Seventh Bride (19 page)

 
When Ingeth had claimed a cup of tea and gone away again, she asked Maria outright. “Why is Ingeth always lurking around?”

“She lives here,” said Maria mildly. “I don’t pretend to like her, but she doesn’t have anywhere else to lurk.”
 

Rhea sighed and rubbed her forehead.
 

“As for why she’s lurking around us…Well, she was always one for finding fault, although she doesn’t point it out as much these days.” Maria tasted the sauce again.
 

“I hate her,” said Rhea angrily. “I hate Crevan, but she’s helping him, and that’s worse.”

Sylvie made a small, agitated noise. “Don’t say hate,” she begged. “Hate’s a sin. We’re not allowed to hate things, except evil.”

“If Crevan’s not evil, then what is?”
 

Sylvie fell silent.
 

Maria moved the pot off the stove. “She helps him because she believes she is being punished,” she said. “It is all she has left.”

Rhea frowned. “I don’t understand.”
 

Maria sighed. “It is sometimes easier to be punished for something than it is to be a victim of random cruelty. As long as Ingeth can tell herself that she has committed some sin and what was done to her is because of that sin, then she has some control of it, you understand? Otherwise it was simply a terrible thing that happened. And if terrible things are allowed to happen to people that don’t deserve them, then the world itself is terrible and random and cruel. Which it is,” she added, pointing the spoon in Rhea’s direction, “but there’s not much comfort in
that
.”
 

There was silence for a moment, except for the tapping of Sylvie sorting beans.
 

Rhea rubbed her forehead. “But why would she
help
him?”
 

“Because he is the tool of her punishment. And if there is no point to it all, then she has been helping a monster for years. So she keeps going on and on, digging herself in deeper, hoping that she is helping an instrument of divine judgment and fearing that she isn’t.”

Rhea put her chin in her hand and said “That’s completely mad.”
 

Maria gave a vast shrug. “People are, sometimes.” She swept the beans off the table and into another pot. “Thank you, Sylvie.”
 

Sylvie nodded. Rhea could tell that the conversation had distressed her. Perhaps Ingeth wasn’t the only person hoping that there was some point to it all.
 

“Tell me about the glaciers,” she said, turning toward Sylvie. “I’ve never seen one.”

Sylvie smiled. “Oh, they’re marvelous! Great white sheets from far away, and then you get closer—carefully, because they fall down sometimes—and there are colors inside. Sometimes they look like glass.” She laughed a little. “Sometimes they’re a churned up mess of rocks and trees, of course…”

“And sometimes monsters come out?”

“Well, yes. Sometimes there are monsters.” Sylvie leaned forward. “Don’t they have monsters where you live?”

“Let me tell you about swans…” said Rhea, and the conversation turned to other things.

A few minutes later, as Sylvie was explaining about ice fishing, Rhea leaned back in her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ingeth in the shadow of the doorway, but when she turned her head, the silent woman hurried away.
 

There were four days left.
 

There were three days left.

There were two days left.

And then it was the last day and Rhea spent it with her back pressed against the clock, drinking unending cups of tea. She could not eat.

“Starving yourself won’t help,” said Maria.

“I’m not starving myself,” said Rhea. “I’m sorry, Maria, I’m trying, I just can’t.” When she took a bite, the food felt like thick glue in her mouth. Chewing took effort and her stomach was clenched like a fist.

“All right,” said Maria, searching her face. She took the plate away. “I’ll make you some soup. It’ll go down a bit easier, anyway.”

The soup helped.
 

Why am I eating soup? This is insane, I’m marrying a monster tomorrow—probably—he didn’t give a time—maybe I’ve got another day—maybe even two—

Maria, standing in the doorway, cleared her throat and said, “The dress has come.”

Rhea put her forehead against her knees and gave a single sob of laughter.
A dress! Oh, Lady of Stones!

“I know,” said Maria.
 

“I’ll cut it up. I’ll throw
it
down the well. I’ll let the hedgehog at it.”

“And then you’ll put him on his guard,” said Maria, “and if all goes ill, you’ll risk getting married in an old apron.”
 

“I thought if all went ill, I’d be dead.”

“That, too.”

Rhea lifted her face. “You’re actually suggesting I wear the dress?”

“I’m suggesting that if you’re going to bring hell down upon someone’s head, you should dress for the occasion. Come into the kitchen. It’s the wrong size, I’m sure, but I can figure out something with pins.”

Leaving the clock was strangely difficult. She didn’t know if sitting there was doing anything, but it felt more like
doing something
than anything else did. Even if all it was actually doing was etching a red welt in her skin where the hinge dug into her back.

She pulled herself up and went into the kitchen.
 

Sylvie sat at the table, moving her hands in the fabric. “A wedding!” she said, apparently without irony. “I love weddings!”

Maria and Rhea exchanged meaningful glances over her head.

“They were so wonderful, back home,” said Sylvie. “The bride would have flowers—you were only allowed to wear flowers, not jewelry—and we would have the ceremony and then they’d jump over a broomstick—you had to do that, it was traditional—and everyone would cry.” She sighed. “I miss them.”

“One of these days,” said Maria, “when things are—ah—different—I’ll take you to another wedding.”
 

Sylvie smiled. “I’d like that. It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t see. It might be easier, actually. Some of those grooms were not very handsome. You still had to say ‘Oh, what a lovely couple!’ even if one of them had a nose like a squashed frog.”

She reached out and patted Rhea’s hand. “I know it’s not like a real wedding for you,” she said kindly. “I’m sorry.”
 

“It’s all right,” said Rhea automatically, even though it wasn’t.
 

“But at least you have a lovely dress. Everyone should have one.”

Rhea looked glumly at the dress.

It was red, the color of weddings, a stronger shade than the red dress that Crevan had given her as an engagement gift, several weeks and several lifetimes ago. It was the color of scarlet roses. It hung in stiff folds to the floor, and looked to be several sizes too big.

Maria muttered to herself, sweeping up a handful of pins. “At least it’s too large and not too small. Easier to take in than take out...”
 

Rhea found herself stripped down to her shift in the middle of the kitchen. She stared at the ceiling. The woodworms had been in the beams, leaving slender tracks along the surface of the wood. Maria moved around her, pinning and tucking and grumbling.
 

The hedgehog trundled in from the garden, looked at the proceedings, gave an audible
chuff!
of disgust, and trundled out again.
 

“Slits,” muttered Maria, taking up the scissors. “It’s a crime to do this to good fabric, but you need to be able to walk. I’ve never understood why they make dresses like horse hobbles.”
 

“Don’t you?” asked Rhea. Her head felt light and very far away.
 

Maria’s hands paused for a moment. “Sometimes people talk so they don’t have to say anything,” she said dryly. “It’s not nice to call them out on it. Now lift your arms, child, and make sure you can move them.”

Rhea fled back to the clock as soon as she could.

The wood under her back was warm. The glass was cold. She braced her feet on the floor and pushed herself against the clock case, half-hoping to sink into the side.
Is that how it works? How am I going to go into the clock? I hope Maria knows, because even if we open the door, I’m going to walk in and get a face full of gears and what good will that do? I suppose it’s possible Crevan won’t marry me if I’m all over blood and gearmarks, but if I could rely on that, I’d just cut my face up and go home.
 

It seemed to her that the clock was shifting a little bit, making a tiny hollow for her body. Perhaps it was only her flesh that was shifting. Perhaps this was all a nightmare and she would wake up and it would still be seven days to the wedding.

I am no longer hoping to wake up back home. Now I would be glad for a little more time.
 

And night fell, and then there was no more time left.
 

Rhea spent the last night in the garden.

She felt the moment when Crevan arrived, when the house shifted just a little. It was probably her imagination that the air suddenly seemed hot and stale and the walls seemed to press in against the room.

The clock shuddered and a tile clattered into darkness, on the far corner of the floor.

Perhaps it wasn’t her imagination after all.

Rhea got to her feet. There was no point in going to her bedroom. The dress was there. She had tried to sleep earlier, and instead her eyes stayed open and she kept staring at the back of the door, at the dress the color of roses.

It would be better if it were blood-colored. That way I could feel…I don’t know,
dangerous.
 

It is hard to feel dangerous in a dress the color of rose petals.
 

She had gone back to the clock and curled up there, almost dozing, her forehead resting against her knees. It was not comfortable, and yet she understood why Maria slept sitting at the kitchen table.
 

Now Crevan was in the house.
 

Well.
 

If he was in the house, she would not be.
 

Let him send Ingeth if he wants me so badly.
 

She got to her feet and patted the clock absently, as if it were a cat. They were in this together, all of them. Rhea, Maria, the clock-wife. The golem-wife and Sylvie. Perhaps even Ingeth, though that was straining her compassion.
 

She went through the door and a moment later the floor fell behind her. And that was odd, she thought, because it was twenty minutes after midnight.

It’s late. She dropped the floor late.

Was she waiting for me to leave?

Does she know that I’m there?

That was a good thing, or a bad thing, or perhaps simply a thing. She was beyond knowing.

Maria sat at the table, chin propped on her hand. Rhea did not disturb her. She pushed the garden door open a crack and slipped through.

It was cold and bracing and woke her briefly. She made her way to the wall and slid down it, no longer willing to sit without something at her back.
 

The hedgehog found her a few moments later. It made a small noise and climbed into her lap.
 

“You should be eating slugs,” Rhea whispered, stroking the little animal’s fur.

It shrugged.

“Whatever—whatever happens tomorrow—” Rhea began, and her voice cracked, which she hadn’t expected. She waited for a little bit, and then tried again. “Whatever happens, be careful. This is a bad place. Maria will feed you, but you should try to get away.”

The hedgehog gave her one of its annoyed looks.
 

“I never really understood why you came along at all,” said Rhea. She tried to laugh and it came out half a sob. “I’m just…glad you did.”
 

It shook its head and slid off her lap. She watched it trundle away into the darkened garden, and felt tears slick her face.

It was easier to cry in front of the hedgehog than it was to cry in front of Maria. Still—

Sobbing in a dark garden all night won’t get me anywhere.

She took a deep breath, felt it catch, held it anyway. Then another, then another.

The hedgehog tapped her knee.

She looked down.

It was holding a large, soft leaf.
 

“Lamb’s ear, huh?” asked Rhea, taking the leaf. She wiped at her face with it and tried to smile.
 

The hedgehog sighed. It curled up against her ankle, and together they waited out the long and final night.
 

She woke late in the morning. There was dew soaking her clothes and her neck was stiff.
 

“Rhea?” asked a voice hesitantly.

Rhea looked up. There was a woman standing there, a woman who looked very familiar, someone she knew from somewhere—

Oh.

“Mother?” said Rhea.

Her mother went down to her knees, ignoring the fact that she was wearing her very finest clothes. “Rhea—? Why are you sleeping out here?”
 

Rhea could not think of an answer. The moment drew out too long and her mother’s face shifted, the tiny muscles around her mouth going slack and old. Her skin, normally so dark, had grey undertones of worry.
 

“It’s gone wrong, hasn’t it, honey?” her mother whispered. “It’s not good, is it?”

Rhea shook her head mutely.
 

Her mother held out her arms and Rhea tumbled into them.

It was not a comforting hug, but one of fear and resolve. “I told your father,” her mother whispered. “I told him, but he said we had no choice.”

“You didn’t,” said Rhea, finding her voice. “You didn’t. You couldn’t have known.”

“I knew,” said her mother.

“You’d have lost the mill.”

“To hell with the mill,” growled her mother—her sweet, beloved mother, who scolded for any curse stronger than “darn.”
 

Rhea laughed jerkily, feeling her chest unknot a little.