The Last Tale of the Flower Bride(35)

Across the table, I felt a new heat rising off Indigo’s skin. I almost grabbed Puck’s hand. I almost told her to run. But one look at Puck’s face, and I knew it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Puck couldn’t see us, not really. She saw only the blur of power, a shimmer that perhaps she imagined might feel like December sunshine on her skin.

“Sit with us,” said Indigo imperiously.

Puck sat. She reached into her satchel for her bagged lunch. Indigo shook her head.

“We don’t eat here.”

“Sorry.” Puck seemed ashamed. She folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “I won’t do it again.”

The deference in her voice made my stomach curl. But where I was embarrassed for her, Indigo was intrigued. She reached across the table, touched the ends of Puck’s hair.

“Now your name is Puck, and you belong to us. Okay?”

“Okay,” repeated Puck.

“Normally, you’d have to sign your name in blood to make the bond true,” said Indigo.

I shot her a warning glance, but Indigo wasn’t looking at me.

“Do you have something sharp with you?” asked Indigo.

Puck blushed again and shook her head.

“That’s okay,” said Indigo sweetly. “Come to the House after school and you can do it there. You know where it is, don’t you?”

“Everyone knows where it is,” said Puck, awed.

Indigo smiled again and I figured she had just wanted to hear it out loud.

“We’ll see you there.”

Dismissed, Puck gathered her things and stood. I felt a rush of relief that she was going. Maybe now I could talk Indigo out of whatever she was planning. Indigo wasn’t finished though.

“Being like us means making sacrifices,” said Indigo. “If you’re serious about this then you cannot speak to a single human being for the rest of the day, Puck.”

Puck froze. “I-I have a presentation to give in fifth period . . . but I promise I won’t say anything else? Unless I’m called on or something?”

Indigo looked at her sharply. “Creatures of the Otherworld love loopholes. They love cleverness. If you can’t make this sacrifice, then you’re wasting our time.”

Puck hesitated. Indigo sighed and slouched against me, laying her heavy, warm head in the crook of my neck. She smelled of apples. Usually when she did this, she was boneless and sleepy as a kitten. Now, I could feel the taut energy in her body, the careful way she arranged herself against me. I saw what Puck saw: a glossy-haired, elegant puzzle, a red fruit split between our hands. Indigo made us look like icon and enigma, less like sisters and more like two beatific halves. Puck gaped.

“I’ll manage,” said Puck.

When she left, Indigo lifted her head from my shoulder. I felt cold without her against me.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

Indigo shrugged. “Playing. I like her hair.”

Puck met us after school before the wrought-iron gates of the House. I noticed that she had changed her clothes. She wore an oversize black pea coat, a white smock shirt, and black rain boots. A parody of Indigo’s outfit.

Indigo had us wait on the other side of the fence, careful to maintain the separation. When Puck saw us, her pace sped up until she was almost running, clutching a pocketknife in her sweaty grip.

“I brought something sharp,” said Puck, breathless and bright-eyed.

Indigo barely smiled. Puck never looked at me. I was a necessary, silent backdrop, both as expected and unremarkable as a cloud in the sky.

“Cut yourself,” said Indigo.

“Um, where?” asked Puck, turning over her palm.

She had chubby wrists and stubby fingers and wore a power-bead bracelet of false jade around her wrist. It was too big for her and kept slipping down to her knuckles even as she shoved it farther up her arm.

“Blood is blood,” said Indigo, impassive.

Puck screwed up her face, squeezing her eyes shut, and slashed the knife down her palm. She sucked in her breath, held out her bloodied hand.

“Press your hand into the earth,” said Indigo. “And tell the earth your real name.”

Puck cast about. On the outskirts of the House of Dreams, the ground was mostly sharp mulch, but she dutifully crouched down and pressed her hand to it.

“M-My name—”

“I forgot, you have to put your forehead on the ground,” said Indigo. “It’s called ‘kowtowing.’ You can look it up in history books. It’s how you’re supposed to greet powerful things, and the earth is extremely powerful.”

“Oh, right,” said Puck.

She knelt and placed her forehead in the dirt. Her jacket fell open, puddling around her. Her red hair flopped over her head. Indigo laughed silently. I glared at her, and she winked at me.

“My name is Puck,” the girl said, her voice nasal in that position.

Finished, Puck stood, sniffling and blinking.

“Come inside, Puck,” said Indigo, opening the gate. “Come into the House of Dreams.”



I didn’t like Puck.

At first, I felt bad for her. I felt bad for the way she mimicked us, how she’d try to tuck her knees to her chest and fold delicately into chairs as Indigo did, or pull at her hair, as if by tugging it long and hard enough, she could make it grow like ours.