Copperhead

“It was nothing,” she said. “Just a broken glass. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Yes,” Helen had to admit, and they did not need to say who he was.

Rook’s fingers tightened on hers, not painfully but completely, so that she felt every bit of the palm of his hand wrapping hers, covering it. “I said before that you wouldn’t fit in in dwarvven society,” he said. “That they are closed to outsiders. But at the same time, we don’t care about certain things the humans find important. The conventions of human society are meaningless.”

She tried to say it simply, frivolously, but the blood pounded her ears and her mouth ran dry. “Such as?”

“Marriage,” he said.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes,” Helen said, and even managed a light laugh. “I know married dwarvven.”

“Certainly we marry,” he said. “But we also unmarry. No dwarvven woman would stand that behavior for a minute.”

Helen pulled away, set off down what she thought was the right path, so he would have to follow. “So now I am weak-willed and cowardly?”

Rook caught up with her, and in a low voice, though in truth none of the men and women hurrying past were listening, he said, “I think divorce is difficult to attain for humans, and any sensitive person would shrink from the public scrutiny it would entail. I am saying, among the dwarvven, no one would particularly care what paper you had or didn’t have that said in what state some human courts found you to be.”

It was true. Divorce was a nasty process. She would have to go before men in wigs and convince them that Alistair was drunk and brutish. And they would be friends of Alistair, and they would laugh at him for not being able to control his wife, which would make him worse-tempered and not change anything for the better. And then, if the best happened and they granted her her plea (out of some moment where they were sympathetic to Alistair for having to put up with her), then, then, she would have nowhere to live, would be ever after unhirable to work with children and would have no way to support herself. The rest of her life would be squalid and short, and would probably involve mooching off of Jane, who was in little better situation. Helen didn’t even have a cow to barter for room and board.

But what if Rook was suggesting what she thought he might be suggesting? (No, he hadn’t said it. But imagine for a moment.) Her heart beat that yes, then, she could just run off, but her brain, that sad pathetic lump of organ that she continually tried to coax into working better … well. It said what then, Helen? What then. You go to live with Rook. You think you love him. You think he (might, might) love you. Just as you thought Alistair loved you. And if he changed, what then? Now you can’t get any job, not just not one working with children, but no job at all, for you have been living in sin, and they would see you as little better than a prostitute, and all society would be barred to you. Well. Perhaps you could live in Frye’s garret for a couple weeks. But then she, too, would kick you out, like Alberta said she did when she grew tired of having company.

They left you. The people you loved always left you.

“I would have nowhere to go,” she said, and in that space he said:

“You would have me.”

They were near his quarters then; she recognized the brick wall in the dim glow of his flashlight. And she dropped his hand and pulled back and said, “You do not mean it.”

“I do.”

“You think you do. But I would be a burden to you. And besides. You promised you would obey my wishes. What happened to all the business a few minutes ago about your left hand?”

“Difficult to stick to,” Rook said with a faint laugh.

But Helen rose up, her thoughts ballooning out as large as the room, encompassing everything, and she said in a way that would roar and echo, “You don’t even know me. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

He opened his mouth, but she went past him like an ocean.

“I changed my husband,” she said. “I manipulated him. I took the power of my face and I changed him. Now what do you think of me?”

“What do you mean, changed him?”

Helen touched the chin of her perfect face and said, “With this I changed him.”

“You mean the fey allure?” said Rook. “It makes people be drawn to you, want to like you, sure. But it isn’t your fault beyond that. You didn’t change him.”

“Yes, I did,” she said, and she told him exactly what she had done to Alistair.

A strange light came into his eye. She recognized it as the same way she had looked at him after the trolley crash. Diffidence. Suspicion. Trying to pull back, trying to let go. She saw all those things, and she saw, too, that she could change him as easily as she had changed Alistair and the thought of it made her gasp, miss a beat.

“What else?” Rook said.

“You,” Helen said, and it came out all strangled-sounding. Was she worried that he would leave her? Well then. She could make it so he never could. And she looked at his dear bright hazel eyes in the light of the flashlight, dimmed now with worry, with concern, with trying to let her go and failing and trying to understand what she was saying. “I could change you,” she said. “I could make it so you thought I was the most wonderful woman in the world.”

“I do,” he murmured, and she gasped, and laughed, and steamrollered over that:

“The most sensible woman, then. I could change you and you would not know you had been changed. I could fix you.”

He shook his head at her. “But you wouldn’t.”

“No,” she said wildly, and clutched his shoulders, startling them both. “You don’t understand. I could have already done it. You wouldn’t know. What if I made you follow me. What if I made you protect me that night on the trolley. What if I spotted you at the Grimsbys’ the night this all started and said, you, you will do this thing for me and turned you then.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Rook said. “You didn’t.”

She looked at him. “Help me,” she said, echoing what she had said to him three nights ago when she had thought he was Alistair in the confusion after the lights went out. And he had.

His hazel eyes looked lost.

“You can’t be sure,” she said. “You never will be sure. That would poison us even if there could be an us.”

“I wouldn’t let it,” he said.

She laughed at him—a dry, brittle sounding thing—and drew back. “Go, find your dwarvven warrior and stand at her side,” she said. “I must take Jane to safety before your people turn on her.”

“Helen,” he said and one hand, two, seized her shoulders, so lightly.

“I fixed him,” she said, raising her hands as if to escape. They landed on his chest; she tried to make them obey her, and push him away, but they only lay there. “Don’t you see, I fixed Alistair. Everything will be all right.” Her voice rose in hysteria, drowning Rook out. “He will be all right, forever and ever, for he can be fixed, he can be like you, I can make him be whatever I want—”

In pure disbelief he said, “Be like me?”

She stumbled over her rising hysteria, incoherent babble, “I didn’t mean, really—”

Rook pulled her close and kissed her.

It felt like flying, like falling. Like being taken over by the fey. Like dissolving from her own self, which she knew she shouldn’t want but oh she did.

And then there were shrieks and shouts, and everything went pure white, white with intense light. Floodlights shrieked through the tunnels. Their moment was torn away.

Rook grabbed her fiercely and quick and intense he said in her ear, “Listen, you don’t know. I was supposed to—they wanted me to kill—”

“Who, Grimsby? You’d be doing everyone a favor, almost—”

“Listen, Helen. No. All of them. They wanted me to kill all of them. All the men of Copperhead.