by Paula Guran
He let me wander wherever I wanted, the child in my womb almost as good as a skeleton key. Whispers followed me as I roamed the hallways, or dropped in on Doctor Jeffries’ classes. “Breeder,” the children would say, perhaps at Arianne’s bidding. Perhaps not: often the jealousy in their words rang too true to be second-hand. “Breeding enculeuse.” They taunted me for doing what they couldn’t yet do—their metabolisms so slow now fifty years would pass before they hit puberty. Sometimes I think Harley joined in, just to be one of the crowd. But with Mister Pérouse’s spawn in my belly, none of them could do more than jeer. Even Arianne was compelled to leave me alone. And when her back was turned, I’d inevitably make my way to one of two places: the front doors, to test the locks; or the dormitory behind the screens, to draw poison from my sisters’ mouths.
In these quiet moments, the girls would become themselves again; all smiles, crass jokes, and innocence. Hearing them giggle, anxiety would seep from my body and I’d weep with relief.
At the Haven, joys like these were always short-lived.
Soon it became clear that my understanding of the girls’ happiness didn’t quite match their reality. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Harley could remember our other life: Ma and her friends, the itch of newly sewn garments, the brush of wind on our sunburnt faces. But Miah? She was three when we came here. Now five, she’d spent nearly half her life in this place. This was what she knew, this was her home. No doubt she’d be as fond of the fields and the sun as she would a stake through her heart. She thought it a game when I drew sap from her baby teeth, a romp like the ones she enjoyed with the other kids. She didn’t know any different: she’d snap at my cheeks, then wait for my reaction, just as she would when seeking her classmates’ approval. None of the children looked more than a week or two older than when we first arrived, while I continued to grow up as well as out. Beth and Miah laughed at the changes in my height and figure—and when they did, I’d pluck at their fangs until my fingers were thick with scratches. Always, I came away from these meetings coughing up dust.
I didn’t realize I could give something back, return parts of their memories, until I miscarried the second time. Arianne had sniffed the truth of my loss before I was aware of it myself—her knowing laugh was triumphant and bitter. Her teeth were so sharp; her hunger was sharper. The scent of my baby’s death beguiled her. She followed me so close, waiting for the blood to flow, that Mister Pérouse sequestered me in his rooms three days early.
The pain of expelling the fetus kept me bedridden that whole time.
My master’s old mattress had long ago conformed to my shape. I aligned my back with the contour earlier versions of me had made, and tried to ignore the sound of his jaw cracking as he devoured the remnants of our failure. I imagined it was all the same to him; he benefitted whether the child stayed in my belly or was digested in his. I convinced myself he wouldn’t be angry for something beyond my control. And for a moment, I almost believed it.
Sucking the blood off his fingers, Mister Pérouse’s face was pure joy, almost handsome. He actually smiled as he leaned back. I didn’t know how to react. Then he exhaled, and disappeared.
Disappeared.
Two years ago, I’d have leapt from the bed right then. Tried my hand at the door, tried anything to get free. Now I was smarter—I knew this wasn’t the right time. He’d never done this before, never just dropped out of sight, but he wouldn’t have left me this way. I froze while my gaze darted like a frightened goldfish. That’s it.
Body tense, I sat up, suddenly gasping. He’s not gone.
I can still hear him breathing.
I felt his weight on the mattress before I saw his shadow reappear, growing from pale gray to charcoal across the floor, his youthful features brightening back into view.
“Merveilleux,” he whispered, actually grinning. “See what we can do, Adelaide? The two of us together?”
I tried to smile, I honestly did. But if devouring the hint of a child meant he could vanish at will, what would happen when I carried one to term…
My master’s expression darkened at my silence. He fingered the puckered wounds his teeth had left; two deep blots of red, oozing far below my navel. In that instant, he looked so much like Arianne I gasped.
“Stay away from those children,” he said, remnants of my milkings rancid on his breath.
“I wi—” He crushed the lie from my mouth, his kiss a punishment not a reward. Out of habit, I ran my tongue up and down sharp fangs, sucked. He gouged at the insides of my lip, pierced the soft palate, scraped until blood from my shredded gums mingled with that from my womb. Blended with the potent serum stretching like cobwebs from the tips of his teeth.
Oh, what a feast of visions.
In his mouth I tasted incoherent feathers of our unborn baby’s thoughts. I sampled my agony, distilled in his venom. But there was more, much more: Miah’s giggles as Ma tickled her feet; Beth’s disappointment when the birthday cake she’d baked for me sank in the middle, a cool draught from the chimney flue ruining her hard work; and Harley, confident as only ten-year-old boys can be, leaping from high rocks into the black waters of a quarry on the edge of our property. Their joy, their recollections, trapped in Mister Pérouse’s bloodstream.
He’s bitten them, I thought, and in the same instant, I’ve tasted these moments in their teeth.
Which did he get from their necks? Which from the depths of my belly?
My head spun with the power of his sedative, but I lapped at his fangs until my jaw ached. I swallowed all the memories he’d stolen. Kept drinking until their tone changed, deepened. Aged with Mister Pérouse’s years. I gulped his love for Arianne, as a mother or wife I couldn’t tell; slurped the certainty that Théo—his own cousin!—was kept close for enmity more than friendship; savored all the small vipers in Doctor Jeffries’ schoolroom, now knowing they were offspring he had made not fathered. Just like Harley, me and the girls, they all came from poor families, single mothers—humans my master deigned unworthy of raising children. I drank it all in, this and more, until I was too drowsy to move. Until all I could feel was a weight like lead in my guts.
I did as my master bid for several weeks, though I would’ve rebelled given the chance. If Mister Pérouse could leach the children’s blood and jus from my stomach, I realized, they could do the same. I could rescue their memories, I knew it.
I could return them. Re-turn them.
So I kissed Mister Pérouse, devoured him whenever he came close enough to bite. Let him take my interest as affection, as enthusiasm, as a gesture of reconciliation; let him think I was grateful for being his brood mare. I didn’t care, so long as his mouth was on mine and my family’s history trickling down my throat.
In those moments, I closed my eyes and imagined the sensation of Beth and Miah’s tiny bites as they drank down forgotten stories. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture Harley joining in.
That image of my sisters sustained me for five months. I tried reading to pass the time but the books cluttering Mister Pérouse’s apartments were failed distractions; their plots like snowflakes melting in my fevered mind. I hardly remembered a word. Always I thought of the girls as the days turned to weeks, refined my plan until the flutter of kicks in my womb drove me to act. I needed fresh air if this third baby was to survive; I needed to move. More than anything, I needed to see if I was right.
When Théo delivered my food tray, as he had morning after morning, I stopped him before he went to bed.
Lifting my hand from his sleeve as though it were infected, he sneered at my belly. “You think to keep this one, non?”
“She’ll survive,” I agreed, positive my child was a girl. I straightened into every inch of my height, a head taller than Théo. Looking down, I met his gaze and held it. A shadow fell across his face. He tilted his bald head, stared up at me with magpie eyes. If I’d flinched then, the moment would’ve been broken, my opportunity lost. But though I spoke quickly, my v
oice was steady. “I can barely breathe in here—” Carefully timed pause. “You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped, Théo.”
He didn’t blink. A slight frown furrowed his forehead. Of course he knew what it was to be held unwillingly. He’d been here three times longer than I’d lived. Was that enough to poison his mind? Enough to convince him to let me out? Maybe not, but I was willing to risk it. Even those whose hearts have stopped beating must feel, sometimes. Loneliness isn’t governed by the warmth in our veins.
“I just need to see my family,” I said. “I’ll come right back—I just want to kiss them goodnight.”
Théo snorted. “Sensiblerie. Stupid girl, what do I care for family?”
Silently, I wrapped my arms around myself and hunched. Tried to make myself look small and vulnerable. Again, Théo blew air from his lips; half laugh, half derision. I didn’t respond, but sank to the edge of Mister Pérouse’s bed as his cousin left the room. The door closed with a hollow clunk.
Floorboards creaked as he paused on the other side. The key slid in, scraped out.
There was no sound of bolts shifting home.
I waited a heartbeat, two; then sprang to my feet, crept to the door. Pressing my ear to the wood, I could hear the diminishing scuff of Théo’s boots as he moved down the corridor. Away from me.
My pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn’t tell if he’d actually gone or if it was a trick. Taking deep breaths, I steadied myself—or tried to. Of its own volition, my shaking hand moved to the doorknob, turned. Spots whirled in front of my eyes; the excitement was almost too much. Exhaling, I flung open the door.
I sped toward my sisters as though I were being chased.
They showed no delight in seeing me, not until I guided them away from Harley and the boys to the private corner where Beth’s bed resided. Harl watched us pass but pretended not to: his back was too stiff, his laugh too loud to be natural. The girls didn’t spare him a second look. Frantically, I pulled the screens to; quickly, so quickly. When I thought we were out of his sight, I raised my pinafore and urged my sisters to drink. Then, finally, they were all smiles. Voracious and thirsty.
Stretched out on Beth’s quilt, I closed my eyes. Mister Pérouse rarely lifted my skirts higher than necessary; so unless they marred my neck or cleft, he wouldn’t see any marks they made. I bit my tongue when their fangs perforated my belly. Again and again, their heads bobbed as they sought the sweetest blood I had to offer. I directed them around the places I thought my daughter lay curled—soon a double band of dripping holes was scratched beneath my ribcage. Time slowed. I floated on their quiet slurping, the musk of unwashed skin and blankets. I didn’t have to force them off me; satiated, they stopped on their own. Looking at the mess of red pooled beneath me, soaked into mattress and clothes, I hoped they’d guzzled enough to remember.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Miah sniffed, went back for seconds. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear to look at her, or at Beth. Couldn’t see the forgetful glimmer in their eyes, the dew on their lips.
I’d done it for nothing. Risked everything for nothing.
“I’ve got to go.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, and gently pushed to dislodge Miah. Tried to muster sufficient energy to stand. “Dawn’s breaking: time for night creatures to go to sleep.”
Warm tears spilled over my cheeks as Beth wriggled up beside me until her head was parallel with mine. Flinging an arm across my chest, she squeezed and said, “Tell us a story before you go. The one Ma always told. You know, with the crazy bird in the gumdrop tree? The one who cried and cried instead of laughed and laughed?”
“Okay,” I said, though I could hardly speak for crying, hardly breathe for hugging. Beth’s eyes had gone from pink to blue. Focused. Clearer than I’d seen them in two and a half years. A giggle burst from my throat, and its echo came from Beth’s. Neither of us had heard that story since Miah was smaller than the baby inside me. My laughter died off as I looked at my youngest sister. When I began the tale, the pressure of her mouth at my waist increased. Nothing more.
“Once upon a time—”
“Qu’est ce que tu fait?”
Mister Pérouse’s voice whipped me upright. In a blur he was upon me. His fingernails pierced the soft flesh in my upper arm; yanking me from the bed, he knocked the girls to the floor like ragdolls. Neither of them cried out: already the memories were fading from Beth’s eyes. “It isn’t enough!” My face hot with tears. “I need more time.” But there was none to be had.
A fist slammed into my cheek. I stumbled, skinned my knees. He pulled me up, tearing my hair, my dress. Théo shook his head, pretended not to hear the commotion as he skittered up the far wall, taking refuge in a fourth-floor balcony. Arianne nodded at my master; with a lift of her eyebrow, beckoned him to visit her chamber after punishments had been meted. Few of Mister Pérouse’s young flunkies paid any attention, no matter how hard I sobbed, nor how loudly I begged as he dragged me down the hallway. Except, that is, for Harley. Shuffling from foot to foot, he loitered just outside the grande salle. Like a puppy waiting to be let in after he’d done his business.
Like a messenger just returned from an errand.
Harl averted his eyes as we screamed past. Back to Mister Pérouse’s apartments; back to thick musty draperies; back to stagnant air. I cried out and clawed at the wallpaper, at the doorframes, until my nails were split and bleeding. Harley followed, staring at his toes. My stomach churned with lava. Rage, not fear, filled my mouth. I spat at my brother, a big shining gob of hate.
The least I could do, the most I could do, was ruin the traitor’s boots.
Rats crawled all over me.
Claws scritching, scratching; jaws squeaking like door hinges. Skittering across the storage room’s cold concrete floor, they spoke with my brother’s voice.
“Get up,” they said. Thump, thump; a herd of them landed on my shoulder. Jump, jump; they urged me awake.
“Get up,” they repeated. I didn’t want to. My head was heavy, my lashes stuck together with the glue of dried tears. The bites on my stomach itched, already healing; the bruises Mister Pérouse had left on my face, thighs and buttocks throbbed. My ears rang with the sound of his blows, the echo of his words.
“You think I’ve hidden you for my sake?” Whack. “Imbécile.” Whack. “Idiot.” Pause. “I’ve done this for you,” whack, “not me.” Whack, whack. “For the baby.” Whack. Whack. Whack. “He’ll not be born for years if you’re turned.” Whack. Pause. “We don’t need another Arianne!”
My cheeks grew hot with shame. They stung like someone was slapping me. I rolled over, but the feeling persisted.
Someone was slapping me.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the baby.
“Get up, hurry! It’s almost dusk—he’ll be awake soon.”
I peeled my eyelids apart; it hardly made a difference. Harley’s silhouette blocked most of the light sneaking in from the corridor. Eyes open or closed, the space was dark, and so small it hardly deserved to be called a room. It was barely a cupboard, just outside my master’s quarters; no more than a few meters deep, half again as wide. Bare shelves lined the walls and a rusted bed frame was crammed in at the back. Three of its legs were twisted. One was snapped off at the base.
I sat up, my back and joints aching. The baby turned and kicked, as unhappy to sleep on the floor as her mother. Harley put down the pail and broom he carried, then pulled at my hand, “Come on. You don’t have much time and this—” he gestured at the cleaning supplies “—won’t fool anyone for long.”
It took me a second to realize what his presence meant. “You have a key?”
The question was redundant: I could see it clutched in his fist. I stared at him, mouth agape. My hand rose to my belly, and Harl read the gesture for what it was: Why haven’t you used it before now?
“I don’t want any trouble. Just go. You’re ruining everything, Adelaide.” Adelaide, not Ada. “It was all fine—everything is fine. We�
��re happy here. I’m happy. We’re happy.” He dragged me to my feet. The door was open, yet I couldn’t go through it.
“Harl—”
He shook his head. “See? That’s what I mean. My name is Harold—get used to it.” His voice went up an octave, and for a second he was the little boy I chased snakes with. The boy who leaped from quarry ridges, a coconut oil sheen on his skin. “But you can’t, can you?”
I thought I’d wept myself dry on the storage room floor, but my sight blurred as I looked at this young man who’d taken over my little brother’s body.
“No,” I said. “No.”
Emotions streamed across Harley’s face; I couldn’t catch all of them. Confusion? Maybe. Disappointment? Certainly. And resolution. Yes, that most of all.
I looked for love, for remorse.
Kept looking.
“Go,” he said, firm as the key he pressed into my palm. “Go home. Now.”
“Oh, Harl.” My voice cracked as I squeezed his hand. “I’ll get Bethany, you get Miah—”
He pulled away. “No, Ada. Just you.”
I stopped halfway out the door. Miah might be lost, but there was still hope for Beth. “It won’t take long, I’ll just—”
“No.” Every line in Harley’s face read, Don’t make me regret this. “‘Just’ nothing. Leave.”
Ma would be so upset if I left them alone. There’s so many dangerous critters in this land, she’d reminded me, almost every day, before she went to work. Then she’d tickle me until I squirmed, adding a witch’s cackle to her voice. And ain’t they all got a hankering for children’s sweet meat!
Irrational, unbidden thoughts. I stamped them out. “Who’ll look after you?”