The Last Tale of the Flower Bride(17)

“You’re wasting all that sunlight,” she said, perching her chin on Indigo’s head and winking at me.

Beyond the shape of their eyes and color of their hair, Tati and Indigo didn’t look much alike, even though she was the older sister of Indigo’s mother. Tati’s features were wide, squashy, and friendly. Indigo was drawn with a more restrained, elegant hand.

“She’s not nearly as beautiful as my mother,” Indigo had told me. “But I still love her.”

I didn’t need Tati to be beautiful to love her. I loved her the moment I had entered the House, and Tati feigned a gasp: “Indigo! Is this your long-lost sister, or did you finally bring one of your shadows to life?”

I had beamed when she said that. Here, I belonged. I didn’t mind if that meant being someone else’s shadow.

Most days, Tati wore colorful scarves on her head, and when she hugged me, it was like she was using up all her strength for that one embrace. Tati was a witch, which is to say she was a kind of artist. She worked, she told us, in “the medium of memory” and smelled like hot glue and dried roses.

“It’s gross outside,” said Indigo, studying the puzzle, ignoring Tati’s arms wrapped around her.

“We tried swimming in the creek,” I offered.

“Too cold,” said Indigo.

“Oooh, there’s an idea!” said Tati. “Why don’t I have a pool built for you girls? I can put it in the backyard—”

“I don’t want a pool in my backyard,” said Indigo, enunciating each word.

“Oh, sweetheart, are you sure? I think you girls would love it—”

Indigo pushed her hair back and chose that moment to toss her head, hitting Tati’s face. Tati winced, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears of pain welled in her eyes. Indigo turned to glance at her. I thought she would apologize, but she didn’t.

“I don’t want a pool on my property,” said Indigo, annoyed. “The end.”

I slid from my chair. “Are you hurt, Tati?”

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

When she lowered her hand, I saw blood on her fingertips. She quickly wiped her hand along her dark skirt.

“Then why don’t you girls go to the local pool?” she asked. She tried to smile, but the warmth had vanished from her voice, replaced with something soft and yielding. It reminded me of the way my mother spoke to Jupiter. “I’ll write a note so they let you in.”



A few hours later, we sat in the shade cast by the lifeguard’s chair, our feet dangling in the water. The public pool was crowded, and it smelled like sunblock and sweat. I kept glancing at Indigo, wondering if she’d say anything about Tati. I felt guilty for accepting Tati’s hug before we left. Indigo had shrugged her off, and so I had let Tati hold me as close as she’d ever held Indigo.

Indigo stared across the water. “Did you know that if you possess someone’s true name, they’ll belong to you forever?”

“What’s a true name?”

“Like a secret name,” said Indigo solemnly. “Everyone has a true name. Trees, monsters . . . even people. What’s yours?”

“Azure,” I said.

Indigo shuddered. “I can’t believe you said it out loud!”

“So?”

I tried to appear nonchalant, though I worried I had given up something priceless.

“Sometimes your real name is the name people call you. But it’s only important if someone knows that it’s true,” said Indigo, eyeing me. “And once they know it’s true, then they own you and you can never gain your freedom unless they give it back to you.”

I thought about this. “You’re the only one who heard me, so give it back.” I tried to say it like I was joking, but I wanted to cry.

Indigo looked at me, one corner of her mouth tilted up. Her eyebrow arched. “It’s mine now!”

I tried to grab her. She shrieked and dove into the pool. After that, we played for hours. We stood with our legs wide apart in the water and took turns wriggling through like slick mermaids. Sometimes, we pretended to trap each other. We did handstands and opened our eyes and looked up at the sun through the cold blue. It wasn’t until I went home that night that I realized Indigo had never given me back my name. It was just a formality though.

From the moment I met her, I had always belonged to Indigo.





Chapter Eight

The Bridegroom




How well do you know your bride?

I had not moved from my place at Hippolyta’s bedside, and yet her voice was now transposed over a rhyme so old there was moss in its joints—

Turn back, turn back, thou bonnie bride, nor in this house of death abide.

I had seen the words, but I had never heard them so clearly until now. It was a familiar-enough motif; its skeleton found in everything from Grimm and Perrault to a neat dissection in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther folkloric index. A young maiden visits the house of her betrothed, and there finds an old woman who bids her to hide behind the oven. The girl waits. Soon the door opens and her beloved stomps in, dragging a dead girl by her hair and heaving her onto the table. He tells the old woman that he means to eat well tonight and cuts the dead girl into her choicest bits. Behind the stove, the girl sees the firelight fall upon her beloved’s treasures. In the corner, he keeps a pile of snowy breasts. His rich rugs are shining strands of raven, ginger, and golden hair. His precious porcelain is made of glazed pelvic bowls, and his many gems are teeth set in gold. In the betrothed’s haste to carve the meat, the dead girl’s little finger flies into the lap of the hiding maiden who, by now, has realized her beloved is not what he seemed. And all the while, the old woman sings.