remain at Rouchefort when Cecil and I married—or that I might take you with me. Of course that was nonsense. We would be wed at Castle Faxsly, and would begin the journey west as soon as my leg was well enough to travel. I was up and walking within days of our betrothal.

  A stone struck my window on the eve of our departure. I put aside the book I had been reading and sat very still, trying to work out if it was an accident of the wind. When it came again I slid out of the bedclothes and padded to the window. I cupped my hands and peered out through the glass.

  Below, in the darkness, I caught a glimpse of raven hair.

  I signaled for you to come up and retreated from the window. It was foolish to invite you up, I knew—what if a servant saw you climb the stairs, or Cecil came to say goodnight and found you with me?—but it didn’t seem to matter. I had to see you. I paced my chamber in my nightdress.

  You knocked. I answered, and there you stood: silent, looming, bewitching. The minutiae of your face had been lost to me while we were apart. You had a new scar, a tiny one along the bottom of your chin, and the peculiar shape of your lips seemed strange and wonderful again. I drew you inside and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears were already ripening in the corners of my eyes. “Oh, Aya, my love, I am so sorry.”

  You took my index finger in both hands and brought it to your lips.

  * * *

  I heard a distant cry halfway through our lovemaking. I ignored it, absorbed in you and confident in the bolt on my chamber door. A little later my ears picked out the tail of a scream, and then the sound of footfalls coming closer. Someone battered the door.

  “Lady Claire!”

  “Hide!” I hissed to you, and you slid out of my bed and began to squeeze in underneath it. I threw my nightdress on as the knocking increased in fervour.

  “What is it?” I flung back the door. “I was aslee—”

  “Oh, Lady Claire—it’s Master Faxsly. That tongueless witch has—she’s—oh, my lady!”

  “What is it?” I grabbed the fat flesh of the servant’s wrist. “Speak clearly. What’s happened?”

  “Master Faxsly, my lady. Your brother found him at the bottom of the stairs. Your brother said—he said—”

  “Said what?”

  “That the tongueless witch pushed Master Faxsly down the stairs, my lady!”

  My heart fell through my stomach.

  “You may go,” I said, hearing myself say the words as if from the other end of a long corridor. “I’ll be right down.” I made sure she was all the way down the stairs before I shut the door. I leaned against it, too faint to stand. Would it give you any sense of triumph, to know that it was you I worried for, and not Cecil?

  This, I realised, was Garrick’s plan. Kill Cecil, and have you take the blame for it. Rob me of both of you at once. I stared at you as you climbed out from underneath the bed.

  “Run,” I said, after a breathless minute. “For the gods’ sake, run!”

  You obeyed.

  * * *

  I don’t know how far you got. I wasn’t witness to your capture, although I have imagined it a hundred times: the ring of soldiers spreading out around you, breath frosting on their swords; your hair catching the moonlight as you turn. Did you try to fight, my love? To escape? I hope they did not hurt you.

  The justice hall was thronged. I sat just behind Father, next to Cecil. Dear, shattered Cecil: his mind was mercifully intact, but his body was considerably the worse for being tumbled down the stairs than Garrick’s had been for being dragged behind his horse. His legs were smashed and useless, and there was now an ugly kink all along his shoulders. His right hand trembled on a cane. High above the crowd, the statue of Akresa loomed, unseeing.

  You were bound when they brought you in. Your bottom lip was freshly scabbed, and you seemed shrunken, your straight-backed posture replaced with the hunch of an injure
d animal. Your eyes struck mine.

  “Aya of the Yovali lands,” the duke’s justice said. “You are accused of attempting to take the life of Lord Cecil Faxsly.”

  The crowd hissed.

  “This Circle will now hear evidence.”

  It began. Cecil stood, with my help, and explained that he had been descending the staircase from the eastern tower when someone pushed him from behind. He fell and cracked his head—he lifted his hair to show the crusted flesh—and it was only the work of my father’s physicians that had saved his life. He told the Circle how the tongueless witch had followed him for days beforehand, stalking him through the castle whenever he went to visit Lady Claire. He had little doubt that she was his attacker.

  Next was Garrick’s turn. He lied without a flicker of remorse, and the pit of my stomach was hot with hate by the time he had finished.

  I listened to the other witnesses as if miles underwater. Hugh stood up and testified that you had not been in the mews at the time of the attack, and that it was not the first time you had shirked your duties. I looked up at the Akresa statue, unable to listen any longer. My tongue was stuck to the bottom of my mouth.

  Oh, my love, what could I have done?

  I could have spoken. I know. I could have risen to my feet, heedless of the eyes that would have turned on me, and told them everything. You were with me, in my bedchamber, at the time of the attack. You were innocent. I told myself a dozen times that I would do it. I would stand up at the count of five … of ten … fifteen …

  You looked at me. Your eyes seemed to grow until they took up the entire hall, until they were the hall and the Akresa statue loomed inside them. Your eyes and the eyeless visage of the justice goddess were all that I could see. You opened your mouth and I felt all the air within the hall disappear inside it.

  “If any man or woman here wishes to speak for the accused, let it be now.”

  Oh, my love, my heart, my Aya. I am so very sorry.

  Copyright © 2014 by Ray Wood

  Art copyright © 2014 by Karla Ortiz

  eISBN: 978-1-4668-6899-1

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  Someone once told Makino that women in grief are more beautiful. So I must be the most beautiful woman in the world right now, she thinks, as she shucks off her boots and leaves them by the door. The warm air of the onsen’s changing room makes her skin tingle. She slips off her stockings, skirt, and blouse; folds her underwear and tucks her glasses into her clean clothes; picks up her bucket of toiletries, and enters the washing area. The thick, hot air is difficult to breathe. She lifts a stool from the stack by the door, walks to her favorite spot, and squats down, resting for a few beats.

  Kappa kapparatta.

  Kappa rappa kapparatta.

  She holds the shower nozzle and douses herself in warm water, trying to get the smell of sickness off her skin.

  Tottechitteta.

  She soaps and shampoos with great deliberation, repeating the rhyme in her head: kappa snatched; kappa snatched a trumpet. The trumpet blares. It is welcome nonsense, an empty refrain to keep her mind clear. She rinses off, running her fingers through her sopping hair, before standing and padding over to the edge of the hot bath. It is a blessing this onsen keeps late hours; she can only come once she knows Tetsuya’s doctors won’t call her. She tests the water with one foot, shuddering at the heat, then slips in completely.

  No one else ever comes to witness her grief, her pale lips and sallow skin. Once upon a time, looking at her might have been a privilege; she spent some years smiling within the pages of Cancam and Vivi, touting crystal-encrusted fingernails and perfectly glossed lips. She never graced a cover, but she did spend a few weeks on the posters for Liz Lisa in Shibuya 109. It was different after she got married and left Tokyo, of course. She and Tetsuya decided to move back to her hometown. Rent was cheaper, and there were good jobs for doctors like him. She quickly found work at the bakery, selling melon pan and croissants. Occasionally they visited her mother, who, wanting little else from life, had grown sweet and mellow with age. Makino thought she understood that well; she had been quite content, until Tetsuya fell ill.

  She wades to her favorite corner of the bath and sinks down until only her head is above the water. She squeezes her eyes shut. How long will he live, she thinks, how long will we live together?

  She hears a soft splash and opens her eyes. Someone has entered the tub, and seems to be approaching her. She sinks deeper, letting the water cover her upper lip. As the figure nears, she sees its features through the mist: the green flesh, the webbed hands, the sara—the little bowl that forms the top of its head—filled with water that wobbles as it moves. It does not smell of rotting fish at all. Instead, it smells like a river, wet and earthy. Alive. Some things are different: it is more man-sized than child-sized, it has flesh over its ribs; but otherwise it looks just as she always imagined.

  “Good evening,” the kappa says. The words spill out of its beak, smoothly liquid.

  Makino does not scream. She does not move. Instead she looks at the closest edge of the bath, measuring how long her backside will be exposed if she runs. She won’t make it. She presses against the cold tile and thinks, Tetsuya needs me, thinks, no, that’s a lie, I can’t even help him. Her fear dissipates, replaced by helplessness, a brittle calm.

  “This is the women’s bath,” she says. “The men’s bath is on the other side.”

  “Am I a man?”

  She hears the ripples of laughter in its voice, and feels indignant, feels ashamed.

  “No. Are you going to eat me?”

  “Why should I eat you, when you are dear to me?” Its round black eyes glimmer at her in earnest.

  The water seems to turn from hot to scalding, and she stands upright, flushed and dizzy. “I don’t know who you are!” she shouts. “Go away!”

  “But you do know me. You fell into the river and I buoyed you to safety. You fell into the river and I kissed your hair.”

  “That wasn’t you,” she says, but she never did find out who it was. She thinks about certain death; thinks, is it any different from how I live now? It can’t possibly know this about her, can’t see the holes that Tetsuya’s illness has pierced through her; but then, what does it know?

  “I would not lie to you,” it says, shaking its head. The water in its sara sloshes gently. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch you if you don’t wish me to.”

  “And why not?” She lifts her chin.

  “Because I love you, Makino.”

  * * *

  She reads to Tetsuya from the book on her lap, even when she knows he isn’t listening. He stares out the window with glassy eyes, tracing the movements of invisible birds. The falling snow is delicate, not white so much as the ghost of white, the color of his skin. Tetsuya never liked fairytales much, but she indulges herself, because the days are long, and she hates hospitals. The only things she can bear to read are the stories of her childhood, walls of words that keep back the tide of desperation when Tetsuya turns to her and says, “Excuse me, but I would like to rest now.”

  It’s still better than the times when he jerks and lifts his head, eyes crowding with tears, and says, “I’m so sorry, Makino.” Then he attempts to stand, to raise himself from the bed, but of course he can’t, and she must rush over and put her hand on his knee to keep him from moving, she must kiss his forehead and each of his wet eyes and tell him, “No, it’s all right, it’s all right.” There is a cadence to the words that makes her almost believe them.

  Tetsuya is twelve years her senior. They met just before she started her modeling career. He was not handsome. There was something monkeylike about his features, and his upper lip formed a strange peak over his lower lip. But he was gentle, careful; a doctor-in-training with the longest, most beautiful fingers she has ever
seen. He was a guest at the home of her tea ceremony sensei. When she handed the cup to him, he cradled her fingers in his for a moment, so that her skin was trapped between his hands and the hot ceramic. When he raised the drink to his lips, his eyes kept darting to her face, though she pretended not to notice by busying herself with the next cup.

  He thanked her then as he does now, shyly, one stranger to another.

  * * *

  She has barely settled in the bath when it appears.

  “You’ve come back,” it says.

  She shrugs. Her shoulders bob out of the water. As a girl Makino was often chided for her precociousness by all except her mother, who held her own odd beliefs. Whenever they visited a temple, Makino would whisper to the statues, hoping they would give her some sign they existed—a wink, maybe, or a small utterance. Some kind of blessing. She did this even in Tokyo DisneySea, to the statue of Rajah the Tiger, the pet of her beloved Princess Jasmine. There was a period in her life when she wanted nothing more than to be a Disney Princess.

  It figures, of course, that the only yōkai that ever speaks to her is a kappa. The tips of its dark hair trail in the water, and its beaklike mouth is half-open in an expression she cannot name. The ceiling lights float gently in the water of its sara.

  She does not speak, but it does not go away. It seems content to watch her. Can’t you leave me here, with my grief?

  “Why do you love me?” she asks at last.

  It blinks slowly at her, pale green lids sliding over its eyes. She tries not to shudder, and fails.

  “Your hips are pale like the moon, yet move like the curves of ink on parchment. Your eyes are broken and delicate and your hands are empty.” It drifts closer. “Your hair is hair I’ve kissed before; I do not forget the hair of women I love.”