The Surface Breaks(61)
Praying to the gods, both of the air and of the sea, I test the other handle. It gives way, the door swinging open into a large room. Cream carpet, dark oak panelling, an enormous bed. And there they are, Oliver and Flora, foreheads pressed against one another as if waiting to kiss while they dream. They are both naked, the bed clothes crumpled around them. Her long, lean legs; unblemished, untouched. Perfect in a way that I will never be again.
My grip on the dagger tightens as I stare at Oliver. I have sacrificed so much for this man; I have given up my family, my home, my identity. I have mutilated my body, carving it into something unrecognizable, just so that he will find me beautiful. Not even beautiful, but acceptable. And I was silenced for ever in the name of “true love”. I wish Grandmother had never told me those stories, duped me into believing that a happy ever after was possible for women like me.
Oliver sleeps on, his chest rising and falling, his face serene. He thinks he has nothing to fear. He did not even lock his door to safeguard his chamber; so sure is he of his own immortality. I imagine myself stepping forward, bloody footsteps all over the snow-white carpet, leaving a mark on this human world that they’ll never be rid of.
I have the sensation of splitting in two, as if my consciousness is peeling away from my body, floating to the ceiling, and watching the girl below me. The girl with the broken feet and the broken heart. The girl with no voice. What a fool she has been.
Yes, Gaia, yes, I whisper to her. Do what you have to do. You will stand at his bedside, his back towards you. You raise the blade to the sky (It is heavy, is it not, little one? So heavy.) and then you force the blade into his back, twisting it, feeling the flesh solid. And you twist deep again, carving circles in his skin, pulling out gristly chunks of him. You will search for his heart, the heart that he would not give to you of his own accord. Still beating, that heart, but not beating for you, never beating for you, Gaia. And you will hold it to your mouth and you will eat his heart whole, swallowing it, pushing it deep down inside your stomach. It will beat there, a second heart. Oliver will belong to you then. Finally.
I breathe in, a rasp in my throat as the air searches my mouth and find it empty. I can sense that I am settling back inside my body, like loose sediment sinking to the sea-bed after a storm. I look at him again. Oliver. Oliver… What is Oliver? Spoiled. Weak. Heartbroken. Damaged, yes. But loved; he is greatly loved. I think of George, his steadfast loyalty to Oliver no matter how badly he has behaved. Daisy, who has become like a sister to me and who would never believe this of the Grace she knows. And Eleanor Carlisle, who has lost so much. I remember that night in the room of the paintings. Her hopelessness felt too raw to be ignored. The women of my family have caused her enough pain; will I be the reason for more?
My hands hang by my sides, yet I do not drop the dagger. I kneel beside the bed. I stood still while the Sea Witch sawed out my tongue, and I thought I could still make him love me. I had my face, as the Sea Witch told me. I had my face and my lovely form. What else could a man want, I reasoned? I have been told to stay quiet for so long, to listen to the mer-men, and to be attentive and respectful. To know my place. I did not imagine that a human man would want much more from me.
And yet he did. His delight in Flora’s wit and her intelligence, her ability to challenge him, to make him laugh is evidence enough. Why didn’t I realize that such things would be important? I brush my fingers across Oliver’s forehead. I thought he would save me.
Oliver stirs, as if to shake my hand off him. My name is Gaia, I tell him. I want you to know my real name, since you have never known the real me.
I should leave before he wakes up. I should leave before I change my mind, before I decide to claim his blood to turn my own back to salt.
I look at Flora, her lovely face, so peaceful in her sleep. She really is unbelievably similar to Viola. It’s uncanny. It’s…
Her eyes open. A snap rather than a flutter, as if she had been merely pretending to sleep. Like she knew that I would be there.
“I’ve been waiting for you, little mermaid,” she says.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Terror is scratching its fingernails across my heart, searching for blood. Flora climbs out of bed. She does so with a languid grace that suggests she is used to being nude, and sees no shame in it. I stare at her naked body, those long legs and brown nipples, frowning.
“Very modest of you,” she says. “You have become accustomed to the human ways.” She opens the chest of drawers in the corner of the room, rifling through its contents. “His-and-hers bathrobes,” she says, as she wraps a white gown around her. “I wasn’t sure this man could become more of a cliché, and yet here we are.”
She is being very loud, I think as a wooden clothes hanger drops to the floor. She will wake Oliver.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she says. She walks to the other side of the bed, a hand to his forehead. Unlike when I touched him, Oliver does not move. His breathing becomes slower, his body dropping into the mattress as if he’s sinking. “They always fall asleep afterwards; it’s pathetic how little stamina they have. You didn’t miss much with this one, I can assure you.”
Miss much? What is she talking about?
“He was adequate,” Flora amends. “Concerned with his own pleasure, and annoyed I didn’t seem to think it all a great honour. Male fragility can be exhausting at times, can it not?” She sits on the bed, grinning at me.