Whichwood(18)

For years Benyamin had suffered from a faint, incessant internal itching, and though he oft spoke of it, his torment was never taken seriously. No doctor alive (magical or otherwise) had suspected the invisible itching was the consequence of many little legs scurrying through the veins that bored through him. He was eight years old when his skin first split open, and as he listened to the many tearful good-byes—orphan children leaving home for the first time—Benyamin felt a curious sense of responsibility over these alien creatures. From then on, whenever a new family burst forth from his flesh, he sent them off into the world with all the tenderness of a loving father.

At thirteen and three-quarters years old, Benyamin was the strangest boy Alice would ever know, and this first meeting was the beginning of everything. Benyamin, who was highly aware of his oddness, had never known anyone who might match him in his strangeness, and meeting Alice was, for him, an act of fate. That anyone should surprise him was entirely refreshing, and it was for this reason alone that he didn’t call away his eager spider friend. He was curious to see Alice’s reaction, and her studied calm, her stubborn dignity, and above all, her gentle heart—in the face of what was so obviously a fear—left an indelible impression on him; though he had little interest in Oliver—whom he saw only as her rude companion—Benyamin had now more questions than ever. Who was she, this prismatic girl? Why was she here? Would she stay forever? But he could not bring himself to be so bold. For now, he could only steal glances.

Alice had plucked the spider off her nose (she’d finally grown tired of being stared at) and set him on the ground, and the spider was so tremendously excited by the experience that Benyamin was forced to laugh against his will. Oliver, eager to erase the earlier ugliness, took advantage of the moment and stepped forward earnestly—apologizing all at once—and, though altogether ineloquent, his intentions were understood. Benyamin smiled more certainly this time, and though he did not say a word, he shook his head as if to say, That’s perfectly alright. You look like a bit of an idiot anyway.

And Oliver was grateful.

It was the start of a very valuable friendship.





Now let us return to our mordeshoor.

Laylee, you will remember, was still locked in the toilet. She was lying on her back, floating fully dressed in the claw-foot tub, her sodden clothes splayed like molted wings. She’d so overfilled the tub that water sloshed down its porcelain skin with her every move, flooding the small bathroom that was her only refuge.

But Laylee was too preoccupied to notice.

She stared only at the ceiling, counting moths to keep from weeping, and inhaled in short, sharp breaths as her heart creaked in her chest. With shaking hands, she felt for her damaged bones and let out a soft cry; her small shoulders had dented under the weight of too much responsibility, and she could feel the disfiguration through her clothes. With fumbling, trembling fingers, she unlatched her golden cuffs, anklets, and chest plate, and heaved the lot of them out of the water and onto the cracked, patinated marble floor, where they landed with a tremendous clatter. Laylee flinched at the sound but could not be moved to care more.

These ancient ornaments—what good were they now? They were from a time long, long ago, when mordeshoor blood was so royal it bled blue in the snow. No, this drafty castle, these faded clothes—she picked at the chipped sapphires sewn onto her gown—were from a lost century. There was no longer any pride in being a mordeshoor. No pomp, no circumstance, no decadence in dying. And now, as she traced the blue veins snaking under her skin, Laylee laughed at how much life she’d sacrificed for death.

She closed her eyes and laughed harder as she dropped below the surface, the water garbling the happy sounds into something strange and terrifying, her eerie gales echoing across the arched ceilings. Laylee shivered uncontrollably, even as the hot water scalded her skin, and suddenly she froze—eyes wide with terror—and sat up in one swift, jerky movement, throat choking, bent over coughing, and gripped the tub with silver hands.

The long and terrible evening had taken its toll.

It was only after she’d abandoned Alice and Oliver that Laylee discovered her hands had gone fully silver; indeed, she’d been so distraught by the revelation that she’d tipped sideways into the still-filling tub and had remained supine ever since. She lifted her arms now, horrified and fascinated, to watch as the thin gray tongues crept up her wrists, claiming her one lick at a time.

Laylee had always thought she was ready for death. She, a mordeshoor by blood, had thought she’d overcome the fears of nonexistence. But Laylee was only now beginning to understand: It was not death she feared as much as she feared dying; it was this, her powerlessness in the face of mortality that unscrewed her courage from its sticking place.

Still, it was unusual—

The longer Laylee stared at the creeping sickness, the calmer she became. The moment of death felt now more imminent than ever, and Laylee was reassured by one simple certainty: that the pain, the suffering, and the unceasing loneliness would at least be over soon enough. The illness, you see, appeared to be consuming her at an exponential rate. Laylee would be dead by the end of the week, and there was nothing she could do to slow it down.

Sadly, it was only this—the horrible promise of relief—that could soothe her shaking limbs, and soon Laylee was able to thaw and exhale, to continue existing just long enough to shed this last skin of humanity.