It seemed an especially cruel irony that while she’d wantednothing to do with me in life, she found herself drawn to me in death.
“I’m sixteen today, Mama,” I murmured, and outside she cocked her head. She could hear me speak, even if my words no longer made sense. I knew they didn’t. I’d seen her brain liquefy and fall out of her nose and ears, months ago.
My ghosts were nothing like any of the stories my siblings had made up to spook one another on long winter nights. They weren’t translucent, glowing forms, forever rattling chains or howling with off-pitch moans. They were like shadows to me, dark shapes seen from the corner of my eye until I willingly focused upon them, and only then could I see their terrible visages, the rot, the decay.
My fingertips trailed over the chilled glass, mirroring hers. There was no heat warming her side, and I wondered if she could feel mine.
I wasn’t sure why I saw the ghosts of those I’d killed. I didn’t know if it was meant to be a punishment for lives ended too soon or merely part of my responsibility, to hold on to the memories of those I’d snatched away as the world kept turning and the people they’d loved gradually forgot about them.
I hadn’t found a way to ask Merrick.
I’d tried, nearly a dozen times, but the question always hung in my mouth, impossible to get out.
He’d never mentioned it, never indicated that he saw them. There was so much about my life that he already knew, that he’d foretold, it felt like a small victory to keep this one secret from him, however gruesome it might be.
I stayed with Mama for a moment grown too long, till the other ghouls noticed and made their way over, shuffling and stumbling slowly—they were always so slow—to press themselves closer to me.
I gave my mother one last uneasy look before turning to go.
“I suppose it’s time to salt the fences again.”
Merrick was sitting on a stool in the kitchen as I went in, still adjusting my hair. I’d never worn it up before and had had a bit of difficulty figuring out where to jab the combs and pins to get the chignon to stay in place. I missed my childish braids but wanted Merrick to see me as the grown-up I supposed I was. Especially today.
This year’s cake was already set out. It was a grand, towering confection three tiers high, frosted pale pink and studded with sugar-dusted strawberries. The candles lit themselves as I entered, fizzing like tiny fireworks in bursts of rose-gold sparks.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I greeted him, leaning in to kiss his cheek and accept his warm squeeze.
“You only turn sixteen once,” he said fondly.
“Is sixteen too grown-up for cake for breakfast?” I asked, already taking down two dessert plates from the shelf. I knew he’d never pass on the chance for sweets.
Merrick had changed out my servingware again, I noticed, spotting the raised flowers circling the plates. Their pink matched my cake, and the edges were ringed with what appeared to be real gold.
“What happened to my white plates?” I asked, turning the new ones over to study. They were impossibly thin and felt as though they’d shatter if I held them too tight.
“I thought these were far better suited for a young lady of sixteen,” he said, pushing himself off the stool to look for forks and knives. They too were shining gold, every bit as ostentatious as a king’s ransom, and I made a mental note to tread lightly.
Merrick had been after me for months to consider moving. He said my skills had grown past the point of Alletois and he wanted me to spread my wings in a larger city, often telling me how well I would take to Châtellerault, rubbing elbows with courtiers and nobles. I always sighed, remembering the one time I’d been in the presence of nobility, that dreadful day when I’d met Prince Leopold. I had no desire to move anywhere near him.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked, turning to light the stove with the flick of a match. “Assuming you haven’t whisked away my kettle too?”
“I haven’t whisked away anything,” he protested grandly. “Nothing is missing, and everything I removed was replaced with something far nicer.”
“Adeline Marquette gave me three lemons yesterday,” I boasted, spotting the new pink kettle. I fumbled with the top for a moment before filling it with water. “Shall we cut one up for our celebration?”
Merrick had been rummaging in the ice chest and turned, holding a crystal pitcher. A dozen lemon slices bobbed in the pink fluid. “I already made us lemonade,” he said, obviously pleased with the spread he’d created.
“Merrick!” I exclaimed, forgetting to temper my disappointment. “I was saving those lemons for something important!”
He frowned. “What could be more important than your birthday? Let’s cut the cake and I will tell you the story of your birth.”
I glanced in the sink, relieved to see he’d at least had the decency to save me the peels. Long curls of dimpled yellow lay in the basin like forgotten confetti, and I made a mental note to hang them up later, to dry. Powdered lemon peel helped with aching joints, and the butcher’s wife would be pleased I’d thought of her come the next cold snap.
“Will you be staying long?” I asked, looking about the cottage for the best place to eat. There were windows everywhere, and I could already see Mama making her way across the back garden, her gait slow and unsteady.
“If you like,” Merrick said. “But go on, make a wish, make a wish,” he insisted, waving at the candles.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes as I blew them out. I’d long ago stopped wishing for anything—I was more than capable of getting whatever I needed, and Merrick provided far too many extravagances in my life as it was. It seemed gluttonous to ask for more.
