Page 69 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘As you do me,’ he replied. ‘First Daughter. It wasn’t enough to curse us all; you had to steal all our blessings, too. I was supposed to be born first, you know that? But little Esther came early. If it weren’t for you, I’d have the power to fix all of this—to bring Lily back, to continue Christopher Harding’s legacy. But I can’t. You’ve ruined it.’
Esther swallowed. ‘I didn’t choose to be this way. I didn’t choose to be cursed.’
‘Does that matter?’
It didn’t. Esther knew that, and she bowed her head.
‘You know, my father had a fascinating theory.’ Thomas’s eyes glittered dangerously, and he turned the knife in his hand, taking a step closer. ‘We have our rituals, and our alchemy, but in the end, magic isbelief—that is all. You mustbelievein something deeply to trade your soul for it. And for generations we have believed, Esther, that the First Daughter is a monster. Perhaps that is why you are the way you are.’
‘I— Don’t be absurd. You are saying the curse is not real?’
‘Of course it is real,’ he said. ‘It does not matterwhyyou are the way you are. It only matters what you have done.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
There was such contempt in his voice—Esther felt bile rise in her throat. ‘Get away from me.’
‘A woman with magic,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘The seed of Eve. Curse or no, the corruption is inherent. Don’t you see, Esther? Power like yours… it is too dangerous to leave unchecked.’
Thomas looked at the knife in his hand.
‘We should have left you to the wolves,’ he said.
There was such an intense familiarity to these words:Seed of Eve, left to the wolves.Witch, woman, daughter, danger. As recognisable as scripture, lingering as a bloodstain.
‘Seed of Eve,’ she murmured to herself. In response, the shadows at her feet trembled, as if in ecstasy. She stretched out her hand to them, and they rose, curling around her fingers. She heard Thomas gasp sharply; she did not care. A curious, cold sort of calm had fallen over her. A fury so long buried deep, so burning in its intensity, that it had gone from flames to ice.
‘Seed of Eve,’ she repeated, and her voice was two voices, her words an echo of themselves. ‘Eve. Is it truly her fault, Thomas? Is it truly mine? Look at this world we live in, its wickedness, its cruelty. When Eve ate the apple, God despaired. Perhaps He did so because she realised not onlyhersins, but His.’
Thomas took a step back.
‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘Whoare you?’
Who am I?
With that question, Cybil finally returned to her: the skin regrowing, a thousand memories finding purchase in the fissures of her soul. Every beautiful moment of Esther’s life, scant as they were, seemed to be snuffed out like a candle flame; every moment of conviction and optimism, of hope and ambition, dripping like wax to the floor. Esther felt herself become a lie, felt the truth disembowel her and then fill the empty spaces left behind. She was a shadow of herself. She was as much dead as alive. Cybil was Esther, Esther was Cybil, Thomas was Henry Martingale and Peter Oswyn and every man who’d ever decided she belonged to him.
Two centuries, and she was back where she began.
Esther lunged for the knife.
Thomas tried to spin out of the way, but she was fast enough that she found purchase on the handle. They stumbled together, each of them trying to wrestle the blade from the other’s grip. The tiles beneath them were slippery smooth, and they skidded sideways. The knife flailed between them in a pendulum’s swing, silver flashing in the starlight. Thomas tried to swipe it across Esther’s arm; she snarled like a wildcat, her magic surged, and the knife glowed white-hot. Thomas dropped it, hissing in pain. Esther caught it before it could hit the floor. Her fingers burnt—she didn’t care. She took the blade and slammed it into the base of Thomas’s throat.
He fell against her. They both hit the floor.
Thomas gurgled and choked. Rolling away, sprawling on her back, Esther turned her head to watch him. The oyster knife was embedded into the base of his windpipe; he was suffocating. Esther knew exactly how much pain he was feeling, and that, at least, was some comfort. Perhaps a blade was kinder than a spade. She hoped it wasn’t.
She scooted towards him, leaned over him like a parody of a lover. Once, Esther had pitied Thomas; but with Cybil returned to her, he seemed to matter so little. He’d called her a monster. Perhaps it was time, finally, for her to believe him.
The darkness around them was whispering, but its whispers were screams. They were ecstatic, gluttonous, feeding on the leaking light of Esther’s soul.
‘Thomas,’ she whispered.
His gaze turned towards her, but it seemed he couldn’t see her. His lids fluttered open and closed with sporadic, desperate movements.
‘Burn,’ she told him, and the shadows did her bidding: as she pulled the knife out of his throat, his body erupted into flames.
