Page 21 of As Many Souls as Stars
The forest, once familiar, was made another world entirely by the rain: gnarled trunks shimmering sideways in the haze of water; the earth pulling at Charmeuse’s hoofs as if to consume her and Cybil both. Cybil hadn’t seen Richter since she had run to retrieve her horse, since she had galloped down the path home, swallowing her screams—but she swore she could hear footsteps behind her, could hear the crowing of a bird above her. And yet, each time she glanced over her shoulder, there was no one there.
It was some sort of dream, Cybil told herself,a nightmare—but it did not help. It did not loosen the terror that had closed its fist around her heart, did not slow her pace or her breathing. She raced through the forest like a stag with hounds nipping at its heels, until the Hall rose above her, cruel and familiar, the rain beating against its leaden roof.
Cybil dismounted. It was almost dark now, and the downpour had soaked her entirely. Her hair stuck to her face, and water sprung from her eyelashes when she blinked. She could still feel the imprint of Peter’s—Richter’s—hand on her cheek. Her stomach churned.
She dropped Charmeuse at the stables, from which the most direct route into the main building was through the orchard. Cybil stumbled her way over roots and decomposing leaves, gripping her wet skirts. Many of the trees still bore fruit, the last of the autumn’s apples, butmore still carpeted the ground in various stages of decay. In her haste, Cybil stepped on one, and it burst beneath her boot. She slipped, arms flailing—and someone caught her.
It was Richter, smiling down at her. This time, Cybil did scream, trying to bat her away. Richter disappeared. In the space of a blink, she was gone; disoriented, Cybil veered around—trying to find her—and then she heard a voice at her ear, saying, ‘Good evening.’
Cybil lurched away from the source of the noise, spinning around. Richter was watching her, hands linked behind her back, head cocked at an unnatural angle.
For a moment, they stared at each other without speaking. Then Richter said, ‘When all else is ashes, my dear, yours may be the only face that I remember.’
Cybil had no idea how to respond to that. Her cheeks heated, and she took a deep breath, ignoring the hammering of her heart. ‘You were controlling Peter.’
‘Yes.’
‘How? Whatareyou?’
Richter didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped forward and seized Cybil’s arm, pulling her closer.
Cybil was furious to find that Richter was just as handsome now, in the dim grey of dusk, as she had been beneath the moon. She was square-jawed, heavy-browed. There was something about the bluntness of her features that felt familiar, in the manner that a flame was familiar to burnt skin.
‘Release me,’ Cybil said. ‘How might you convince me to do anything, acting like this? I know not who you are—whatyou are. If you are a witch, you are not as my father was. And if you are something else…’
‘I told you; I am Miriam Richter,’ she said. ‘And I know who you are, Cybil Harding, now more than ever. I have found so many memories here in this orchard, buried beneath the leaves and mud.Break the bough, Cybil—is that not what your father wanted? Did you ever manage it?’
Cybil pulled away, taking a shaky step backwards. ‘How—how do you know of that?’
Richter hummed in thought. ‘He was clever enough, I suppose, to see the light in you, but still too foolish to understand its worth. How tragic. Would you have preferred if I had kept him alive? It would have been foolish. Who knows what else he might have summoned, if I hadn’t gotten here first?’
For a moment, Cybil didn’t understand. Then she remembered Sir Gilbert telling her father thatsuch a summoning would cost too dear a price—and her father’s confident response:I will pay it. I have no choice.
Cybil took another step back, and she tripped over a root. Richter lunged forward to catch her as she fell, one arm looping around her waist, bending her in a dance step beneath an apple tree’s heavy branches. Ripe red fruit dangled like viscera above Richter’s head. Cybil squirmed, trying to escape her grip. Richter grinned and tightened her hold.
‘What to do, what to do?’ she asked her. ‘Are you frightened of me, Cybil?’
She was playing with her, as a cat with a mouse. ‘Let me go,’ Cybil gasped.
‘You should allow me to help you,’ Richter replied. ‘It seems sweetness does not move you, nor does deception; perchance cruelty shall instead. If I took you apart, my dear, how much would you give to be put back together?’
‘Let me go!’
‘Stubborn girl. Ask me nicely, and I shall consider it.’
Cybil spat in her face and clawed at her hands. It did not work. Richter was as cold and unmoving as marble; Cybil bowed her back further, arching upwards, thinking to slide out of Richter’s grip. But it was futile. All that happened was that her viewing angle changed, so that she was staring directly above them: at the clouded sky, and her captor’s dark-eyed smile, and the tree branch looming over Richter’s shoulder.
Cybil focused on the branch. Richter followed her gaze, turning her head. ‘Ah, I see. Would you like my encouragement?’
‘If you do not release me, I shall…’
‘You shall what?’ Her grin widened. ‘It is when you are at your most furious, your most distraught, that the true light of your soulbreaks loose. It is so beautiful to witness. Why fight it, my dear? The shadows wish to feed—you do not feel their presence? Give them what they desire, and they shall do anything you ask of them.’
Cybil squirmed again. Richter leaned in closer. For a brief, absurd moment, Cybil thought she was going to kiss her—she drew in a breath, lips parting, uncertain how to respond—but then Richter brought her mouth to Cybil’s ear instead.
‘Break the bough, Cybil,’ she murmured.
‘Hasten to hell, you—youbitch—’
