The Last Tale of the Flower Bride(43)

Indigo stirred then, yawning and staring brightly out the window. “Home,” she sighed. “Come, Azure. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

I followed after her, dazed. That time-tethering magic of Indigo’s played with my perceptions. The House seemed small enough to fit in my hand. The hydrangeas on the lawn looked as if they were made of sugar paste. The sunlight appeared false, a careless streak from a cheap paintbrush. Tati followed, still clutching her bag.

“I should look upstairs,” she said. “We can still make it to the hangar in time—”

“I have something better,” said Indigo, grabbing my hand.

Tati and I followed her down the hall, past the kitchen, and into the Room of Secrets. Inside, soft accordion music played from a victrola. Pink bougainvillea was draped around the animal heads and ivy trailed along the bones on the other side of the wall. The table was set with meats and cheeses, pastel-colored macarons and petits fours.

“Voilà,” said Indigo, taking a seat. “Way better than anything you’d get in France.”

I stared, fixated on the jawbones of a crocodile, propped open with pink blossoms. The air was overly sweet, the cheese beaded with sweat. Beside me, Tati dropped her bag.

“Indigo, what is this?” she asked, breathless.

“I figured if we couldn’t go to Paris, then we could bring it here,” she said brightly. “See? It’s so much better.”

I sank into the chair Indigo pulled out for me. The room blurred, turning translucent, and in my delirium, I imagined that I could see the edge of the Otherworld, that it did not melt into fireflies and infinite dusk but stumbled back from the end of Indigo’s driveway.

Tati looked stricken. “But how—”

“I asked the ferry captain to send word,” said Indigo, looking at me. “I didn’t want you to be sad, Azure.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry, we will still gather all those stories to offer up like coins. And I promise I won’t let us become Cast-Out Susans.” She looked up at Tati, and a light entered her eyes. “Come on, Tottlepop. Sit. Eat.”

Tati pulled up a chair. She didn’t speak, merely stared at the plates. Tati had said she would look for the passport, but if she ever found it, she never told me. The car was sent away, the bags swiftly unpacked, and we did not talk about the trip again.





Chapter Eighteen

The Bridegroom




Enchantments rely on rules of etiquette. There is a way in which things must be done. If you see an old woman on the road, offer her your lone crust of bread and a sip from your flask. If she thanks you by telling you of a rare treasure in the shadows of the woods, you must listen with your hands over the ears of your curiosity. If she tells you to walk into a cave and there you shall see three dogs with eyes as large as saucers guarding a chest of gold, a chest of silver, and a chest of wood, you should proceed with your eyes fixed on your feet so all you see is the distance closed between yourself and your destiny.

Somewhere inside that cave, the rules of etiquette lose their grip. Your gaze shifts from your feet to this cave of strange wonders. Here, daydreams are pressed between panes of glass, a harp strung with human hair, crystal songbirds blinking obsidian eyes, singing a song of such sorrow that you weep where you stand. Then there are the three dogs with eyes wide as saucers standing before a chest of gold, a chest of silver, and a chest of wood, and though the old woman begged you to touch only the chest of wood, why should you listen to her? Her eyes were rheumy and her hands gnarled, and the chest of wood is far too humble, and you have come this far and surely you deserve more than that for your troubles.

I remembered this ancient etiquette, and I was determined not to forget it, but my knowledge seemed to have abandoned me from the moment we stepped over the threshold into the House of Dreams.

I woke to the moth-winged flutter of Indigo’s eyelashes against my pulse, her face hot and sticky from sleep as she molded herself against my chest. It was still dark, our faces inscrutable to each other. Indigo moved my fingers to the fragile velvet of her neck, and in this shared blindness I counted her heartbeats until the sunlight pulled us into two distinct beings.

Indigo was wearing a long-sleeved, ankle-length black velvet dress. Her gloves were gone, and her skin was warm as her fingers brushed mine.

“This will all be over soon,” she said, kissing my cheek when we arrived. “Perhaps an hour or so at most. I’ll meet you back at the hotel?”

“Sounds good,” I said, smiling and watching as she walked down the hall.

In the parlor, the dull chatter of lawyers and the smell of coffee drifted toward the entrance. Indigo had left the front door open, and sunlight pooled across the chestnut floor. Outside, the car was still running, waiting to take me to a library on the mainland, where I told Indigo I’d do some work to pass the time. I waited until she was out of earshot, and then I shut the door and began to climb the grand staircase.

I was loath to speak to Hippolyta again. I didn’t want to search for reason in her riddles or end up clutched in her bony grip. But I needed answers if I was to claim my treasure from the House. The night before, Indigo had looked heartbroken. Azure had stolen something from her, and my only source of inquiry was an old woman with a decaying mind who insisted I needed wings to enter the Otherworld.

From the stair’s landing, muffled voices came from Hippolyta’s room. The hallway was split. Down the right, Hippolyta’s red, musty chambers. To my left, an alcove leading to the small spiral staircase and its secret turret. Golden dust motes sifted down the staircase, lending it the look of something rare and hallowed.