My ally ordered this? Then I’m finished.
Chapter Six
Sebastian
I return to the house under an almost pink glow. The sunsets this time of year are spectacular. I needed to be in Venice proper for a meeting, and the timing was good. I had to walk away from her before I did something rash.
But being away didn’t keep that one word, her accusation, from repeating in my head again and again and again.
Rape.
Although is it so extraordinary for her to use that word? I know what the Scafoni family is capable of. Is culpable of.
What is it you intend to do? asks the voice inside my head yet again.
I don’t answer that. Instead, I divert to what my brother would already have done if he stood in my place. I know it’s a cop-out, a diversion. I’m only fooling myself.
He’ll still have his chance. They both will.
I shove that thought roughly away. There’s time before that. Before handing her over to them.
I feel older than my twenty-eight years. I’ve been head of this family for ten years. I came of age years after my father’s death, and I know my obligations. I know the cost if I fail to continue the tradition. As archaic as it is, there is truth to the curse. The shadow of the family mausoleum in the far distance of the property stands as a constant reminder.
Remy, the caretaker of the house and a man I trust, meets me at the dock as I step out of the boat. He’s older, in his late sixties, and has been working for my family longer than I’ve been alive. He takes the ropes and a moment later, the boat is secured.
“How are things here?”
I can see from his face that something is wrong.
“The doctor came and went.”
Remy knows about the business of the Willow Girl. Helena will be his second.
“What is it?” I push.
“The girl is still in her room. No food has been sent up. No water. Not since lunchtime.”
“And she hasn’t come downstairs?”
“Mrs. Scafoni forbade anyone entering, and, I assume, leaving.”
I narrow my eyes, take in a slow breath. “Thank you, Remy.”
He nods, ever elegant, and I head to the house.
The lights are lit in most of the downstairs rooms, but I don’t see any of my family as I make my way directly up the stairs and to Helena’s room.
I don’t knock but push it open to find her lying on the bed on her stomach, naked. I know her arms are bound because she can’t be comfortable having them over her head like that.
She doesn’t stir, and I assume she’s sleeping. Her hair is wild, covering her arms and most of her back, but when I step nearer, I see the marks on her ass and I fist my hands.
I go to her, study each of the nine lines of the cane. Nine strokes. Nine fucking strokes.
I didn’t order this. Not like this.
But I knew Lucinda would show no mercy, didn’t I? Her hatred of the Willow Girls surpasses all of ours. I know why, at least in part. I stood witness to it all when the last one was here.
Still, this?
I don’t excuse it. Lucinda will need to be dealt with.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Helena stirs as I reach over to unbind her. She lets out a groan and draws her arms down, turns onto her side, and flinches. She lies back on her stomach.
She pushes the hair from her face. It’s puffy from crying, and when I meet her dark gaze, what I see inside makes my jaw tighten, makes my hands fist again.
“You’re my only ally in this house?” she asks, wiping her face, forcing herself to roll onto her side, biting down on the pain. “Then what will I do when my enemies strike?”
I get up, go into the bathroom. I run cold water and drench a towel in it, then return to the bedroom.
“Turn on your stomach.”
“Why? For more? Or so you can gawk?”
“This will cool it.”
She snorts.
“Turn on your stomach, Helena.”
“What, not Willow Girl? Not sweetheart?”
I meet her eyes, realize I hadn’t called her either. “I didn’t order this.”
“No? That’s not what your mother said.”
“I didn’t order the caning. Not like this.”
“Not like this?” she asks. She turns her face away, like she’s embarrassed.
I see the skin of her forehead crease as she wipes the back of her hand across her face. She turns on her stomach, and I lay the cool towel over the red-striped flesh of her bottom.
“Like what, then? What did you order, exactly?”
“One stroke. Two at most. Not nine.”
“One stroke. Two at most. So casual about beating a woman.”
I feel my lips tighten into a line, but she’s right, isn’t she? This, nine strokes, what would I call it?
I see the tray of food from earlier and go to it, pour a glass of water, and carry it back to the bed.
“Here.”
She looks at it, then at me, and pushes herself up to take the cup. She won’t let me help her to drink it. She takes a sip then hands it back.
“Are you hungry?”
“I just want to be alone.” She lays her head down, closes her eyes.
“Helena—”
“Just leave me alone!” she snaps, lifting her head, glaring at me. “Can’t you give me that? One night. One night after this. Please.” Her voice breaks, and I see her face crumple before she turns it away from me. I swallow over the lump in my throat when I listen to her quietly sob.
I stand.
“I’ll have some food sent up. Something for the pain too.”
She doesn’t reply, and I guess I’m not sure what she’d say.
I leave her alone, as she requested, and make sure someone takes dinner up to her before finding my family gathered at the table outside, my stepmother sitting in my chair at the head of the table.
When I get there, she’s grinning, casually sipping champagne. Ethan too. Gregory is unreadable, as usual.
“Lucinda.”
They all turn to me, and whatever she sees on my face wipes that smile right off hers. She gets up, takes her chair at the foot of the table.
“Son,” she says once she’s seated, knowing how I hate her calling me her son because I am not. “Pour me more champagne.” She holds out her glass.
I go to the table, take the bottle, and pour. “What are you celebrating?”
“Our new Willow Girl.” She raises her glass and drinks a long swallow.
I grip her by the throat, and Ethan is on his feet an instant later when she spills her refilled glass of champagne onto his lap the moment I take hold of her.
Because seeing Helena like that, well, I know what Lucinda is capable of. What she can do with that cane. I grew up on the receiving end of it and have the scars to prove it.
“If you ever touch her like that again, I will kill you, do you understand me?” I squeeze her tiny, scrawny neck, and she’s gripping my forearm, trying to drag me off.
“Am. I. Clear?” I ask once more, loosening my hold enough so she can choke out an answer.
“Yes!”
“Good.” I release her, and she stumbles backward.
“I didn’t break precious Willow skin. I only did what you asked.”
“She deserved it, Sebastian. The girl is arrogant, like mama says. She taunted mama,” Ethan says.
Rage turns my vision black for a second.
Gregory chuckles, and I think I hear him calling Ethan an idiot under his breath.
I shoot Gregory a look. He knows I don’t like that.
“You were there?” I turn my attention to Ethan.
He clears his throat, wavers, glances at Lucinda for direction.
“Did you lay a hand on her, Ethan?” I’m trying to rein in my rage, at least with him.
“No,” Ethan answers, panicked. I know I need to go easy on him. He can’t control his emotions, and that’s not his fault.
“Ethan
“No, he doesn’t. Not yet.”
“I just looked. I didn’t touch her, Sebastian. I didn’t.”
Fuck.
I sit down, raise my eyebrows as one of the girls from the kitchen puts a whiskey down for me.
“What did I ask you to do, exactly, stepmother?” She hates being called that. She may hate it more than when I call her by her first name. But she will answer because she alone is the one responsible.
Her lips purse. “She should learn on her first punishment that disobedience will cost her.”
“What did I ask you to do exactly?” I repeat, draining my glass. The girl refills it.
“The examination.”
And this is true. I did want her re-examined for the simple reason of bringing her down a notch. “And?”
“She disobeyed, like we all knew she would.”
“How many did I order if she disobeyed?”
“One or two strokes.”
“And you delivered?”
“I didn’t break skin!”
“How many strokes did you deliver?”
“You saw for yourself. And if you want her to respect you, you’ll deliver nine more now. That will teach her.”
“That will break her.”
“Isn’t that the point?” she hisses.
“On my timeline, Lucinda, not yours. She belongs to me. You do as I dictate to the fucking letter, or you’ll be the one on the post. Are we clear?”
Her left eye twitches. It always does when she wants to tell someone to go fuck themselves.
“Are we clear?” I repeat, my face stone.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
It takes her a minute, and I know she’s cursing me to hell and back, but I don’t care.
She walks into the house as the servers bring out dinner: a roast chicken with potatoes, vegetables and a salad.
I look at Ethan as I chew my first bite of chicken.
“You should have stopped her.”
He looks at me. “I didn’t want to, and when it’s my turn, I won’t.”
“It’s not your turn yet, brother. You stay away from the girl, or I’ll be angry with you, understand?”
“Mama says I get to have her too. She says you want to keep her all to yourself. But I get my turn too.” He eats a forkful of chicken, washes it down with a swallow of wine.
“How did the meeting go?” Gregory asks, sitting back in his seat.
I don’t know if he’s uninterested in Helena or what. Maybe he’s just smart enough to keep his head down because he has two years to wait.
Hell, maybe he’s smart enough to know that between Lucinda, Ethan and me, there may not be much left when his turn comes at all.
The meeting was with our bankers. I confirmed the first installment of the payment that should be sent to the Willow family and looked over everyone’s accounts. I need to keep a tight rein over Lucinda and Ethan, because even if Helena is bound to be handed over to him after my year is up, I still control the family funds. It’s how I plan to keep control of him when he has her.
I wonder how much Helena knows about the money that exchanges hands after the reaping and through the years the Willow Girl is property of the Scafoni family. I wonder how she’d feel about her own precious family if she did know.
“Good,” I say, glancing at Ethan. “Things are on track.”
After dinner, we all go our separate ways, Gregory leaving the island for some party or other, Ethan retiring to his room. I go for a walk, making my way to the east side of the island where the Scafoni Family Mausoleum is.
This path is not lighted, and I swear the grass here is browner. Nothing grows here anymore, like the ashes of the dead infect the earth here with death. It’s always cooler on this side of the island too, and that makes no scientific sense.
This is why some part of me goes along with this insane business of the Willow Girls.
I don’t believe in any god, but I do believe in ghosts. I believe those of the Willows are vengeful, but more so, I believe in the curse Maggie Scafoni, Anabelle’s mother, placed on us centuries ago.
Sometimes, the women of our family can be as fierce as the men because twice, a Willow Girl wasn’t claimed. Two generations that let the past lie, that allowed conscience to rule over family tradition and obligation.
That’s when the Scafoni family began to lose their firstborn sons, the loss leading to infighting among us because it changed the rules of inheritance.
Breaking with the tradition and displeasing our ancestors cost us.
After that, whether a Willow Girl was claimed or not, each generation lost one boy—some during pregnancy, some within days of birth. Always the first, so rather than having four sons, each family had only three.
The soft light of a lamp burns inside the mausoleum day and night, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, like the sanctuary lamp on every altar in every Christian church.
I push the creaky gate back and step inside. I don’t use my phone to shine more light on the space. I don’t need it, and I’m not afraid of these ghosts. They are here, yes, but they don’t mean harm. Not to me.
It’s big, the family’s final resting place, and will need to be expanded soon. The walls are already filled up.
I go to the freshest one, that of my father. I trace the dates. He died young, in his early fifties. He was not an unkind man, not to us at least, but he was weak.
The canings didn’t start until Lucinda was in the picture. She declared herself the disciplinarian—at least my disciplinarian. I swear, as sick as it is, she got a kick out of it.
I endured her wrath through my seventeenth year. I was a man, yet I endured her punishments until I couldn’t stand another minute of her hate.
I remember the last time she ordered me to strip. I remember my rage. I broke her damned cane in two that night and dragged her to the whipping post.
Never again did she raise a finger to me, raise her voice to me, or dare disobey me.
Not until now.
I think about my mother. I was two years old when she died, but I remember her being kind and gentle. I remember loving her.
How Lucinda could be so different from my mother, I don’t understand. They share blood and yet, they’re like night and day.
The memory of the marks on Helena make me remember the times we were made to watch Lucinda punish the last Willow Girl, Libby. What she endured at Lucinda’s hands makes me sick. But what makes me sicker is that my father was too weak to stop her, even though I know in his own way, he loved Libby Willow.
Maybe that’s why Lucinda hated her so much and punished her so harshly.
I have to take care with Helena. I can’t allow Lucinda to do to her what she did to Libby. I don’t have any interest in being her savior, but I will be the one to break her, not Lucinda.
I step to the right, to the next name carved in the black marble. To the dates there.
Timothy Scafoni. Older than me by thirteen minutes. He lived three days. My mother had thought the curse had been broken, and in a way, it had. She had twins—there were no other twins in the Scafoni line—and I survived.
Beside my brother’s marker is that of my mother, Samantha. I brush dust off the stone and rub the engraving of her name. It’s been a long time since she died.
I take three of the candles lying nearby, light them, and set them in front of each of the markers. Then, without a word of prayer, I walk back out of the mausoleum and to the house.
Chapter Seven
Helena
When I wake in the morning, I’m surprised to find the curtains drawn closed. I hadn’t gotten up after Sebastian left. Every time I woke up, I just closed my eyes again, still hoping, like a coward, that this was a dream. Still hoping the next time I opened my eyes, I’d be in my own house, in my own bed.
I slowly sit up, pushing through the pain because I have to use the bathroom. I make myself sit on the edge of the bed, in fact. Make myself feel the sting of my first beating at the hands of a Scafoni because I don’t ever want to forget the cruelty, the brutality of this family.
Lucinda Scafoni dished out my punishment with pleasure. It was no chore to cane me.
I think about Aunt Libby, wonder at what she went through. I think about what Lucinda asked me, if I’d seen my aunt’s back.
I was five when she came back home from her ‘trip,’ and my memories are clouded, but the image of her back I’ve never forgotten. The day I saw them, she was coming out of the shower when I’d burst into her room, surprising her. I remember asking her about the patterns on her back, asking if they were a tattoo because I’d never seen anything like it.
She didn’t have a chance to answer me because my mother swept into the room and carried me out, chastising me that I shouldn’t walk into someone’s room without knocking. Now I know why.
On the nightstand is a pot of cream. I pick it up, open it, sniff it, and read the label. It’s a cooling cream. For my ass, I guess.
I put it down, more annoyed than grateful because when you order a punishment, you don’t get to be forgiven with a pathetic attempt to lessen the pain. I won’t ever forgive Sebastian for what he did.
I get up and go into the bathroom. The first thing I do is turn my back to the mirror and look at myself, look at the damage, and I gasp.
Nine angry red lines mark my bottom, all in a tight, neat row. She has a practiced hand. The skin is bruised in places, turning blue, but those lines, they’re a bright red. I reach back to feel the skin. It’s raised and tender to the touch. I’ll feel this for the next few days or even weeks.
I haven’t washed myself since the exam. I climb into the shower and turn the water on. I keep it as cold as I can stand because hot stings. Like yesterday, I don’t take my time. I used to. I always found it a pleasure to take long showers, use up all the hot water. My sisters always complained.
The memory makes me smile. I miss them. I wonder if he’ll let me have any contact with them or with Aunt Helena. Maybe he’ll feel badly enough that he’ll say yes if I ask today.
When I go back into the bedroom, there’s a knock on the door. It opens. The same girl from yesterday walks in, and we both blush. She knows what they did to me. She witnessed my humiliation. For a moment, I wonder if she was the girl Ethan used to relieve himself.
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