Chapter Twenty Eight
Rosalie
I never wondered much about my soul. Whether I'd be judged by a higher power for my actions or inaction was beyond my control and therefore beyond me. Even now, I search for some sort of fracture and come up short. The only indication I have of the deal I've made is the trembling of my hands and the silence from the man who sweeps into the room, a stranger scrubbing away my vomit.
He's wearing the same uniform as Daniel: a crisp collared white shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, a tan vest, and black slacks. True to my earlier assumption, he looks well-fed and taken care of, less like a slave and more like a respected employee. He must've made a deal like I did, working for the man who promised him— what? A comfortable life would be enough of a boon for many people. An honest profession, a roof and a bed and three meals a day.
"Are you happy?" I ask, voice hoarse.
In a canned, robotic tone, he says, "Yes, miss," and punctuates it with a smile.
My fault for expecting honesty. I wrap my arms around myself and look towards my lap instead of at the gnawing pit in my chest.
Andrew would've made the same deal. If our positions were reversed, he would've done it gladly to secure Theo's return. He would've wanted to punish Theo himself.
"It reeks in here, Petunia."
I find Marcella over my shoulder. She leans against the wall behind me with her arms folded over her chest. Her hair is too short to be tied back, but she gave it her best effort. I don't think I've seen her in sweats before, even when we were lounging at Cora's house. Even in frumpy clothes, she's stunning. It makes me want to hit her, though I suspect I'd feel that way no matter what she wore.
"Did you know?" I whisper to the hands folded in my lap. "About Andrew?"
She shifts her weight, her mouth a thin line. Our breaths, hers contemplative and mine rapid, wrestle the silence. "I didn't know his name."
I want to run away. I want to hide. I want to spit in her face and grab her by the shoulders and shake her, but the voice that comes out is childlike and trembling. “Why didn't you tell me?”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She settles in the chair next to me and says nothing.
I open my mouth to scream, but a sob tears from my chest instead. She takes my hand and squeezes. I let her if only because I need someone to hold onto.
"My loyalty will always be to him first." She brushes hair from my face, damp from the tears on my cheeks. "He will lead us into a better world, and I intend to stand behind him when he does. If that means keeping his secrets to placate him, I'll do it. Your soul might be spoken for, but I've abandoned my own." She cups my face in her palm. "Following an imperfect god requires imperfect actions. Your shattered confidence is a small price to pay for his trust."
I pinch my quivering bottom lip with my teeth. "I want to go home."
"Not yet." She pats my cheek like one would a child asking for extra dessert. "If he returns and you're not here, he'll assume we drove you away— or worse."
"You did." I swat her hand away, rising with my voice. "You both did! You could've told me. About Andrew, about the plan to sell me to Morrigan, all of it!" I shove the chair I was sitting in until it tips over and crashes to the floor.
Azmaveth shuffles in at the noise, pausing at the head of the table. He meets Marcella's eyes over my head. Whatever look she gives him draws his shoulders down.
"I would've done it," I whisper, shaking my head. "If you warned me, I would've been your pawn still, and willingly. I don't care about my soul, but my heart—" I hiccup and wipe at my cheeks. "Take me home. I just want to go home."
Marcella steps towards me. "Rosalie…"
"Let me go home."
She embraces me, too tight to be comfortable. I tuck my arms against her chest and rest my forehead on her shoulder, shaking the both of us with the violence of my sobbing.
"Please," I cry. "I want to go home."
"I know." She presses her lips to the crown of my head. "I know you do."
Azmaveth clears his throat. "I'll arrange a car. It'll be twenty minutes, maybe less."
Marcella's arms tighten around me, possessive instead of protective. "No," she snaps.
"I've kept her against her will and my better judgment for too long. This isn't a penitentiary, and even if it were, she's been punished enough. Daniel will take her wherever she wants to go. Follow if you wish, but let her rest."
I twist out of Marcella's arms. She hesitates but releases me, allowing me to turn and face Azmaveth. He looks as stern as I've seen him, arms in a neat triangle in front of him and ending in folded hands. The spark of kindness shouldn't surprise me, but it does. He did partially raise Theodore.
Meaning I shouldn't trust it. Not unless I want to be made into a blubbering idiot again.
"I don't need your pity," I sniff. "I can walk."
His brows twitch into a furrow. "Don't be stubborn for stubbornness' sake. All I'm asking of you is your absence, and your gratitude."
"Because you care? Or because you're afraid of how Theo will react when he finds out what you've let happen to my soul?"
He sets his jaw, all gentleness gone from his voice. "You've made a battleground of my house. You've encouraged my wards to recklessness. You've kept them away from me. The power you hold over Theodore is the power a flea holds over a wolf. You've gorged yourself enough, and I'm eager to be rid of you."
Behind me, Marcella sighs, "He'll be livid when he gets back."
"And he won't if we force her to stay?" Azmaveth glances at her over my shoulder. "There's no reality in which he returns and doesn't find us at fault. Our only hope is his affection for us outweighs his anger. And if we can get this one to advocate for us…" He trails off, sliding his eyes back to me.
"So this is a bargain," I say, wiping at my cheeks.
"No worse than the one you already made," Azmaveth says. "Imagine how guilty he'd feel if he gave into his impulses and destroyed us. Do you want to subject him to that?"
I narrow my eyes and don't reply.
"One week," he continues. "You'll be brought back to see him home and talk him down if necessary. After that," he shrugs, "I don't care what you do with your life, child. I only ask that you try not to upset him."
"And if I tell him that you only fed me so I was plump enough to offer to Morrigan?"
"Then God help you." He turns away, off to tell Daniel to fetch a car, I assume. "God help us all."
Marcella follows me through the sitting room and out the front door without a word. In the fresh air and beneath a setting sun, it's easier to breathe.
The driveway is big enough to fit ten cars, a massive circle with a fountain in the middle and lined by budding flowers. I sit on the curb with my knees pulled to my chest. There aren't any cars out here. Not yet. I consider asking where they're kept but decide against it in case I'll be accused of trying to steal one and escape quicker. It's not something I would do, but I doubt Marcella would pass on any opportunity to keep me here longer.
"You've gotten your way," she says, sitting next to me. "The extra commentary is unnecessary and insulting."
I slide my eyes to her. "If you don't like my thoughts, don't listen to them."
"Yeah, well," she stretches out her legs and leans back, palms against the ground behind her, "I'm just following orders."
"Theo ordered you to invade my privacy?"
"He asked me," she pointedly corrects, "to keep an eye on you, which I'm doing and have done."
I rest my chin on my knees and let the information settle. "It was him from the beginning, wasn't it? When you came to me at school, at that party— it was because he asked you to."
She takes a beat before she answers. When she does, it's slow, like she's chopping up the information into bite-sized pieces, like I'd choke on the whole story.
"After… Andrew," she pauses, glancing at my reaction. I give her none despite the storm brewing in my gut, "Morrigan called him back for a few years. Not like now, not as punishment. She…"
Marcella shakes her head. "I think she likes having him close. A part of me thinks he likes being there too, but he'd never admit it." She clears her throat. "Anyways. He had to leave, and he was worried about you, so we made a deal."
"A deal?" I ask, straightening.
"Just a bit of quid pro quo. Mutual back scratching, as neither of us has a soul to offer the other. I looked after you, and when he got back, he joined the resistance against Morrigan."
"I didn't need looking after."
She snorts. "Sure."
"I didn't. I had Emily and Henry and—" I clamp my mouth shut at the amusement threatening to crinkle her eyes. "I was fine. I would've been fine."
"You're horrible at lying. You shouldn't try."
"Right." I laugh like I'm coughing up gravel. "Maybe you should teach me, especially because I'm going to be covering your ass. What exactly do you want me to tell Theo? That you didn't have me knocked out so you can drag me here and offer me on a silver platter to the person he hates most?"
"Easy, Petunia." She grips my shoulder and squeezes. "Keep talking like that and I'll start thinking you've forgiven me."
Maybe I have, or maybe I will, or maybe it doesn't matter anymore.
"You have to stop," I say.
"Stop what? The clever replies? I can try, but it would be easier to lose a limb—"
"The rebel stuff. It has to stop. She'll kill me if you don't."
"Oh, please. It's a bluff. She's done this before, empty threats for the favorite pets. Believe me—"
"I'm not begging, Marcella." I level a glare at her. "I'm stating a fact. It was part of the deal."
The humor drains from her expression, turning it to ice. "That wasn't your deal to make."
"Maybe not."
A scratch of tires on asphalt announces the car pulling around the fountain. It stops before us, idling quietly.
I slap my palms on my thighs and stand. "But sometimes we take things that aren't ours. And maybe," I take a breath, "we do it not because we're cruel, but because we benefit the tiniest amount more than the other suffers."
She's still sitting on the curb when I open the car door, her eyes searing holes in my back. "Morrigan killed my husband," she says, barely audible over the engine. "He was the most important person in the world to me, and she took him from me. What am I supposed to do about that? What would you do?"
Over my shoulder, she looks smaller than I've ever seen her.
"Sell my soul, apparently."
I climb in the backseat and slam the door shut.
Azmaveth's house is far enough out of the city that I don't recognize the road we're on. Daniel offers to put on music, but I decline, instead pressing my forehead against the window and staring out at the trees barely starting to grow their leaves back after a mild winter. It's one of two things he's said to me since we started driving, the other being a request for an address, so it startles me when he clears his throat.
"Forgive me," he says, glancing at me in the rear view mirror and then away, "but Liam was asking about you. What should I tell him?"
Daniel is a careful driver. This one-lane road is mostly deserted, but he's going the speed limit, maybe a little under. I've resisted looking over his shoulder to check. We haven't seen another car in at least five miles, but he keeps both hands on the wheel at ten and two, checking his mirrors frequently. I wonder if Azmaveth sent him to some sort of Mortae driving school. It's more likely that the mortality rate of him getting into a car accident is much higher than average. Azmaveth wouldn't be happy about his property being damaged, and I've settled under that umbrella for the time being.
Instead of answering Daniel's question, I ask, "What did you make a deal for?"
His hands tighten around the wheel. "That's a very personal question."
My sigh paints a circle of fog on the window.
"If it helps, I don't regret it," he offers. "I've got a place to rest my head and someone other than myself to look after. Living at the manor, it's like a bubble. We're insulated from the mess out here."
"There's mess enough inside."
This draws a dry chuckle from him. "Sure, but as long as we keep our noses clean, we're shielded from it."
"Anya wasn't."
"Anya was my friend," he snaps, "and she got more involved than she should've." Softer, he catches my eye in the mirror. "Sorry. It's…" He blows out a breath. "Liam's a good kid, but if he keeps poking around, he's gonna get himself in trouble. I'm trying to talk some sense into him, but I don't want to scare him."
"He's already scared," I murmur.
"Not scared enough."
"Theo doesn't know he's there, does he?"
"You'd have to ask Azmaveth about that." At my frown, he adds, "But I don't think so."
"The thing about bubbles," I say to the window, "is that they're prone to popping. Tell Liam I'll be back in a week. Tell him— " I swallow hard. "Tell him I'm sorry, and that he'll see Theo soon."
Daniel nods, reaching to scratch his chin. "And is that the truth?"
I crane my neck to look up at the sky. There are so many stars here. "Maybe."
It's late when we get to the apartment. Daniel drops me off out front with a quiet, "Good luck," and a promise to return in seven days. I consider asking him to take me to Cora's house instead, but we're already here, and he has a long drive back to Azmaveth's manor.
He waits until I'm inside to drive off.
I drag my feet through the empty lobby and opt for the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping the movement will clear my mind or at least wear me out so I can sleep. Eight flights. I'm winded when I reach the top, but the nervous curdling in my stomach hasn't ebbed. Being alone tonight will be hell, but a familiar one. I can wait for the sun to rise. It always does.
When I approach the door, voices float through the hallway, too loud for this hour. I hesitate a few steps away.
"—stuff is here." Henry? "That's a good sign, right?"
Feet scrape against the floor from behind the door. Emily's voice, unusually shrill, comes next: "How did she sound when you talked to her?"
"Not great," Henry says. "You called the hospitals?"
"All of them in town, and a few others nearby. No luck." She sniffs, loud enough for me to hear. "The cops said to call them back in three days if she doesn't show up. Fucking useless."
"She's probably fine." That cool, mocking tone belongs to James. I stiffen, wrapping my arms around myself. Are they all here? "You're all overreacting. She's flighty as fuck and a drama queen. She wants us to worry. Let's not give her the satisfaction— Ow!"
A deep rumble of a murmur I can't decipher follows. That must be Mike.
"She told me she was with Theodore," Henry says, a bite in his tone.
Emily asks, "Do we know where he lives?"
"Any caves nearby? Crypts? Portals to hell?"
"You're being an asshole," Mike says.
"She ran off with him, and now she's missing. I have the right."
Uncharacteristically solemn, Mike says, "You talked to her earlier, Em. I'm sure she just—"
Emily cuts him off. "I'm telling you, she sounded weird. Something's wrong." A pause. "Straight to voicemail again. Her phone must be dead." A loud slam echoes through the hallway. If they keep this up, they're going to seriously piss off the neighbors.
I haven't moved. After all this, how can I face them? But where else can I go?
"Hey," Mike says softly, "we'll do another lap, see if she's walking around. I'm sure she'll turn up…" The quiet reassurance fades as they move away from the door.
Andrew would've trashed the place by now, turning over the couch cushions like I might be hiding in the cracks. He'd stay up all night and pace the sidewalks and scream my name until his throat was raw. And I'd do the same for him. I have done the same for him.
But he found me, didn't he? Wearing a different face and with hands that are only gentle when they're in mine, but he found me. Even if Theo isn't Andrew, Andrew is Theo, or in Theo, and I can't parse the difference yet. I don't know if I want to or if I can live with the uncertainty as long as it means—
I found him. Didn't I?
The door flies open, revealing a familiar set of brown eyes that flare in shock, then despair, then anger. Henry scans my filthy clothes, my disheveled hair, my sob-swollen face, and lingers on the area above my eyebrow that still throbs when I move too fast.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. As if there's anything I can say to him. As if I could explain.
James appears behind him and lets out a low whistle. "Damn. Who'd you piss off?"
"I'll kill him." Henry, who hesitates to squash spiders, who so rarely raises his voice, sweeps forward in one smooth motion and cups my cheeks with both hands. "Did he do this to you? I'll fucking kill him."
"No," I whisper. Exhausted tears slip free. "You can't— It's not—"
He tugs me towards him and folds his arms around me. I press my face against his chest and breathe in the smell of cheap cologne and sweat. A sob bursts from me at the familiarity of him. It's not what I want— he's not who I want— but a warm body is a warm body, and he's being kind.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs into my hair. "I'm sorry for all of it, alright? You're okay. You're safe now."
I don't tell him I'll never be safe again. Instead, I let him hold me and pretend he's right.
From the doorway, a quivering voice: "… Rose?"
When we were young, Emily and I had frequent sleepovers. We'd stay up whispering and sharing stolen snacks and then fall asleep with the TV blaring about a non-stick pan or a late night phone service. Once, I woke up to her shaking me in the middle of the night. She was trembling and covered in sweat, still half in the nightmare that roused her. She's wearing that same look now.
"Come inside," she says, shoving past James to put her hand on my shoulder. "We've got you."
We settle on the couch, Emily on my right with my hand in both of hers and Henry on my left with his thigh pressed against mine. They shove together like they're afraid I might disappear without physical contact. I let myself be squished between them, protected in the only way they know how.
"You don't have to talk about it," Emily says, "but if you want to, we're listening."
"Bullshit," Mike gripes. He paces behind us, wearing a trail into the carpet. "Let us fix this. Where is he?"
"Theo didn't do this," I whisper.
Beside me, Henry stiffens. "You don't have to cover for him. He can't hurt you anymore. I won't let him."
"You can't stop it," I mumble. Then, louder, "You can't stop any of it, and neither can I, and that's just… that's nature, isn't it? Everybody dies eventually. We're so goddamn powerless. And we try— god, I've tried, but what more is there to do? I know this sounds bad, but I'm not… I'm not."
Emily squeezes my hand. "We don't have to talk about it now."
"I know who killed Andrew."
James huffs and storms off, leaving the front door open. Emily and Henry share a look I'm too familiar with.
"Hey, Mike," Emily says quietly, "why don't you and Henry go for a walk?"
"This is my apartment," Henry protests, "and she's my—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'll find your most expensive bottle of wine and dump it all over your stupid khakis. Unless you're keen to visit the dry cleaner, get the fuck out."
He levels a glare at her but rises, following Mike out. Once we're alone, Emily grabs my other hand and turns me to face her fully.
"Rose." Her eyebrows pull together. "Andrew killed himself. You know that."
"No." My hair sprays around us as I shake my head. "Maybe he tried, but… It doesn't make sense, does it? Why would he leave and come back when he could've just stayed?"
Her hands tighten around mine, but the words spill from me like they've been cocooned for all these years and have only now taken flight. "Of course. Of course. He never would've left me alone, not on purpose. And once he realized… Oh, he must've been so scared. But it's okay now. Don't you see?"
"I don't, Rose."
I tilt my head back, light with the euphoria of revelation. "He's still here. He's been here the whole time."
"Oh." The couch shifts as she adjusts her weight. "Maybe we should get some rest. Do you want me to run a bath?"
In the days after Andrew's death, Emily washed my hair, lathering with her own expensive shampoo. She hummed to me while I wept and pressed her hand to my forehead so the soap wouldn't flush into my eyes. It seems so silly now, the weeks and months and years I lost to despair. If only I knew back then.
"Are you telling me that I smell?" I joke.
There's no laughter on her face. "It's…" She sighs, standing and pulling me with her. "Let's get into pajamas at least. I can warm a blanket for you."
"You're not listening to me."
"I am!" She releases my hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I am. I swear. If you say he's here, he's here. Can we talk more in the morning?"
I narrow my eyes and nod, knowing there won't be a conversation in the morning. She'll usher me back to normalcy, and I don't blame her. Really, I don't.
She didn't know Andrew like I did— like I do. None of them did. He didn't let them.
To Earendel, I think. To the farthest star. Beyond light, beyond death, beyond my body and yours.
I don't sleep well. When I wake, the sun is barely peeking over the horizon. Emily snores softly beside me, air whistling through her slightly parted lips. I shimmy out from below the arm draped over my waist, careful not to wake her, and tip-toe to the living room.
James and Mike are sleeping on the floor in front of the couch. They're sharing a pillow with their backs pressed together. James' face is scrunched into a scowl even in his sleep.
Henry's awake, lying on the sofa and staring at the ceiling. He sits up when he notices me.
"Hey," he whispers. "You get any sleep?"
I shrug. "Did you?"
"Yeah," he says, but the darkness lining his eyes gives him away. He stands, stepping over Mike and James and heading for the kitchen. "C'mon. I'll make you breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," I lie.
A knowing smile glances over his lips. "Nothing fancy, I promise. I'm sure there are some frostbitten waffles here somewhere…"
I resign myself to sitting at the table as he rummages through the freezer. The wood is marked by stains and knife scratches, some our fault but most from its previous owner. The truck we rented to drive it here was more expensive than the table itself. Henry spent two hours trying to disinfect and polish it. It's an ugly thing, worn and chipped. When we have guests, its imperfections are covered by a table cloth.
"Really," I say, "I'm fine."
Henry shoves two waffles into the toaster and shoots me an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Humor me, Rosalie. Let me feed you."
"So that's it?" I run my nail along one of the cracks in the table. "You forgive me, just like that?"
His shoulders drop. "We don't have to talk about this right now."
The memory of a pounding of a fist against the counter and his reddened face turned to ice flashes in my mind. "Yeah," I say. "We do. I need a reason, Henry. Why bother? After what I did to you, I wouldn't blame you for throwing me out. It is your apartment, right? And instead you're… you're making me breakfast. You're being nice to me. Why?"
"Because I love you." He turns to lean against the counter and rubs his face with both hands. "Fuck me," he says, muffled, "but I do. I've tried not to. And it sucks. God," he chuckles into his palms, "it sucks, Rose. You suck. But seeing you hurt…" He exhales. "I want him dead for putting his hands on you."
"Theo didn't hit me. He'd never do that."
"Then who did?"
I avert my eyes and say nothing. Mike and James are roused by the sound of the waffles popping out of the toaster. Henry puts them on a paper plate and slides it across the table to me.
"It's not too late to renew this lease," he says. "You can stay if you want."
They leave in shifts, each disappearing for an hour or so to gather their belongings. James goes first and returns with a duffel bag and a deck of cards. Henry comes back with painkillers and groceries. Emily refuses to leave, so Mike offers to grab some clothes for her. When he opens the front door, the backpack I took to Cora's house is sitting on the welcome mat.
All four of them frown at that. Mike returns with Emily's old softball bat. He props it next to the door.
The days pass in a blur of boredom. We play cards and watch movies, the four of them with an eye on the door and me pointedly trying to ignore that fact. I don't bring up Theo again, and they don't ask. Whatever vendetta they've imagined against him is forgotten in the wake of trying, again, to embrace me despite my reluctance.
On the fifth day, James finally calls it quits.
"If I don't get back to the shop, they'll fire me for sure," he says while shoving his clothes back into his duffel, though he doesn't sound too distraught about leaving.
Later, Henry and Emily have a hushed conversation in the living room after I've tucked into bed. I don't catch the words, but neither of them sound pleased. In the morning, Henry's stuff is packed.
"Promise me you'll be safe," he says, looking at Emily but speaking to me.
"Mike is staying," Emily sighs. "We'll be fine. You've been talking about this promotion literally forever. Go get it, so you can finally shut up about it."
Henry hesitates, then takes my hand. When he pulls away, there's a slip of paper in my palm. "My address," he says. "Come by, alright?"
I smile despite myself. "You could just text it to me. I have my phone now."
"Sure, but it's more romantic this way, isn't it?"
Emily gags. "You're the worst. Get out of here. We've got her."
There's a power outage that night. Emily and I sit on the fire escape, a nearly empty bottle of wine between us. She hasn’t spoken for the better part of an hour, and neither have I. We watch the sky. We drink in silence.
I almost ask what she’s thinking about but stop myself, maybe because I already know, maybe because I don’t want to know. Maybe because asking her questions would invite her to ask me questions, and she's restrained herself.
She tilts her head back, inhaling the new night air, and murmurs, "Vulpecula."
"What?"
“Vulpecula et Anser.” She points to the sky. With half of the city's lights out, stars struggle against the clouds. "Andrew showed me so many constellations, but that's the only one that stuck."
I look to where she's pointing. It's still too bright to be certain, but I wrap my fingers around her wrist and move her hand slightly. "Cygnus," I trace it with her finger, "and Lyra, I think."
"The harp."
"The harp," I echo, dropping her hand. "I used to quiz him, trying to find one he didn’t know. We’d sneak out to lay in the park—not the one with the swing set, the one the huge anthills—and I’d point up. Any direction, any star, I’d point up and he’d find the closest constellation. We’d do that for hours. The names, the myths, he knew them all. I wonder where he learned.”
Emily wipes at her cheeks. I don't know when she started crying. "Yeah, he loved to show off. Thought he was smarter than everyone else. And the worst part? He was mostly right." She chuckles under her breath. "Remember the chess competition? Sophomore year?"
Of course I do. "Andrew didn't even know how to play."
It didn't matter. As soon as Henry saw his name on the tournament board, he forfeited. Henry was too afraid of looking like a fool to risk losing to the scraggly boy in hand-me-downs.
"He did though," Emily says quietly. "The mind games, the outmaneuvering… Andrew was only ever comfortable when he was a step ahead. Oh, don't give me that look. I loved him. You know I did. He just… he could be difficult sometimes. Go on, say I'm wrong."
At my silence, Emily sighs. "I miss him." She nudges me. "I miss you, too."
A question rises in my throat, but there’s nobody to ask anymore. Do you believe in fate?
I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Marcella knew how this would end. She tried to warn me, and I didn’t listen.
"I'm here," I say.
I’m not afraid. Not for myself, anyways.
"Are you staying, though?" Emily asks, glancing at me sidelong. "Will you take Henry up on his offer to lease this place for another year? Or come stay with me and Mike?"
"I don't know."
She grabs my hand. Her fingers are freezing. "I can't lose you too. I won't."
"Em—"
"No, say it. Say you're not going anywhere."
I peer over the railing to the street below. There are a few people walking, enjoying the fresh air in the absence of easier entertainment. In a different life, I could be one of them, walking arm-in-arm with someone who cares enough to make me laugh. I could have been one of them.
I’ve sacrificed too much to accept a life of dinners and quiet conversations and nights that lead nowhere except home. That life, that boring, quiet, peaceful life has become too small for me— or maybe I’ve become too big for it. I don’t fit anymore. Maybe I used to. Maybe I could have.
"I'm leaving in the morning," I whisper.
"What?" She shoots to her feet. "No, you're not. Is it Theodore? Is he threatening you? You can't— Rosalie, you can't be serious."
"Dead serious."
"That's not funny. This isn't… Come on, Rose. You're smarter than this."
"I can't stay, Em." The words are emotionless and only partially true. "I don't want to."
Anger flashes on her face, but it's the bare hurt beneath it that makes me pause. Emily isn't good at stepping softly, at fawning and hiding and making herself small. She doesn't have the experience, not like I do, but this past week, she excised her curiosity to make me comfortable. Though I appreciate the effort, it's torn her open, and I can't stick around to watch her bleed.
"I'm sorry." She blinks away the fresh tears welling in her eyes. "I know we're not interesting like Andrew was. I'm a pebble filling the crater left by an asteroid. I get that. But I'm…" She stifles a sob with her hand. "I'm so scared that the next time you'll leave will be the last. When I'm not with you, I'm terrified every time my phone rings, it'll be someone telling me you're dead. Especially now, especially knowing Theodore has already—"
"He didn't hurt me."
"Then tell me what happened!"
"I wish I could." I fiddle with my thumbs. "It's bigger than Theo. Bigger than Andrew, and definitely bigger than me."
"Is it a mob thing? I knew something was off about him, but…" She squats so we're eye level, resting her palms on my knees. "You can tell me. I'm your best friend."
"I love you, Em."
Her face crumbles. She squeezes my legs, stands, and heads back inside.
The power comes back at around two in the morning. Lights chirp on like a wave crashing over the city, muting the stars above, and then flick off as people grumble awake to hit their switches. Behind me, a similar scene occurs, with quiet cursing and stumbling from Mike before he cuts the lights and shuffles back to his spot on the couch.
The wind bites at my uncovered arms, but I stay on the fire escape and peer below.
I know you're listening, I think pointedly. You can come up if you'd like.
It only takes a moment for Marcella to emerge from the window. She must've been holed up somewhere in the apartment, invisible to anyone except me.
"I thought for sure you'd spill," she says, settling in the seat Emily previously occupied. "Honesty is a complex of yours, isn't it?"
"It'd put her in danger," I say. "Morrigan doesn't seem picky about her targets. I'd rather not drag her into my mess."
"Not your mess." Marcella leans forward to brace her hands on the railing. "Are you going to jump? I don't think Az would be able to patch you up if you did, but you've surprised me before."
"What do the souls feel like?" I ask. "Inside of you. Can they talk?"
She sits back and thinks for a moment. "What does your blood feel like in your body? You notice your heart pumping, but the minutia? The cells in your veins? " Her nose crinkles. "Theo can hear them, though, or he says he can. He says it drives him mad. It must be so loud now."
"Does Morrigan hear them?"
"I've never asked on account of her trying to erase me from existence."
It's a kind way to point out a stupid question. Kind for her, at least.
"I can't be here," I say. At her raised brow, I clarify, "Not here. Here. I can't go back inside and say goodbye again. Do you think we can leave?"
"Right now?" Marcella hums. "Sure. Climb down, and be careful. I'll pull a car around." She stands, heading back inside.
"Your own car?"
"A running car with me in the driver's seat."
I don't belong here anymore. I don't belong there either, but at least Marcella understands what I'm unable to say. A puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit but is the same shade of longing— it's close enough, even though I'll never see the full picture. I can accept that. I have to.