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Authors: Alethea Kontis
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dolly?”
Molly’s eyes brightened again and she rushed back to the table for her doll.
The Siren sunk her nose into the flower and inhaled sugar and sweetness while she watched the child open the rest of her gifts.
That night as he escorted her to her room, he said to her, “Ye touch my daughter, I’ll kill ye.” Then he shut the door and turned seven keys in seven locks.
Each day after that was much the same. She was not allowed to leave the house, and the third time Edward caught her staring out the windows, he forbade her that too. Each night he would take her to her room and give her the same warning about his daughter before turning the seven keys of her prison.
She would sit on her bed and stare into the darkness, wondering what she had done wrong. Had she not given him the riches he desired? Had she not paved the way for him to return home to be with his daughter? She had made him happy—why should she suffer as a result?
She edged closer to the window and watched the moon move across the sky. Somewhere not far, the reflection of that same light was skipping across the waves. Somehow, she would escape from this prison. Someday, seven locks would not hold her.
Every few nights he would bring her someone, long after Molly was asleep. He would wake before the dawn and take the body away. She learned all she could from these poor souls, but it was never enough. They were whores or cheats or liars, people whose absence in some way benefited Edward and whose minds were such a jumble of unreliable information she could never discern anything that could help her.
She waited. She waited while he scolded her every night. She waited as he shoved each of the seven bolts home. She waited as he fed her, sparingly, enough to survive. She waited for him to get comfortable, to slip, to let something get by him.
Like the snitch.
Edward bent over and the unconscious man fell from over his shoulder and onto the bed before her. “Small, but ‘e’s all ye’ll get, understand?”
She opened her mouth, throat contracting. “Yeth,” she managed to say.
“Good. ‘Cause if ye touch my daughter, I’ll kill ye.” He shut the door. She counted slowly to seven before pulling the man into her lap and feasting.
Her heart pounded with a foreign pulse.
He was there.
Her lover.
He was everywhere inside this man’s head. He sat at the head of a table, talking sternly to a group of older men dressed in black. He sat in a large chair at the end of a hallway. He rode a horse down the path through the garden and along the beach. He rode in a carriage beside a beautiful, golden-haired maid and people threw flowers in the street before them.
He was the prince.
And he was getting married in a week.
Edward fell ill the next day. He did not come to let her out of her cell. The first two days of isolation weren’t bad. The third day, the snitch’s body began to smell. The fourth day, she tried to feed off it again and gagged. There had not been much in him to begin with, and whatever was left in him now was gelled and rancid. The fifth day, she began to shake. She pounded on the door and the walls and the window until the skin of her fists shed. The sixth day, she began to scream. It came out of her as a long, keening wail. It echoed her hunger, her desperation, her emptiness. Her voice gave out as the sun rose on the seventh day, his wedding day.
She spent the hours curled up against the door, hoping to hear something. Any sign of movement at all would have been welcome. She played with the ends of her faded hair, teasing them in and out between her toes. The shadows moved, lengthened, and eventually, the sun’s light died. Her hopes went right along with it. She placed her palm flat on the door beside her head.
It was warm.
She closed her eyes and could feel the energy radiating from the other side. She could hear small, shallow breaths. She could taste sugar on the air.
Molly.
She knocked two times on the
Molly’s eyes brightened again and she rushed back to the table for her doll.
The Siren sunk her nose into the flower and inhaled sugar and sweetness while she watched the child open the rest of her gifts.
That night as he escorted her to her room, he said to her, “Ye touch my daughter, I’ll kill ye.” Then he shut the door and turned seven keys in seven locks.
Each day after that was much the same. She was not allowed to leave the house, and the third time Edward caught her staring out the windows, he forbade her that too. Each night he would take her to her room and give her the same warning about his daughter before turning the seven keys of her prison.
She would sit on her bed and stare into the darkness, wondering what she had done wrong. Had she not given him the riches he desired? Had she not paved the way for him to return home to be with his daughter? She had made him happy—why should she suffer as a result?
She edged closer to the window and watched the moon move across the sky. Somewhere not far, the reflection of that same light was skipping across the waves. Somehow, she would escape from this prison. Someday, seven locks would not hold her.
Every few nights he would bring her someone, long after Molly was asleep. He would wake before the dawn and take the body away. She learned all she could from these poor souls, but it was never enough. They were whores or cheats or liars, people whose absence in some way benefited Edward and whose minds were such a jumble of unreliable information she could never discern anything that could help her.
She waited. She waited while he scolded her every night. She waited as he shoved each of the seven bolts home. She waited as he fed her, sparingly, enough to survive. She waited for him to get comfortable, to slip, to let something get by him.
Like the snitch.
Edward bent over and the unconscious man fell from over his shoulder and onto the bed before her. “Small, but ‘e’s all ye’ll get, understand?”
She opened her mouth, throat contracting. “Yeth,” she managed to say.
“Good. ‘Cause if ye touch my daughter, I’ll kill ye.” He shut the door. She counted slowly to seven before pulling the man into her lap and feasting.
Her heart pounded with a foreign pulse.
He was there.
Her lover.
He was everywhere inside this man’s head. He sat at the head of a table, talking sternly to a group of older men dressed in black. He sat in a large chair at the end of a hallway. He rode a horse down the path through the garden and along the beach. He rode in a carriage beside a beautiful, golden-haired maid and people threw flowers in the street before them.
He was the prince.
And he was getting married in a week.
Edward fell ill the next day. He did not come to let her out of her cell. The first two days of isolation weren’t bad. The third day, the snitch’s body began to smell. The fourth day, she tried to feed off it again and gagged. There had not been much in him to begin with, and whatever was left in him now was gelled and rancid. The fifth day, she began to shake. She pounded on the door and the walls and the window until the skin of her fists shed. The sixth day, she began to scream. It came out of her as a long, keening wail. It echoed her hunger, her desperation, her emptiness. Her voice gave out as the sun rose on the seventh day, his wedding day.
She spent the hours curled up against the door, hoping to hear something. Any sign of movement at all would have been welcome. She played with the ends of her faded hair, teasing them in and out between her toes. The shadows moved, lengthened, and eventually, the sun’s light died. Her hopes went right along with it. She placed her palm flat on the door beside her head.
It was warm.
She closed her eyes and could feel the energy radiating from the other side. She could hear small, shallow breaths. She could taste sugar on the air.
Molly.
She knocked two times on the
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