“But I love them,” says Thea through the mouthful of sausage she still hasn’t managed to swallow. It makes her look like she’s only ten instead of fourteen. It also makes her look even more like a lackluster imitation of Koré than she usually does: she has all her sister’s lovely features, but smudged and softened from beauty down to mere prettiness.
“You are making excuses for that girl like you always do.” Stepmother’s voice is suddenly thin and harsh with loathing. “The honor of our house demands—” She pauses, wincing, and puts a hand to her forehead.
Without either of us meaning to, Koré and I meet each other’s eyes grimly across the table. It’s never a good sign when Stepmother starts talking about the honor of our house. Stepmother loved my father more than reason; this ramshackle building and our half-disgraced name are all she has left of him. When she starts talking about the honor of our house, at best it means that she’s going to squander more money on curtains and silverware, and be more strict than usual with the three of us. At worst—
“Don’t just stand there, you lazy girl,” says Koré. “Go check the morning post.”
The morning post never brings us anything except letters from creditors, and those are not going to calm Stepmother. I go anyway. Someone has to smile and desperately placate Stepmother, and better Koré than me. Koré actually wishes that Stepmother would love her. For all her attempts to look dignified, she’s just as foolish as Thea. As foolish as Stepmother, as my own mother, as everyone who’s ever lived in this crumbling, dusty house where demons crawl through the laundry chutes and nothing ever changes.
But today something changes.
When I open the front door and reach into the letterbox, there’s a big envelope of thick, velvety paper. It’s addressed in flowing cursive with extra loops and curls:
Lady Parthenia Alastorides
The Misses Alastorides
13 Little Lykaion Way
Fine penmanship, not the neat, blocky letters or hasty scrawl that tradesmen use to address their bills. It’s the handwriting of an aristocrat, or his secretary. I can faintly remember the parties from before Mother died—the silk dresses, the glasses clinking, and the soft, refined laughter—but no one of that world has acknowledged our family’s existence for years. Not since Father died and Stepmother . . . changed.
I take the letter back to the breakfast room, where Stepmother has forgotten her anger and is telling Thea how a proper young lady should sit at the table. “In accord with the honor of our house,” she says, but the words don’t have the desperate edge they did before.
Then she sees the envelope in my hand.
“Give me that,” she says, and tears it open.
We wait for her to read it. Thea leans forward, curiosity written across her face; Koré is perfectly posed as always, but her jaw is tight.
Stepmother draws a breath, flushes, and looks up at us. I don’t remember when I last saw her smile so brightly.
“Duke Laertius himself has invited us to a masked ball in honor of his only son’s nineteenth birthday,” she says, and while it’s fine that the lord of our city still has us on his list of nobility somewhere, that doesn’t explain her joy. Then she leans forward and says, “And at midnight, Lord Anax will select his bride from the ladies present.”
“I know it will be a lot of work getting ready for the ball,” I tell my mother the next day, “but I really think it would be delightful if Koré married Lord Anax.”
I’m sitting in the garden, beneath the apple tree. Our house lies on the outskirts of the city, beyond the Old Wall, where the city frays into countryside, where you can find foxes on your doorstep and hear owls hooting at night. So our walled garden is huge, nearly an acre, and once it was an exquisitely ordered wonderland, with little stone paths looping among slender birches and carefully sculpted rosebushes. There was a pond full of great gold-and-silver fish, with a marble statue of Artemis bathing at the center; there was a marble bench beneath a pomegranate tree, and a trellis covered in blackberries.
Now it’s overgrown and gone to seed, the pathways choked with moss and weeds, the pomegranates transformed into a thicket, the blackberries a vortex of thorns. The pond is low and muddy, the gleaming fish replaced by minnows, and Artemis’s pure white face is worn and covered in grime.
But the apple tree is the same: glossy dark leaves, branches swaying gently down as if they longed to embrace me. It’s spring, so the tree is covered in white blossoms, and their sweet scent is thick on the air.
Mother’s bones are laid to rest in the family mausoleum three miles away, shrouded in silk and with golden coins upon her eyes. But this tree, where we played together for long, lazy summer afternoons, where she held me in her lap and sang my favorite song about the bumblebee who was friends with a frog, where she laughed as she kissed all my fingers and toes and said, I love you, I love you, I love you—
This is where her spirit rests.
The air shivers all around me, and it’s as if my whole body is wrapped in her embrace. I close my eyes, and the air presses against my lids, almost like a kiss.
“Stepmother would be so happy,” I whisper, “and, of course, Koré would too. And I would be happy. Even more happy than I am now.”
I can almost feel her fingers on my arms, ten separate little pressures holding me in place. I don’t often feel her touch this strongly. When I do, it’s usually a comfort—however bitter—because the touch feels nearly human, nearly the mother I remember.