The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  She needed to be strong for Zoe. She needed to think clearly and think fast. She kept all emotion out of her voice.

  “When did you receive this, Zoe?”

  “This afternoon. It was under my door.”

  “I see.” Mariana nodded to herself. “This changes things.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does. We need to get you out of here. Now. We need to go to London.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Clarissa.

  “No.” Zoe shook her head. She had a fiercely stubborn look on her face. “I’m not a child. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here, like you said—we’re going to fight. We’re going to catch him.”

  As she said this, Mariana thought how vulnerable Zoe looked, how tired and wretched. Recent events had visibly affected and altered her—she looked mentally as well as physically beaten up. So fragile, yet so determined to keep going. That’s what bravery looks like, thought Mariana. This is courage.

  Clarissa also seemed to sense this. She spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Zoe, dear child,” she said, “your bravery is commendable. But Mariana is right. We must go to the police, tell them everything you’ve just said … And then, you must leave Cambridge—both of you. Tonight.”

  Zoe pulled a face and shook her head. “No point in telling the police, Clarissa. They’ll think Mariana put me up to it. That’s a waste of time. We don’t have time. We need evidence.”

  “Zoe—”

  “No, listen.” She appealed to Mariana. “Let’s check the folly—just in case. Where I saw him hide the knife. And if we don’t find it, then … we go to London, okay?”

  Before Mariana could reply, the professor forestalled her.

  “Good God,” said Clarissa. “Are you trying to get yourselves killed?”

  “No.” Zoe shook her head. “The murders always happen at night—we still have a few hours.” She glanced out the window, and gave Mariana a hopeful look. “And it’s stopped raining. It’s brightening up.”

  “Not yet,” Mariana said, looking outside. “But it will.” She thought for a second. “Go and have a shower, get out of those wet clothes. And I’ll meet you in your room in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay.” Zoe nodded, looking pleased.

  Mariana watched her gather her things. “Zoe—please be careful.”

  Zoe nodded, and left the room. The moment the door closed, Clarissa turned on Mariana. She looked worried. “Mariana, I must protest. It’s most unsafe for either of you to be venturing to the river like this—”

  Mariana shook her head. “I’ve no intention of letting Zoe go anywhere near the river. I’ll make her pack a few things, and we’ll leave right away. We’ll go to London, like you said.”

  “Thank heavens.” Clarissa looked relieved. “That’s the right decision.”

  “But listen carefully. If anything happens to me—I want you to go to the police, okay? You must tell them all of this—everything that Zoe said. Understand?”

  Clarissa nodded. She looked deeply unhappy. “I wish you two would go to the police right now.”

  “Zoe’s right—there’s no point. Inspector Sangha won’t even listen to me. But he’ll listen to you.”

  Clarissa didn’t say anything. She just sighed and stared into the fire.

  “I’ll call you from London,” Mariana said.

  No response. Clarissa didn’t even seem to hear her.

  Mariana felt disappointed. She had expected more. She expected Clarissa to be a tower of strength—but clearly this had all been too much for her. Clarissa seemed to have aged somehow; she seemed shrunken, small, and frail.

  She wouldn’t be any use, Mariana realized. Whatever terrors she and Zoe had ahead, they’d have to face them alone.

  Mariana gently kissed the professor goodbye on the cheek. Then she left her by the fire.

  4

  As Mariana made her way to Zoe’s room across the courtyard, she kept her mind on practicalities. They would pack quickly, and then, without being seen, they would slip out of the college, through the back gate. A cab to the station; the train to King’s Cross. And then—and her heart swelled at the thought of it—they would be home, safe and sound in the little yellow house.

  She climbed the stone steps to Zoe’s room. The room was empty; she must still be in the shower block downstairs.

  And then Mariana’s phone rang. It was Fred.

  She hesitated, but answered. “Hello?”

  “Mariana, it’s me.” Fred sounded anxious. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Now isn’t a good time. I think we said everything last night.”

  “This isn’t about last night. Listen to me, carefully. I mean it. I had a premonition—about you.”

  “Fred, I don’t have time—”

  “I know you don’t believe it—but it’s true. You’re in serious danger. Right now, this second. Wherever you are—get the hell out of there. Go. Run—”

  Mariana hung up, feeling exasperated and very angry. She had enough to worry about without Fred’s nonsense. She had already been feeling anxious—now she felt much worse.

  What was keeping Zoe?

  As Mariana waited, she paced the room restlessly. Her eyes drifted around, touching upon Zoe’s belongings: a baby picture in a silver frame; a photo of Zoe as a bridesmaid at Mariana’s wedding; various lucky charms and trinkets, stones and crystals collected on holidays abroad; other childhood mementos Zoe had been carrying around since she was a little girl—such as old, battered Zebra, perched precariously on her pillow.

  Mariana felt incredibly moved by this jumble of junk. She had a sudden memory of Zoe as a small child, kneeling against the bed, hands clasped in prayer. God bless Mariana, God bless Sebastian, God bless Grandfather, God bless Zebra—and so on, including people whose names she didn’t even know, like the unhappy woman at the bus stop, or the man in the bookshop with the cold. Mariana would watch this childish ritual fondly, but not for one moment did she ever believe in what Zoe was doing. Mariana didn’t believe in a God who could be reached so easily—or whose merciless heart would be swayed by the prayers of a little girl.

  But now, suddenly, she felt her knees giving way—buckling, as if pushed from behind by some unseen force. She sank to the floor, clasping her hands together—and bowed her head in prayer.

  But Mariana didn’t pray to God, or Jesus, or even to Sebastian.

  She prayed to a handful of dirty, weather-beaten stone columns on a hill, against a brilliant, birdless sky.

  She prayed to the goddess.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered. “Whatever it is I did—whatever it is I have done—to offend you. You took Sebastian. That’s enough. I beg you—don’t take Zoe. Please—I won’t let you. I—”

  She stopped, suddenly self-conscious, embarrassed at the words coming out of her mouth. She felt more than a little crazy—like a demented child bargaining with the universe.

  And yet, on some very deep level, Mariana was aware that, at long last, she had reached the moment where all of this had been leading: her much delayed but inevitable confrontation—her reckoning—with the Maiden.

  Mariana slowly pulled herself to her feet.

  And Zebra toppled off the pillow, fell off the bed, and landed on the floor.

  Mariana picked up the toy and repositioned it on the pillow. As she did so, she noticed that the seam across Zebra’s belly had come loose; three stitches were missing. And something was poking out from inside the stuffing.

  Mariana hesitated—then, without quite knowing what she was doing, she pulled it out. She looked at it. It was some paper, folded and refolded, concealed in the body of the stuffed toy.

  Mariana stared at it. She felt disloyal, but also compelled to know what it was. She had to know.

  She carefully unfolded it—and it opened out into several pages of notepaper. It looked like a typed letter of some kind.

  Mariana sat down on the bed.

/>   And she began to read.

  5

  And then, one day, my mother left.

  I don’t remember the exact moment she went, or the final goodbye, but there must have been one. I don’t remember my father there either—he must have been in the fields when she made her escape.

  She never did send for me, you know, in the end. I never saw her again, in fact.

  That night she left, I went upstairs to my room, and sat at my little desk—I wrote for hours in my journal. When I finished, I didn’t read what I had written.

  And I never wrote in that journal again. I put it in a box and hid it away with other things I wanted to forget.

  But today, I took it out for the first time, and read it—all of it.

  Well, almost all …

  You see, there are two pages missing.

  Two pages torn out.

  They were destroyed because they were dangerous. Why? Because they told a different story.

  That’s okay, I guess. Every story can stand a little revision.

  I wish I could revise the next few years at the farm—revise them, or forget them.

  The pain, the fear, the humiliation—every day, I was more determined to escape. One day, I’ll get away. I’ll be free. I’ll be safe. I’ll be happy. I’ll be loved.

  I’d repeat this to myself, again and again, under the covers at night. It became my mantra in times of trouble. More than that, it became my vocation.

  It led me to you.

  I never thought I was capable—of love, I mean. I only knew hate. I’m so afraid I’ll hate you too, one day. But before I ever hurt you, I will turn the knife on myself, and plunge it deep into my heart.

  I love you, Zoe.

  That’s why I’m writing this.

  I want you to see me as I am. And then? You’ll forgive me, won’t you? Kiss all my wounds and make them better. You are my destiny, you know that, don’t you? Maybe you don’t believe it yet. But I’ve known from the start. I had a premonition—from the very first second I saw you, I knew.

  You were so shy at first, so mistrustful. I had to slowly tease your love out of you. But I’m nothing if not patient.

  We will be together, I promise, one day, once my plan is complete. My brilliant, beautiful idea.

  I must warn you, it involves blood—and sacrifice.

  I’ll explain, when we are alone. Until then, have faith.

  Yours,

  forever—

  X

  6

  Mariana lowered the letter to her lap.

  She stared at it.

  She was finding it hard to think—hard to breathe; as if she had been winded, punched repeatedly in the stomach. She didn’t understand what she had read. What did it mean, this monstrous document?

  It didn’t make sense. She didn’t believe it was real—she wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t mean what she thought. It couldn’t be that. And yet—that was the only conclusion to draw, no matter how unacceptable or nonsensical—or terrifying.

  Edward Fosca had written it—this hellish love letter—and he had written it to Zoe.

  Mariana shook her head. No—not Zoe, her Zoe. She didn’t believe it—she didn’t believe Zoe could possibly be involved with that monster …

  Then she suddenly remembered that strange look on Zoe’s face—staring at Fosca across the courtyard. A look Mariana had taken for fear. What if it was something more complicated?

  What if, from the very start, Mariana had been seeing everything from the wrong angle, looking at it from very way up? What if—

  Footsteps—coming up the stairs.

  Mariana froze. She didn’t know what to do—she must say something, do something. But not now, not like this; she had to think first.

  She grabbed the letter and stuffed it in her pocket, just as Zoe appeared at the door.

  “Sorry, Mariana. I was as quick as I could.”

  Zoe gave her a smile as she entered the room. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was wet. She was in a dressing gown and clutching a couple of towels. “Let me just get dressed. One sec.”

  Mariana didn’t say anything. Zoe put on some clothes, and that quick flash of nakedness—that young, smooth skin—reminded Mariana for a second of the beautiful baby girl she had loved, that beautiful, innocent child. Where had she gone? What happened?

  Tears came into her eyes, but not sentimental tears; tears of anguish, of physical pain—as if someone had slapped her face. She turned away so Zoe wouldn’t see, and hastily wiped her eyes.

  “I’m ready,” said Zoe. “Shall we go?”

  “Go?” Mariana looked at her blankly. “Where?”

  “To the folly, of course. To look for the knife.”

  “What? Oh…”

  Zoe looked at her with surprise. “Are you all right?”

  Mariana slowly nodded. All hopes of escape, all thoughts of fleeing to London with Zoe, had faded from her mind. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Not anymore.

  “Okay,” she said.

  And like a sleepwalker, Mariana followed Zoe down the stairs and across the courtyard. It had stopped raining; the sky was leaden, and oppressive charcoal clouds swarmed above their heads, twisting and turning in the breeze.

  Zoe glanced at her. “We should go by the river. It’s the easiest way.”

  Mariana didn’t say anything, just gave a brief nod.

  “I can punt,” Zoe said. “I’m not as good as Sebastian was, but I’m not bad.”

  Mariana nodded, and followed her to the river.

  Outside the boathouse, seven punts were creaking in the water, chained to the bank. Zoe took one of the poles resting against the boathouse wall. She waited for Mariana to climb into a punt, then loosened the heavy chain securing it to the bank.

  Mariana sat on the low wooden seat; it was damp from the rain, but she barely noticed that.

  “This won’t take long,” Zoe said as she pushed them away from the bank with the pole. Then she raised the pole high in the air, plunged it into the water, and began their journey.

  They weren’t alone; Mariana knew that right from the start. She could sense they were being followed. She resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder. But when she finally did turn her head, just as she expected, she briefly glimpsed the figure of a man in the distance, vanishing behind a tree.

  But Mariana decided she must be imagining things. Because it wasn’t who she was expecting to see—it wasn’t Edward Fosca.

  It was Fred.

  7

  As Zoe had predicted, they made fast progress. They soon left the colleges behind, and were surrounded by open fields on either side of the river—a natural landscape that had survived unchanged for centuries.

  On the grassland, there were some black cows grazing. There was a smell of dampness and moldering oak, wet mud. And Mariana could smell smoke from a bonfire somewhere, a musty smell of damp leaves burning.

  A thin layer of mist was rising up from the river, and it swirled around Zoe as she punted. She was so beautiful standing there, her hair blowing in the breeze, that faraway look in her eyes. She resembled the Lady of Shalott on her doomed, final journey along the river.

  Mariana was trying to think, but she was finding it difficult. And with each muffled thud of the pole on the riverbed, and each sudden rush forward of the punt on the surface of the water, she knew time was running out. Soon they would be at the folly.

  And then what?

  She could feel the letter burning in her pocket—she knew she needed to make sense of it.

  But she must be wrong. She had to be.

  “You’re being very quiet,” Zoe said. “What’s on your mind?”

  Mariana looked up. She tried to speak, but couldn’t find her voice. She shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “We’ll be there soon.” Zoe pointed toward the bend in the river.

  Mariana turned and looked. “Oh—”

  To her surprise, a swan had appeared in the water. I
t glided effortlessly toward her, its dirty white feathers rippling gently in the breeze. As it neared the punt, the swan turned its long head and looked directly at her. Its black eyes stared into hers.

  And a shiver ran down Mariana’s spine. She looked away.

  When she looked back, the swan had vanished.

  “We’re here,” Zoe said. “Look.”

  Mariana saw the folly, on the bank of the river. It wasn’t a large structure—four stone columns supporting a sloping roof. Originally white, it had been discolored by two centuries of relentless rain and wind, staining it gold and green with rust and algae.

  It was an eerie location for the folly—alone, by the water’s edge, surrounded by a woodland and marsh. Zoe and Mariana sailed past it, past the wild irises growing in the water, and the rambling roses covered in thorns, blocking the path.

  Zoe guided the punt to the bank. She wedged the pole deep into the mud of the riverbed, mooring the punt, pinning it against the river’s edge.

  Zoe climbed onto the bank—and held out her hand to help Mariana. But Mariana didn’t take her hand. She couldn’t bear to touch her.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” said Zoe. “You’re being so weird.”

  Mariana didn’t reply. She clambered out of the punt, onto the grassy bank, and followed Zoe over to the folly.

  She paused outside and looked up at it.

  It had a coat of arms above the entrance, carved in stone—the emblem of a swan in a storm.

  Mariana froze when she saw that. She stared at it for a second.

  But then she kept going.

  She followed Zoe inside.

  8

  Inside the folly, there were two windows in the stone wall, looking out onto the river, and a stone window seat. Zoe pointed through the window, at the green woodland in the near distance.

  “They found Tara’s body over there—through the trees, by the marsh. I’ll show you.” Then she knelt down, and looked under the seat. “And this is where he put the knife. In here—”