On my twenty-first attempt, the duchess of life never forgave herself nor sought forgiveness from the one she loved. She shut herself away, and the flower that should’ve thrived withered and collapsed. My herald was never the same, a broken puppet with a worn lever. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Decima sat at the dinner table, hands resting in her lap as she chewed on her lip.
Her belly hurt, her head ached, and her calves itched like wildfire. It was like she’d fallen and nobody was there to catch her. Decima rubbed her eyes, staring at her shaky hands, dried blood beneath her curved talons.
She didn’t even know if it was hers.
The dining room groaned, steel shifting against phantom waves like a vessel on its maiden voyage. The blue linoleum felt cold, Decima’s ankles coiling about the legs of her chair, surrounded by over a hundred empty dining tables. A graveyard made of plates, forks, and knives, her white dining cloth an empty epitaph draped against her neck.
Decima pressed her palms against her lap, struggling to keep tears from her eyes.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Morta asked, tapping her fingers at the head of the table. “Or are we still not talking?”
Morta wore a black dress with a thigh slit ideal for riding, her heels short, a sapphire sparkling from her bangle. She seemed stony, thoughtless, and borderline inconsiderate, staring at her nails while propping her chin on her other arm. Still, she saw the wrinkles under Morta’s eyes, her diode flashing haywire, and the unsteadiness of her hands.
Decima’s lips quivered, before her a veritable feast, an intoxicating aroma all but snatching her troubles away. She stared longingly at a brown sugar mustard ham, glazed, tender, with crisp edges and a juicy center. It smelled like spiced honey rum and salted pork.
Decima wiped her mouth, shaking her hands over a deep-fried turkey smothered in garlic butter and thyme and stuffed with breading, lemon pepper, and rosemary. Black bean-packed sweet potatoes, garlic shrimp pasta, a slow-cooked pot roast, and stuffed bell pepper boats.
She licked her lips, her eyes glazing over, and her heart beating like a jackrabbit.
You’re a duchess of the oxidized garden, she thought, slapping her ankles, which thumped against the floor. Etiquette, Decima, remember your etiquette.
She reached for the silverware, unable to keep her eyes off the black pepper-encrusted skin of a well-done piece of tilapia.
Decima picked up the knife and poked the ham with her fork, carving a small piece from the flank. Steam rose from where she cut the meat, which was reddish brown and tantalizingly juicy. She raised the slice to her mouth, closed her eyes, and chewed. It was an explosion of flavor: salt, thyme, garlic, butter, and maple. There was something else, too—a crunch and a strange metallic taste she couldn’t quite place.
Decima opened her eyes, staring at the remains of her fork. The head was missing. She bit it off at the neck.
“Sister,” Morta said, shifting around in her seat and crossing her legs. “We aren’t at mass. I know you’re hungry, eat.”
The smell was too intoxicating, her primal instincts so strong, and now, with the assent of her sister...
Decima dropped her knife, tearing into the ham and turkey, knocking the table over, and spilling the food across the floor as she coiled, squeezing her prey and swallowing chunks whole. It wasn’t about the taste anymore, just a desperate attempt to fill the hole in her belly, but the abyss was depthless, cold, and starving.
“Decima.”
She worked on the pork links next, tearing into the skin and spilling the guts. The bell peppers caught in her teeth and she ate the shrimp, slurping noodles and stripping ribs. The tilapia tasted sweet and spicy, with a hot creamy center, potatoes buttery smooth, and gravy gone in a flash. Slow pot dripped down her front as she guzzled the stew, burning the roof of her mouth and the forked edge of her tongue.
“Decima!” Morta shook her, holding her down tight against the floor.
Decima blinked, looking over the scene in bewilderment. The food was gone and plates lay scattered across the floor. She was chewing on the corner of a butter dish, china crunching between her teeth. Decima heaved, dropping the dish which shattered against the ground, her skirts stained with various flavors and spices.
“I-I did this?” she asked, holding her hands over her mouth.
Her emotions boiled over like a teakettle sitting on the burner for too long. She sobbed, tears pouring down her cheeks, unable to rid herself of guilt, the feel of her beloved’s flesh peeling beneath her claws still fresh in her mind.
Morta held her against her chest, rocking back and forth. “I’m sorry,” Morta said, clearing her throat. “I didn’t mean to upset you back then.”
Decima wiped her face with her elbow, sobbing quietly. “I tried to kill him, Morta,” she said. “I love him, but I still tried.”
“It’s not your fault that Lachesis is a bitch. We should have warned him about that.”
“You were right all along. I was taking things too fast and shouldn’t have left the garden like that. It’s hopeless.” Decima’s head sank. “How will he ever love me now?”
“Gawds, sister, I tried to warn you, but—” Morta bit her tongue, taking a deep breath. “There is still a chance. You haven’t lost everything yet.”
“He won’t take me back. Not after what I—”
“If you haven’t tried, then you don’t know that yet,” Morta hissed.
They sat quietly for a moment, Decima scrubbing at the stains along her skirt, wrinkling her nose in distaste. It’s not that she wasn’t self-aware, and she hated always being the one to lose control.
Morta leaned against the broken table, shattered dishes crunching beneath her legs. “Decima,” she finally said. “Do you really love him?”
Her freckles swelled. “Yes, sister, I love him.”
“Then I know he’ll take you back and I’ll be by your side when he does.” She sighed, chewing at the edge of her broken fingernail. “You have my blessings. Just promise me I won’t have to wear some gawds awful trumpet gown.”
“Morta, I… You—” Decima smiled, wrapping her arms around her. “Thank you. I love you, I do.”
“Gawds, enough, I get it.” Morta frowned, peeling Decima’s fingers off her.
“Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?” Decima asked, wiping her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone in this vessel.”
“Whatever,” Morta said, rolling her eyes. “Just stay away from the mausoleum in my room. I’ve got a pest problem.”
— ✦ —
Gama’s wing snapped against her back, her belly button teething as she slid an empty plate under the stony door of her mother’s mausoleum. It was never enough to satisfy her. The entire world wasn’t enough to satisfy her. Such was the nature of genuine hunger—an empress of desires greedy, ignorant, all-powerful. That feeling stuck to her like oil, a filthy perversion chipping away at her discipline, tempting her with pleasurable debauchery.
She jumped to her feet, closing her eyes and cycling through her stances. Even without her sword, the rhythm was as natural as breathing. She built tension, lifting herself off the floor by the tip of her toe and sweeping her right leg, first, second, and third position, toes down, ball down, heel down.
Gama glided across the floor, her skirts wrapping around her thigh as she twisted her legs, the scales along her thigh coarse like sandpaper. She breathed in and out, slow and controlled as she swung her feet, dropping low and then high, reaching for the ceiling with her foot and touching her toe with her right hand.
You’re hardly wearing appropriate attire for that move, Atropos said.
Gama grunted, controlling her descent into a resting position. She touched the tips of her fingers and curled her toes, her belly button no longer teething and her stomach quiet.
She sighed.
Her rhythms were a temporary tool against depthless thirst, but, like a starving woman before a lavish feast, her primal hunger would eventually kill her, at least once her mother got her shit in order.
It’s not like I have an audience, Gama thought, staring at the open glass gaskets and a corpse doll’s unblinking pearl eyes. Besides, I’m not my sister. I’ve never been good at arousing the dead.
And yet, you’re betrothed to a corpse, are you not?
Gama fingered the serpent-shaped ring, its fangs poised above her knuckle, thirsty for a taste.
Mother’s idea, she thought. Morta believes the slumbering sultan’s kiss can save me. Eternal rest. Not quite dead, not quite alive, but somewhere in between.
A half-measure worthy of Morta’s lofty ambitions, I suppose, Atropos said.
She has to do better, Atropos. I have to convince her… No, I will convince her to take up her mantle. She will live in death once more, I promise.
Well, Atropos said, her voice laced with sarcasm. Let me be the first and last to say, you’re doing a fantastic job…
Shut up.
Gama thumped her head against the solid door of the mausoleum.
She’d made a few mistakes, that much she would admit, and telling her mother of her mortal heritage topped the list.
She sighed, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at the rusty piss bucket at the far end of the room. So undignified, but at least here nobody was trying to kill her and her stomach cramps were easier to control without the distant call of that tempting voice. Still, strange as it was to admit, she missed the warmth of Sippero’s nasal polyps and gastric folds, his voice cheerfully rambling about the qualities of some oceanic particle.
Gama blushed, running her fingers through her hair and around her ear. “Is this what it means to be in love?” she said.
“Oh, there’s no denying it. That’s love, alright. I know the feel of that silk and the taste of that nectar,” said a woman’s voice from the other side of the Mausoleum.
Gama screamed, jumping to her feet and away from the door. “Whose there?!” she shouted. “Mother, is that you?”
“You must be the pest my sister was going on about.” A woman sat by the door, strands of her silvery hair peeking beneath the frame. “She doesn’t mean it. I hope you know that. Morta put me in a glass box too whenever I misbehaved.”
Gama rubbed her arms, breathing a sigh of relief.
It was her aunt Decima. She’d know that voice from anywhere, bouncing on her knee as a girl, listening closely to her recipes and thoughts on love. Her aunt always treated her as one of her brood, teaching her to manage her appetites and how to brush her hair when she was maloccluded.
Gama returned to her seat, resting her cheek against the cold stone wall. “You don’t sound surprised to hear me,” she said.
“Morta’s head has been in the clouds asking Nona and me if she’d make an exemplary mother. I figured relatives were visiting,” Decima said, a dozen fingers tapping against the floor, a centipede tasting the air with her footpads. “You smell just like her, you know. Did you use the Isomerase?”
Gama closed her eyes, rubbing her cheeks and snuffling.
Gawds she missed her aunt. How long had it been since she’d snuck finger-fulls of raw dough from her rolling pin and played with her half-sisters beneath Lachesis’s watchful gaze?
“It’s troubling, isn’t it?” Decima asked. “I mean, to be separated from the one you love without closure. Wounds like that sink deeper than any caused by the morbid iron tools my sister has on display here.” She slid the plucked scarlet petal of a rose under the door.
Gama picked up the petal, turning it over in her hands. “He loves me,” she said with a smile.
“He loves me not,” Decima answered, plucking another petal. “You’re smitten, young lady. I know this pattern, the stitchwork is obvious, so why disrupt my work and come here?”
Gama sighed, spreading her legs across the floor and lying against the door. “Aunt Decima, I am the viscountess, Storge, and it is my nature to prioritize familial love over romantic.” She rubbed her nose with her elbow. “Besides, I’m destined to return, so it’s not like I won’t ever see Sippero again. What about you, Decima? Did you and Alexander get into a fight?”
Decima sat quietly, plucking that rose until only an empty stem remained. Her hands dropped to her side, tears dripping against the floor. “I hurt him,” she finally said, her voice shaky. “I almost killed him with my own hands.”
“What?!” Gama jumped to her feet. “How, why?!”
“Morta refused to give me her blessing, and I lost control. I was angry, hungry, and I just… I just—” she choked, struggling for composure. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Gama broke into a cold sweat, pacing back and forth, chewing on her nails, her wing beating furiously and whipping her hair into a frenzy.
Oh gawds, oh gawds! This was her fault. The things she told her mother about Decima, about herself, it was all coming back to bite her in the ass.
Bastion warned her after he stopped her heart. The paint was still wet and the canvas vulnerable and yet here she was like a child, hands covered in oil, leaving colorful fingerprints against her dress and across the walls, evidence of an ignorant crime.
Gama dropped to her hands and knees, trying to peer beneath the door. “Aunt Decima, please listen to me,” she said. “You have to make it up to him. I know you’re destined to be together, so don’t shut out something beautiful because of a little misunderstanding!”
Decima grew quiet. “Little misunderstanding?” she asked. “I tried to eat him.”
“So what if you did? Who hasn’t tried to eat their loved ones?” Gama laughed, uncomfortably scratching her nose.
She was a terrible liar. It was Sippero who always swallowed her whole, but she still forgave him. Why wouldn’t Alexander?
Decima lay on her belly, her scarlet eyes flashing beneath the door. “You don’t understand, Niece. I’m not afraid that he won’t forgive me. I’m afraid that he will. What relationship but an artificial one would proceed naturally beyond this point?”
“You’re making a mistake. Artificial or not. Your love brings you fruit and happiness. I admire that love and the stories you told me as a child. Please, try, for the happiness of your future.” Gama cleared her throat, poking her fingers together. “For your children’s future.”
Decima’s breath carried scarlet petals, a knowing smile spreading across her lips. “If it were you instead of me,” she said. “How would you proceed?”
Gama whispered, sharing advice that Morta once taught her. The kind of advice inappropriate between mother and daughter but useful in a pinch where pushup bras and lacy undergarments failed. She could feel the heat of her aunt’s blush as the words passed her lips.
— ✦ —
The manor had changed considerably. Decima barely recognized the living area, now the atrium of a growing tower. Construction materials lay around her, beams, triangles, and stacked bags of powdered adhesive, nails, and screws. Pipes coiled along the walls, feeding a glowing cauldron of molten metal, calcium, and violent steam. Above her hung the metal neck of a massive pendulum, its brass face lumbering back and forth to the motion of an unsteady structure.
Decima sat on the stage beneath the unfinished clock, coiling her calves around her as she positioned her violin and stroked the strings. Her hands shook, her knuckles turning white, gripping her bow as she chewed on her lip. She hung her head, laying the violin at her feet, unable to compose or think of anything but the harm she caused.
Alexander waited in the shadows. She could smell him, taste him, and touch him. There was no distance too great as to separate her completely, such was the nature of a honed predator.
Decima licked her fingers, scrubbing beneath the nails, unable to clean the stains or shed the metallic taste of her guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she said, staring at her heels and rubbing her elbow. “I didn’t mean the things I did, but I also can’t take it back. You don’t have to forgive me. I beg you not to, but, Alexander, I love you. I want you to know that.”
Alexander came from behind the scaffolding, wearing poorly fitted trousers and a torn overcoat. His steely eyes fixated on her, his motions that of a skittish doe afraid of the clearing but drawn by the lapping of a tempting brook. His skin puckered and bubbled, his lips tattered and his teeth crooked, strings of hair hanging from his balding scalp.
Decima’s heart quivered, her eyes glazing over and her calves thumping against the stage.
“Have you come back only to break my heart?” he asked.
Decima whipped away her tears. “No, I… I never meant to hurt you.” Her lips trembled as he approached, seeing her reflection in his eyes. “Don’t come any closer. I might… I can’t—”
Alexander lifted her, sitting her in the crook of his elbow like a marionette, her legs draped over his arm, the tips of her toes touching his knees. She licked her lips, warm and moist, her freckles swelling as they fed on her blush. She pushed away from him, her rust-colored eyes glowing in defiance, frustrated.
“You fool,” she said. “What if I wasn’t me?! What if I lied?! What if I—”
He kissed her before she could finish, the brush of his lips tantalizingly tender. Decima struggled, but her heart betrayed her, her body pressed against his. He tasted so sweet. She, a butterfly, perched upon the pedals of a wilting flower, lapping up the last drops of nectar. He separated from her, but she chased, her lower lip quivering, desperate for intimacy.
“Will you be my wife?” he asked, slipping a simple golden band on her ring finger.
“W-we can’t,” she panted, struggling to get the words out, fingering the smooth texture of the band. “I hurt you. This isn’t right, you—” The question died in her throat, her delivery weak, melting in his eyes.
His hunger for her never abated, her protests fueling a rabid desire. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right!
Decima kissed him, her mind racing, trapped in a hormone-laced loop, clinging to the moment, ignorant of the future. She closed her eyes, holding the middle of his back and pulling him against the floor. She lay on top of him, panting, sweat glistening from her brow as he pulled the straps of her gown over her shoulders. Decima grabbed his wrist, a moment of clarity but gone in a flash, her apology an unplucked supple fruit.
Her dress fell in a heap onto the floor, and she blushed from her nakedness, an awkward maiden uncertain of the next steps. As often as she had woven passion, Decima fumbled like a child, the heat of the moment her only guide. She sighed, sweating from the tip of her nose, her white hair tickling his cheek. Again, a spark of clarity, her eyes meeting his, finding a burning desire, a raging unchecked wildfire.
Decima knew all at once, bereft of the pleasures of sex, the dangers of weaving a single seam, for how was this fanatical love anything but the sterility of which she spoke?
