Faintly, I remembered one of Nerissa’s stories, the poor weaver girl who makes straw into gold and trades with a witch for secrets.
“Miss Aoife?” Dean’s mouth turned down at the corners. “That secret’s my price. We got ourselves a bargain, sure and sealed?”
Nerissa wasn’t here, and if she were she’d say nothing to help me. I was just a girl who came and listened to her stories. She no more cared if I ended up indebted to a so-called witch than if I dropped out of the Lovecraft Academy and joined a troubadour caravan.
Though I had the sense that I was stepping over some threshold, and that by promising my secret to a boy like Dean Harrison I could never return, I stuck out my hand and pumped Dean’s once. “Yes. It’s a bargain.”
After Dean left, I ripped back my coverlet and went rooting in the wardrobe for something to wear that wasn’t mud-encrusted and days old.
The wardrobe stood taller than me by a head and a cloudy mirror reflected a stained and damaged Aoife back at me. Forget a new wardrobe—I needed new skin with the amount of dirt and blood I was wearing.
Poking behind the various narrow doors of the bedroom yielded me a wash closet with a steam hob circulating heated water in the corner. It hissed like an amiable snake when I spun the tap, and delivered a helping of rusty red water into the basin.
I found a washrag and scrubbed myself clean as I could while minding the bandage Dean had put on my shoggoth bite. He’d done a fair job, fair as I’d receive at the Academy’s infirmary, and the bite hardly hurt at all except when I pressed on it. The skin around the bandage carried a pallor, but there was no blue-veined, green- fleshed infection crawling its way through my system from the spot where the shoggoth’s kiss had landed. Dean’s skills as a field surgeon could have probably netted him legitimate work in Lovecraft, tending to victims of ghoul attacks and Proctors who fell to heretics during rioting. But imagining someone like Dean forced to march lockstep with the severe nurses and surgeons of the Black Cross, the Proctor’s medical arm, didn’t end well—he’d probably be expelled for his smoking alone before he was a week in.
The worst of the grime fell away with the washrag when I tossed it into the now-empty basin to dry out, and I padded back to the wardrobe. Most of the clothes were for a boy, old-fashioned short trousers, a waistcoat, shirts made for celluloid collars and high leather riding boots. However, at the rear of the cabinet I found a drop-waist silk dress, and a search of its cubbies yielded a comb to twist up my hair. It still looked like a nest for Graystone’s crows, but at least it was out of my eyes. The dress gleamed ruby-wet and the comb was mother-of-pearl, glistening bone against the dark of my hair. I tried on the riding boots and found that the long-ago boy who’d inhabited the room had exceedingly small feet. The boots hugged my calves like hands.
When the wardrobe swung shut and the mirror revealed me once again, I caught my breath.
I looked like my mother.
Turning from the mirror so quickly I almost fell over my own feet, I ventured into the hallway. Graystone was vast and deserted in the daylight, muted with emptiness. I wandered back along the route I’d taken to the library and the kitchen, though it was devoid of all its menace in the daytime. The sour portraits of Grayson patriarchs still glared at me from under their layer of finely aged dust in the rear parlor. I paused to read their nameplates, stern as their visages. HORNTON. BRUCE. EDMUND.
The newest portrait’s placard read ARCHIBALD GRAYSON. I stopped. I was finally going to get to see what my father looked like. If there was anything of him in me. I stepped close, eager to take in every last brushstroke in the light.
My father was dapper and besuited in the painting, streaks of white in otherwise dark hair at his temples and a piercing set of eyes bookended by lines the only hint he wasn’t still a young man. Spectacles on a chain marred an otherwise pristine green silk cravat and his angular cheekbones gave him a disapproving edge, rather like one of my professors. Though, unlike any of my professors, my father was handsome, albeit in a bookish way. Conrad favored him in feature if not in coloring, and after a bit looking at Archibald became too much like looking at the much older, sterner version of my brother. I moved away, back to Thornton, back down the line into the safety of the past.
I didn’t look anything like Archibald. Our eyes were the same, but there the resemblance ended. It put a weight on me, one that I felt like I couldn’t shake off. I wanted so badly to ask Archibald about Nerissa, and everything that had happened. I wanted him so badly to come back and answer me. But he wouldn’t, because wishes didn’t come true, because fairy godmothers weren’t real.
Hurrying toward the foyer, I nearly smacked into Bethina. She shied, and the tray she held spilled oatmeal and toast onto the worn carpet runner.
“Stone and star. Forgive me, miss.” She knelt and began to scrub up the oats and tea with her apron corner.
“My fault, really,” I said, crouching to pick up the toast. It was all heels and felt rough and stale. “You came out of the kitchen,” I observed.
“Can’t very well leave the young miss of the house without her breakfast, can I?” Bethina sniffed. “There’s still a few things in the icebox and the root cellar. ’Sides, it’s daylight and with you three here, I figger the shadows might not find a way in, to … well, you know what I’m saying, miss.”
She shuddered, and scrubbed harder at the rug.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, standing and smoothing down my new dress. Silk felt like what I imagined wearing a nightjar’s skin would, slick and cold. “Do you think you could bring my breakfast to the library?”
Bethina wrinkled her nose. “I surely couldn’t, miss. That room gives me the creeping spooks, all up and down my back. I’ll leave it in the warming oven, should you take a notion to eat.” She pinched the back of my knee from her vantage. “And you should eat, miss. You haven’t got anything up top or on the stern for a future husband to admire. Like Mr. Harrison, for instance?”
I sputtered at how matter-of-fact she was about the whole thing, jerking from her reach. “I … my … That’s really none of your business, Bethina.”
“Just so, miss.”
In the entry, I found my schoolbag where Cal had flung it when we made our frantic entry into Graystone. I dug through my possessions—now largely mildewed and mud-spattered—and found my toolkit. Straightening my spine, I went to the library again and, just as before, the double doors slid open at my approach. Ice danced up my skin, into my blood like electricity and aether.
Hearing a curse from the rear parlor, I backed away gratefully and retraced my steps down the portrait hall. I wasn’t ready to brave the library again just yet.
In the parlor, Cal was poking a desultory fire. I watched him for a moment, his long limbs bunched up like a new foal’s, cursing and red-faced as the twists of paper under the worm-eaten wood sputtered and refused to light.
“Thought you’d be halfway home by now,” I said at last. Cal leaped up.
“Aoife.” He eyed the full length of my body, for a good few seconds, eyes darkening. “You look … different. Those aren’t your clothes.”
“My uniform is a lost cause,” I said. “This was in the wardrobe.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” Cal worried the poker. “I’ve heard it’s bad luck to wear other people’s clothes.”
I touched the comb in my hair. “What would your professors say, they heard you taking stock in superstition like that? Besides, I like these and that’s a stupid rumor.”
“It’s, well. The dress is very bright. Red, like a Crimson Guard flag.” Cal struck another match and cursed when the flame came too close to his fingers.
“I’ll be in the library,” I sighed. “And for future reference, girls might not be flattered to have you compare their attire to the symbol of a national enemy.”
“Aoife, I wanted to say I’m sorry …,” Cal rushed, and then sighed, composing his face and standing. “I’m sorry about what I said to you last night. I don’t believe that you’re naive.”
“But you do think I’m wrong about Conrad?” I should simply accept Cal’s apology and let things be right between us. The space where I’d kept Cal’s friendship was bruised and smarting this morning, after the shouting match we’d endured, but I wouldn’t abandon my brother either. Not even in words.
“I don’t want us to fight,” Cal said. “Can’t we just agree that we’ll go home tomorrow? He’s not here, Aoife.”
I drew myself up, the dress falling about my legs making me feel older, taller. “Then I suppose I’ll just have
