Another Faust (38 page)

“We have to figure out what to do.”

“Are you crazy? This is the end. It’s all over.” Christian had never seen Bicé so agitated. She was darting back and forth, wringing her hands as if they had betrayed her, and throwing wild glances all over the room.

“No. You and I didn’t know . . . We didn’t . . .” Christian said, feeling almost certain.

“I don’t know,” said Bicé, wrinkling her brow, worried for the others and for herself. “I don’t know what we did.”

Bicé sat cross-legged on the floor and put her face in her hands. Christian came and sat at her feet. “We’ve known we have ‘gifts.’ We’ve known we’re completely different than everyone at school. And we’ve even known we’re not family.”

“Yeah.” For a moment Bicé got her hysteria under control and looked reflective, like someone looking for a hopeful sign. “We’ve known it, but it’s never occurred to us. It’s almost like we’ve been ignoring the truth, and it’s been in our face the whole time.”

Christian nodded.

“But why does Vic remember it and we don’t?” Bicé asked.

“I think because we didn’t do it.”

“Then why are we here? Why are we living with her? And when did they find out who she is so they could make this deal? I mean,
we
never found out who she was, did we? Even though we’ve been living with her for fifteen years . . .”

Christian put his head in Bicé’s lap like a child. She stroked his curly red hair. She didn’t have a single hair on her head that color. Christian thought for a moment and then said, “Thomas went home thinking he had dinner with all of us.”

Bicé stopped stroking his hair and put her hand over her mouth. “So, I guess Vileroy can give false memories. She could make us forget things . . . like selling our souls . . .”

She thought hard about this possibility. Somehow, it was easier to think that Vileroy had made her forget selling her soul than to even fathom the possibility that she had not always lived here, that she had forgotten something entirely different.

“But again, she didn’t make Vic or Belle forget, so that can’t be it,” said Christian. “They must have found out who she was and made the deal . . . and we didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she adopt us all in the first place? Why would she tell them who she was and not us? Why would she give us these ‘gifts’? Why keep us . . .”

“Nothing’s keeping us here anymore. Let’s just leave.”

“No . . .” Bicé mumbled something to herself in a language Christian didn’t understand.

“Why not? What else can she do?”

“I think anything somebody wants. Thomas wanted to have a great time with all of us.”

Christian shook, like a terrified little boy, quivering under a mother’s touch.

“What does she want with us?”

“I don’t know, Christian. Maybe she wants a relationship. Maybe selling your soul is something you do every day.”

“But my black mark is gone,” protested Christian. “That means we’re safe, right?”

“I don’t know, Christian. I have no idea what it means.”

They were silent for a while. Then Christian spoke.

“You really think we sold our souls and don’t remember, Bicé?”

“Think hard. Did you ever want to?”

“If I did, I don’t anymore.”

Belle woke up with her eyes glued shut. She had never fully fallen asleep that night. Every time she came close, something jolted her awake.
What have I done?
She sat up in bed and noticed that Bicé was sitting at the foot of her bed.

“Sleep well?” Bicé asked with a ghostly look in her eye.

Belle pulled her covers up higher over herself. What was Bicé doing up? Bicé just watched her. She was waiting, as if she thought Belle would just come out and tell her everything; explain why she had done such an unforgivable thing. But Belle didn’t say anything. So many thoughts flooded Bicé’s mind. Belle’s change, the deals, the mark. What did that mark mean? And how had they come to live here — with
her
— for fifteen years? The adoption story didn’t make sense anymore. How had Belle come to find out who Madame Vileroy was? And when had she taken the deal? Was it when they were ten — when she started changing her face? That must have been it. Before that, in Bicé’s false memories of their childhood, Madame Vileroy had never given Belle anything. But Madame Vileroy had never made such an offer to Bicé or Christian. Had she made the deal with Valentin? Belle didn’t look like she was about to volunteer anything. She just got up and started to get ready.
What’s happened to her?
Bicé said to herself.
Doesn’t she realize what she’s done?

“You OK?” Belle asked. Bicé’s face was white as a sheet. There were bags under her eyes and she was fidgeting more than usual.

“Belle, you have to tell me . . .”

“I’m tired now.”

The week before the Debate and Drama Tournament passed like a whirlwind. Christian and Bicé had spent the last week hidden away, talking in secret. Victoria continued with her life as if nothing were wrong. In fact, everything was going brilliantly for Victoria, who now had Thomas’s entire strategy at her disposal and was building a solid countercase. After that Sunday night, Belle was sure that Thomas would never want to speak to her again. Or maybe he wouldn’t even be the same person. Maybe he would lose his mind or have a meltdown or something. But nothing like that happened. Thomas was completely oblivious to what had happened, and he was happier than ever to be with Belle. He was still sweet, still awkwardly charming, and still too shy to make a move. But he did ask her to the spring dance, which was the day after the Debate Tournament. She said yes, but Belle wasn’t so sure anymore. Sometimes, when she saw him quiver around her or tap his feet involuntarily or count on his fingers as if he had OCD, the guilt of that Sunday night would wash over her. Being with Belle was changing him, and the more time Belle spent with Thomas, the less she wanted him to change.

Belle walked into her bedroom to get ready for the tournament. She had promised Thomas she would come to watch. Christian and Bicé were already in there, looking around her room, whispering about something.

“I just don’t get it. Why not just go . . .” Christian was saying.

“Just trust me, I need time . . .” Bicé whispered back.

They looked up when Belle walked in. Christian left without saying hello. Bicé glanced in Belle’s direction, and then she left too. Belle tried to ignore them, but she felt sick to her stomach. She felt utterly alone. They had been ignoring her for a week, and Belle was so sorry that they knew what she had done. But they didn’t know everything.

“Are you going like that?” It was Madame Vileroy. Belle turned around. “Not leaving much time for a bath . . .”

“I was going to take one.” She sighed. She hadn’t really planned on it.

“Guilt is a useless feeling. It’s never enough to make you change direction — only enough to paralyze you and make you . . . well, useless.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“But you aren’t happy for Victoria. She’s getting what she wanted. You’re getting what you wanted. You should be happy.”

“Maybe I want something different now,” Belle muttered.

“That’s a waste, after everything you gave up.”

“The problem is, every time I give something up, you use it to benefit Victoria.”

“No, dear. I do it for you. It’s just like last time. It’s to teach you a lesson, so you can do great things. So you don’t waste your one chance with someone like Thomas at just the wrong time. So you take what is yours at precisely the most useful moment.”

“He deserves a chance to win.”

“It’s too late. You can’t ruin things for Victoria. She has great potential, like you used to have.”

“Thomas has potential.”

“You’re not Thomas’s keeper,” Madame Vileroy snapped in a low voice. Belle stepped back. The governess slid around to face her. “Belle, dear, I have a proposition . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I can help Thomas win . . . if you really want.”

“What about Victoria?”

“Don’t worry too much about her, dear.”

“Well, I still don’t want to hear it.”

“I’ll let you have Thomas. I’ll let you do it your way. He can win, and you can be together . . . if you want it badly enough.”

Even though she didn’t want to, Belle had to listen. She looked Vileroy straight in the eyes and waited.

Vileroy spoke softly, her words carefully measured. “I want to know about your parents.”

For a moment, Belle was stunned. Vileroy had never asked about their parents before. She had never mentioned them.

“I know that your mother told you . . . about a particular language. An ancient one . . .”

Belle couldn’t move. Her hands were moist with sweat, her throat was dry.

“I know you know about it, Belle. About that old, forgotten tongue. The one your mother and her friends spent so many years researching?”

“So?” Belle managed to croak.

“I want to know what she told you. What she told you and Bicé,” the governess crooned, softly, gently, her voice sweet and hoarse at the same time. “Try to remember, Belle. Try to remember what your mother said, all those years ago. What do you know? What does Bicé know?”

With each word, the governess moved, inching closer and closer to Belle, until she could feel her cold breath on her face, could see her shattered eye move with anticipation.

“No.” Belle pulled away.

There was a moment. An angry beat.

A broken flash of a broken eye.

Belle recoiled. “Go away — I don’t care if Thomas wins.”

Madame Vileroy wasn’t angry. She was calm and smiling. She cupped Belle’s face in her cold hand. “I’ll see you in the car, dear,” she said, and shut the door behind her.