The Last Tale of the Flower Bride(52)

“Us,” Indigo corrected.

I shook my head. “No, Indigo. He noticed me. He even wrote a song for me. All week, I’ve been with him. Did you feel it?”

Indigo was unknowable to me in that moment, and this excited me. Who were we when not cleaved to each other? If the Otherworld was a wonder, imagine what we might discover within ourselves—the raw dreams arranging like constellations at the back of our skulls, satin arteries rushing blood to muscles not yet used. It was heady, this idea that I was not yet articulated into being.

“You’re certain he wants you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I drew a deep breath, inhaling the perfume of snowdrops, the blood tang of winter, and the promise of crocuses in spring. “I want him too.”

Indigo lunged. I nearly raised my arms to do . . . what? I wasn’t even sure, but it didn’t matter. Her lunge was in fact a lean, and out of nowhere she kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were dry and chilled from the air and the pressure of her lips was brief, harsh.

I made myself smile. “What was that for?”

“For love,” she said quietly. “I’d do anything for us, Catskins.”

She fell silent for a few moments and then reached out and touched my face. If she saw me flinch at the nickname, it made no difference to her. For her, the name meant that I was something out of a story, and thus to be cherished. It didn’t matter that it was a story I hated.

“Why don’t you invite Lyric to the House? Show me how much he wants you, and you alone.”

As she spoke, I was transfixed by the snowflakes that had begun to line the turrets like the softest velvet. Later, I would realize this was a mistake.

I should have looked at her eyes.



The day I invited Lyric to the House of Dreams, the sky was the color of a scraped eggshell. I remembered that because it looked odd devoid of all its blue. I took careful pains getting ready that night. Indigo said she had a meeting with Tati in the city, and that I should arrive at ten o’clock. I brushed my hair until it gleamed. I wore a long, black satin dress, a Christmas gift from Tati the year before. The night felt blessed. Even my mother and Jupiter weren’t around, so I slipped out unseen.

I thought Lyric would be waiting for me at the gate. When he wasn’t, I smiled. Was he inside already? Was he biting his nails and tugging at the front of his hair, or scribbling songs on his arms while he waited?

When I entered the House, I heard cello music and knew Tati was in her studio.

“Indigo?” I called out. “Lyric?”

No one answered.

At that moment, I felt a not-unpleasant heat melt through my body. I looked to the stairs and began to climb. It was hard to breathe, but maybe that was just the flutter of nerves.

At the end of the landing, I saw the black iron stairs that led to Indigo’s turret. I heard a different kind of music playing, familiar and yet too soft to discern. Something urgent clambered through my veins, a weight settled against my sternum. Maybe Indigo had gone to help Tati so she could give us some privacy. As I neared the top of the stairs, a tightness gathered between my legs and I doubled over, gasping at the sudden sharpness.

The door to Indigo’s room was half-open. I recognized the music as a song Lyric had recorded with his brother. He had played it for me almost a dozen times.

I opened the door.

There were candles all along the windowsill and in front of Indigo’s mirror, and though it wasn’t a lot of light, it was still enough to see them. Lyric’s hands were in her hair, on her naked waist, and she was moving on top of him, her head thrown back. As she cried out, so did I. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, and I knew in that moment so did she.

I watched as they slowly grew aware of my presence. I watched as Lyric’s beautiful face crumpled with shock. When Indigo looked at me, her face was blank.

“Azure?” he said, staring at me, stunned, before he looked up at Indigo, still straddled across his waist. “Fuck.”

He shoved her off, stumbled from the bed, and reached for his pants crumpled on the floor. “I’m sorry. I came here at eight like you said, but then you didn’t show, and Indigo and I had a drink and I swear she started it—”

My face was wet. I was crying. The thought came to me distantly.

I looked past Lyric—still red-faced and mumbling—to Indigo. She rose up on the bed. Her face was lovely and still, but indifferent and blank as a statue.

“Azure, please—” said Lyric, trying to reach for my wrist.

I jerked away from him. “Get out.”

“What?” he asked, shocked. “Can’t we talk about this? I know I fucked up, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“You have served your purpose,” said Indigo coldly. “Get out. You won’t like what happens if you wait.”

Lyric scrambled to grab his shoes. One moment he was there; the next, he was gone, and Indigo stood naked before me, bathed in candlelight.

“I know you’re hurting, but this is how it had to be. Don’t you see? The Otherworld was testing us this whole time, Azure,” she said. “He never wanted you, because there’s only us. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I needed to prove it to you.” She slipped off the bed and came to my side. She smelled like him, of woodchips and sweat. The edges of the room blurred.