Page 73 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘Esther,’ Miriam agreed.
‘Did you kill her?’ he asked. ‘Everyone thinks it was Thomas, but I’ve always wondered otherwise.’
‘I loved her.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
She stared at him, and he stared at her. The dust whispered around them, susurrous against the dry grass of the plain. There were few shadows in this place, the light filtered as it was, and it was taking some effort to keep them intangible; Miriam was already feeling drained.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed her.’
Isaac twitched at that, a vein in his jaw jumping, but he said nothing in response.
‘Life and death are twins, not enemies. Never one without the other.’ Miriam took a languid step sideways, reaching out her hand to the dust. Some particles detached from the rest, floating toward her: as they increased in density, they created a figure of a woman, dancing on her open palm like a music-box ballerina. ‘Your sister…’
‘My sister had her entire future ahead of her, and you took it from her.’
Miriam sighed. ‘Her future remains ahead—the future always is, regardless of who is to see it. But Esther wanted this, Master Harding; this was her victory, not mine.’
Isaac turned away from her. Addressing the dust swirling around them, tone flat, he said, ‘If it were possible, I would kill you, Miriam Richter.’
‘If it were possible, I’d let you.’
‘You hate yourself that much?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘But eternity is a punishment, not a gift.’
It was the first time she’d admitted as much, to herself or to anyone else; it should have felt significant, but it didn’t. She’d always known it was so, from the very moment of her birth. That was why she had been so angry to see her creators, huddled around their ritual circle, with their rictus grins.
What have you done?she’d asked them: it was the first thing she’d ever said.Why have you done this to me?
Of course, she hadn’t given them enough time to respond. There was such satisfaction, such grim irony, in causing the ending of others. An ending would always be denied to her, after all.
Isaac began to walk away, into the storm. Miriam followed him. ‘I can’t keep you like this unless I’m near,’ she said.
‘I don’tcare,’ he snarled. ‘I refuse to make you my saviour.’
Miriam bared her teeth. ‘I could have left you to the dust, you know. I didn’t need to help you.’
‘And yet you did. Because ofEsther. Because you killed her, and now you aredesperatefor her to forgive you for it. But let me tell you something, Miriam Richter.’ He turned to her, eyes flashing, and his expression had so much of his sister in it that Miriam felt something inside her chest twinge. ‘Give her a thousand lifetimes, a thousand apologies: it won’t matter. Esther will never forgive you. She’ll see you reduced toashesbefore she forgives you.’
Miriam sighed. ‘Then ashes I shall be,’ she said. ‘As will you, Isaac Harding.’
She released her grip on the shadows, and then laughed sharply as Isaac cried out and dropped to the ground. Ignoring the sting of the dust on her skin, she walked away—and walked, and walked, until his figure was gone, and the dust was cleared, and she could finally take to the skies.
I hope he was buried, she told herself.
But later, when she saw a coughing figure struggling down the road to Tripoli, she paused for a moment to watch him; and she stretched the shadows of the trees further forward, to give him a little more shade.
Part III
The Atlantic
19
Rosamund Harding was born on Christmas Eve, 1908, under inauspicious stars. Not that anyone could see the stars, regardless: it had been a cruel winter that year, with snow flurries and howling blizzards, and the night sky over England had for months been devoid of light.
Little Rosamund’s intellect advanced with uncommon speed. The doctors, disquieted, told her parents it was a gift, of course, but to be monitored—she said her first word at eight months old, and by three years of age she was reading silently to herself, running chubby fingers over the page with an expression of silent pondering. Mr and Mrs Harding noticed other oddities, too. She was fair and redheaded, little resembling either of them or her younger siblings, and objects, from nursery cots to pieces of much-hated sprouts, had a strange habit of igniting spontaneously around her. She never laughed, rarely cried, and by age ten was referring to both her parents by their first names, cold and detached, as though they were strangers.
