Page 50 of Rainshadow

“Hello?” She walked through the house.

There were signs of a fight in the dining room—a chair knocked over, a wine glass broken, wine pooled across the table and floor. It looked old, like it had been there a day, maybe two. Flora wondered briefly what happened, and considered that maybe she was too late—for what, she didn’t know.

She felt a rising terror inside her as she crept up the creaking wooden stairs, each whining groan from the steps like a warning, a final entreaty.

Turn back, it’s not too late.

She walked to Sylvia’s room. Something was different. There was a candle burning, and the smell of sickness was gone. There was a noise in the bathroom.

Flora stood, waiting.

When Sylvia emerged, she was wearing nothing but a short, black negligee. She was, Flora realized anew, a stunningly beautiful woman. Her long, white legs were ghostly, her face was a white mask in the dark, candlelit room, but she looked relatively healthy. When she met Flora’s eyes, she was not surprised or angry. No. She was sad.

“What are you doing here, Flora?”

Flora looked at Sylvia, cold and hateful.

“I knew I was supposed to come back,” she said. “He called me.”

Sylvia laughed, sat down on the bed, and began to brush her long, black hair.

“I’ve spent all day preparing myself. I said I would do it as soon as the sun came up, but I couldn’t.”

“Preparing yourself for what?” Flora said icily.

“I have to destroy him. Don’t you see? It’s the only thing that could free us both.”

“Free us?” Flora scoffed.

Sylvia laughed an ugly laugh. “Of course you had to show up,” she said. “Of course. He knows. Now what, Flora? Will you help me? Or are you here to kill me?”

It wasn’t until that moment that Flora realized that that was exactly what she’d come to do. She watched Sylvia get dressed, yanking off the negligee and pulling on riding pants and a sweater. She seemed completely unbothered by Flora’s presence, completely unashamed of her pale, shapely body.

“That girl—” Flora said.

“She’s gone,” Sylvia said, laughing. “I was a bitch to her, even threw a glass of wine at her. Barely made it three days before sheleft, like you should have. Don’t you see? Don’t you fucking see, you stupid girl?”

Flora stared at her, unblinking.

“If we kill him,” Flora said, “can I have Rainshadow?”

Sylvia put her face in her hands and laughed again, but the laugh seemed, almost, to turn into a sob.

“No!” she cried. “I can’t explain it all to you now, we don’t have time, but no, you would never get Rainshadow. Neither would I. And they might hunt for us, his friends… though I’ve never known them to be very loyal to one another. But it doesn’t matter, don’t you get that? This story isn’t about you, Flora, it’s about me! And if I don’t…” She gasped, with something—anxiety? “If I don’t… You won’t… If my story becomes your story, you—” Sylvia stopped, like she realized how pointless it was to keep talking.

Flora stared at Sylvia, who threw up her hands and shook her head, still laughing.

“This is it. He’ll be awake soon,” she said. “I have to go.”

Sylvia walked over and, to Flora’s astonishment, finally opened the safe, spinning the little dials with practiced confidence. Inside was what looked like a photo album and a long, sharp, wooden stake. Sylvia picked it up and, holding it at her side like a loaded pistol, strolled with forced confidence out of her bedroom.

Flora stood for a moment, watching her, then she seemed to snap out of a daze.

“No,” she said under her breath. She couldn’t let Sylvia kill Ethan. She ran after her down the dark hallway, her boots snapping like gunfire on the wooden floor.

Sylvia knew where Ethan slumbered.

It had never occurred to Flora to look, and a part of her realized she hadn’t wanted to, had wanted to pretend that Ethan was a man, a beautiful, living, breathing man.

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