Rosamund Hodge - Gilded Ashes

I can’t breathe. Those words are all I wanted in the world, but I can’t hear them. Not when I am my mother’s daughter.

He will die if he loves me.

He will die if he loves me.

He will die, or else he will live beside me as a slave to my mother’s ghost, and I will bear him children who are slaves as well, and I will not do that to him. I will die first.

I will do any other evil thing first.

“Will you,” I say, “will you kiss me?”

His eyes widen. He knows that kissing me here in public is as good as declaring me his bride—that if he does not marry me after, the world will think me wanton and him a cad.

Then he leans down and cups my face in his hands and there’s nothing, nothing in the world but the warmth of his lips.

And the depths of my own betrayal.

I can’t stand it for long. I break the kiss. “Promise that you’ll marry me,” I say raggedly. “Promise you’ll marry the girl with this mask, no matter who she is in the morning.”

“I swear it,” he says. “I swear by Zeus and Hera, I don’t care who you are. I’ll have you to wife or I’ll have none.”

I pull out of his arms. “Come to the Alastorides house tomorrow. Ask for their daughter. The one who wore the mask.”

He catches my wrist. “I thought you were a servant?”

“It’s a long story,” I say.

The simple, trusting grip of his fingers burns me with shame. I can’t meet his eyes. “I’ll explain later,” I lie, and then I run.

When I get home, Koré is sitting up in bed, cheek leaned against the wall, candlelight glinting from her half-closed eyes.

I kneel beside her. As she straightens, drawing her face back into order, I slip off my golden mask.

“He promised,” I say, “that he will come to this house tomorrow and marry the girl who has this mask.”

She takes it from me. Her mouth clenches a moment, and then she asks, “Are you sure?” in the tired, wary voice of someone who has waited too long to trust in hope.

“He promised,” I say.

She touches my cheek, as if to wipe away a tear, but there are no tears. I know there are no tears, because nobody is dying. Because I am still, even with my heart breaking, strong enough to smile.

“Good night,” I say, and leave her to go tell my mother what a lovely evening she gave me and how perfectly, perfectly happy I am.

B reakfast is a grim meal. Koré is better but still coughing, while Thea can only stare at her plate in exhaustion. Stepmother has forgotten her anger at Koré, but only because she’s too busy being furious at the slatternly chit who danced with the duke’s son and snared him with her scandalous misbehavior.

For once, her anger doesn’t frighten me. I don’t feel afraid at all, because I know exactly what will happen: Anax will come to our door, smiling and impatient, and I will betray him completely. I know this, and all I feel is a cold, sick horror slowly rising in my lungs.

The doorbell rings. I flinch.

Stepmother presses a hand to her forehead. “Maia, I don’t know why you aren’t answering it—this is a noble household, not a stable—”

I walk to the door. My stomach is knotted, my skin is shivering. I think, I am saving him, but it’s no comfort at all when I pull the door open and he grins.

“I’m looking for the daughter of this house,” he says, like all the world is an innocent joke, “who danced with me last night in a golden mask.”

“Right this way, my lord,” I say, stepping back.

“Maia?” His forehead creases, and a shudder runs through me: he can tell something is wrong.

I hold a finger to my lips, meeting his eyes. Then I say, “The family will see you in the parlor, my lord. Tell them . . . exactly what you just said.”

The worry doesn’t go from his face. But after a moment, he nods and silently follows me into the house. Because he trusts me.

I leave him in the parlor. I don’t know how I get back to the breakfast room. As soon as I step inside, Koré goes taut.

“Lord Anax is here, my lady,” I tell Stepmother. “He wants to see you and Miss Koré.”

Chairs squeak and clatter as they’re all on their feet in an instant.

“Koré, darling, you mustn’t cough at him or I’ll have you whipped,” Stepmother says rapidly. “I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself. Thea, go to your room.” Then she’s gone.

Thea looks from me to Koré. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Everything. Go to your room,” says Koré breathlessly, and bolts upstairs herself. Thea trails after. A few moments later, Koré clatters down again; she has to stop at the bottom of the stairs for a fit of coughing, but when she lowers the handkerchief, her face is the flawless marble statue again.

“Thank you,” she whispers. The golden mask is clutched in her hand.

I say nothing. When she leaves, I can’t help myself; I tiptoe after and slip close to the half-open door.

“Yes,” I hear Anax say, his voice polished and bored, “she’s lovely as the rosy-fingered dawn and I’m sure she plays and sings as well. But I’m here for your other daughter.”

“You mean—my little Thea?” Stepmother’s voice is like spun-sugar violets, sweet and delicate and utterly false. “She’s so young—but it’s such an honor—”

“Slightly more plausible since I actually met the girl,” says Anax, “but no. I mean Maia, the daughter you keep in the kitchen. Short, scrawny, red hands from washing dishes. She was at the ball last night, wearing a golden mask. I danced with her, and I’m going to marry her.”

“No,” says Koré, in her perfect voice like a low note from a silver flute, “you danced with me. I wore this mask, and you promised to marry the one who held it. See?”

There’s a short pause. Then steps, and Anax flings the door open. He grabs my wrist and hauls me inside.

“Maia,” he says, “tell them.”

“Tell them what?” I ask, regaining my balance. I don’t dare look him in the face.

“What you did last night. When we danced.”

Stepmother is looking at me like I’m a poisonous spider. Koré isn’t looking at me at all; her eyes are lowered, lashes perfectly displayed as she stares demurely at the carpet, a virtuous and obedient daughter waiting for orders from the mother who will never love her.

I can feel each one of Anax’s fingers clenched around my wrist. It’s crazy, but in that one grip I feel everything about him: his tense shoulders, his grim half smile, his heartbeat. His fear and his fury and his hope. He will never touch me again.

“But I never danced with you, my lord,” I say.

He looks down at me. “What?”

“Last night,” I say quietly, “Miss Koré asked me to dress her. I helped her into a golden dress and then I tied that mask on her face. I did take her letters to you, but I never went to the dance. You must have been confused. Perhaps the punch—”

“I didn’t drink the punch,” he says. “And you were there. ”

“They look very much alike, my lord,” says Stepmother.

“I can tell the difference between your daughters, madam!”

“You danced with me,” Koré says softly. “You promised.” Her voice is a lifeless marble thing, and I realize she doesn’t have any hope this ploy will work, but she’s like the warriors of old: if she cannot come back from a battle carrying her shield in victory, she’ll be borne back dead upon it.

“She told me about it as soon as she got home,” I say. “You swore by Zeus and Hera you would—”

“Enough.” He hauls me out of the room and into the hallway. The door slams behind us, cutting off Stepmother’s shriek.