Page 92 of As Many Souls as Stars
The shadows hesitated, flickering—Miriam wondered if this was truly the first moment, in her centuries of life, that the darkness would refuse her.
But it did not. Slowly, it slipped from the wall to the floor, gathering around the jacket Miriam had pulled from Rosamund’s shoulders as they’d entered. Miriam went to pick it up and noticed a heaviness in the lining. Something was concealed there.
It was the grimoire.
A bookmark in the shape of a filigreed leaf had been pressed between its pages. Miriam opened it to the correct page.
To weakene a dymon, it read.Within the lighte of daye, but beneathe clouds so no shadow is cast, surrounde the creature or those possessed wythyn a circle of salte, or water that runs…
Circle of salt. Water that runs.
Outside, the Atlantic rumbled with the beginnings of a storm.
Miriam dropped the book to the floor. It fell with the decisive heaviness of a guillotine blade, the leather striking the wood with a dark thump.You have already won, Miriam had said to her, when they’d met two days ago—and Rosamund had replied,Yes, I suppose I have. Her sudden reappearance on theMonumental; the strange ritual Miriam had caught her in; and now the grimoire, somehow risen from its grave. She should have suspected earlier. Miriam had known the risks when she came on the ship, but then Rosamund had batted her lashes and—like a lovelorn idiot—Miriam had chosen to trust in her surrender. In return, she had been betrayed.
On the bed, Rosamund stirred. Miriam looked at her. Asleep, her face was naïve and placid, mouth slack and head lolling on the pillow. She was beautiful. Her eyelids fluttered with dreams.
It was unlikely that this plan of hers wouldwork, of course. Miriam could simply try to fly to shore; they were close enough. It would be incredibly painful, but it may still be possible, if she waited until the land was visible.
But she didn’t want to leave. Miriam was furious. Miriam wantedjustice.
There was a letter opener on the dressing table, and a collection of hairpins with sharp ends. The curtains of the porthole had longpulls, rope as thick as Rosamund’s wrists. The bath was deep enough to drown in. Miriam didn’t need any of it, regardless. Her own hands had snapped enough necks.
She approached the bed.
Rosamund sighed and turned in her sleep. Her throat was exposed, as was the pulse beneath it.
Miriam’s fingers met Rosamund’s neck, so gently she didn’t even stir. She was warm. Her skin was soft. It would be so easy. So simple.
But she couldn’t do it.
She left the room.
Miriam went to the promenade. It was a cold day, blisteringly so—she could infer this from the lack of people outside, and the way that the single person present was bundled in a coat and scarf. She didn’t feel the cold—she never had—but sometimes rage felt to Miriam as she imagined ice felt to a human, the freeze-and-burn contradiction of it, the way it sat in her stomach and made her limbs go tense and shaky.
Salt, water, clouds.
Perhaps Miriamhadknown, all along. She’d said it to Rosamund herself in the baths—I think you’re hiding something from me.But she had ignored her own doubts, remained in wilful ignorance, just because of her fondness for a woman who was destined to die. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Miriam walked to the railing, curling her hands around the iron bars. She squeezed until the metal groaned and began to buckle. There were few shadows here, midday with the sun directly ahead, nothing to cast darkness except the ship itself—still, what few were present began to flinch away, anticipating her anger.
The other person on the promenade approached her, holding something glinting in their hands. Miriam turned violently, expecting to defend herself. But it was just a cigarette case, monogrammed with a goldW.J.
‘Want a smoke?’ asked Walter Jennings.
‘What?’ Miriam ground out, voice like an iron nail scraping glass, and it was testament to either his bravery or his foolhardiness that Walter stood his ground.
‘A smoke,’ he repeated. ‘No offence, miss, but you kind of look like you could use it.’
Miriam’s fury flared. She took a step toward him, teeth bared. ‘Whatisit about you, Walter Jennings,’ she snarled, ‘that draws her affection? It can’t be your intellect—or attraction. Is it companionship, then? I offered her that, many times, and she always rejected me, in the end.’
He took a step back from her, startled. ‘I—well—wait. Are you talking about Rosie?’
‘Rosie,’ Miriam echoed derisively, and she surged forward to wrap a hand around his elbow. ‘Once she was feared, you know. Once her family’s name was spoken with terror and reverence. But then the Hall burnt, and they becamedomesticated. I won’t let the same thing happen to me. Cybil was right.’
He blinked at her. ‘Who’s Cybil?’
Miriam ignored the question. ‘It’s the frog and the scorpion, just as she said. Some things are monsters by nature. I’ve been playacting humanity for her, but it’s time I stopped.’
