unconventional marriage proposal for her potential husband. Now she sits cross-legged on her bed, shuffling the tarot cards, and before she’s even had a chance to lay them out, one falls from the pack between her folded legs.
The Three of Cups. Team spirit, unity, friendship, unconditional love.
Liyana picks it up, studying the picture of three women in a forest, each holding a goblet aloft. Small woodland creatures surround them, looking on and applauding. She’s seen this card many times but has never drawn it.
Liyana sets the Three of Cups on the duvet, then pulls more cards from the pack: the Three of Pentacles, the Devil, the Nine of Wands. An army—warriors like her own BlackBird. An opponent. A battle.
Liyana spends another hour studying the cards, trying to decipher the story, hoping deeper layers of meaning will float to the surface, if only she waits long enough. But, this time, they don’t.
11:57 p.m.—Bea
Bea falls asleep as soon as she returns to her room, dropping her bag, collapsing into bed without removing her shoes. She meant to lie down only a moment but tumbles down the rabbit hole the second she closes her eyes.
Bea watches as objects begin to shift: a carriage clock on her desk lifting into the air, then settling on her bedside table. It ousts an art deco lamp so it falls, halting and hovering an inch above the floorboards before alighting, in a dignified manner, upon the edge of a bookshelf.
Then all chaos breaks loose. As if they only needed a nudge, every object in Bea’s bedroom hurls itself into the air, gathering speed into a sweeping tornado that tears through the air, ripping up the carpet, wrenching anything still stationary into its vortex, including the bed and Bea upon it.
Bea wakes screaming, sitting up so fast that she nearly falls back. But no objects are flying above her head; no storm is wreaking havoc upon her room. All is hushed and still. Bea stops screaming and falls silent. She’s drawing a deep breath, reaching for calm, when she sees the peacock feather resting in the palm of her left hand. It’s as inert as everything else, as if it’s been patiently waiting to be seen.
Bea stares at it. Perhaps, by some giant leap of imagination, she could explain its presence. Perhaps she’d left her door ajar, perhaps a trickster friend or malicious ex-boyfriend is trying to spook her. It’s highly unlikely but possible. What happens next is not.
The feather begins to transform in her hand. The nib begins to darken, as if dipped in ink. The quill draws it up, spreading the ink to each barb, until the whole feather is black.
First a book, now a feather.
And the feeling that she’s being watched.
15th October
Seventeen days . . .
3:33 a.m.—Leo
I know what you’re thinking.
Leo stiffens. Goldie is lying beside him in bed and, though she can’t hear the voice that has just invaded his head, still it feels too close. He tries to quiet his mind, so his father can’t read his thoughts.
Wilhelm’s laughter cracks along Leo’s synapses. I believe that’s what they call locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. I’m in your mind now, I can see it all.
Leo is silent.
You’re falling in love with her.
No, Leo thinks. I—
You know I can’t allow it.
Leo is silent. I know.
Wilhelm waits. Then: If you won’t fight her, then I’m afraid you’re of no use to me. It pains me, but—
Leo feels as if every muscle in his body has turned to stone. He feels Goldie shift beside him, waking up. No, I—I will. I’ll fight her.
I’m not entirely sure I believe you. His words are soft, slow, marking time. Perhaps I should extinguish you now, find another to replace you.
No! A scream crouches in Leo’s chest. Please, don’t. I—I’ll . . .
Oh, calm down. Wilhelm’s sigh blows a chill breath through Leo’s body. I’m a foolish old man and you’re my favourite son, so I’ll give you a second chance.
Leo waits.
You have until the night of her Choosing. He pauses. I admit, I’m quite certain she’ll win anyway. Still, she must be subjected to the challenge, just like everyone else. His laughter cracks again through Leo’s mind. After all, what would a gladiator be without a lion?
Leo imagines himself impaled on Goldie’s sword. He blinks the image away.
If you won’t put up a fight, I’ll find another who will.
3:36 a.m.—Goldie
“I love falling asleep with you.”
Leo turns his head to kiss my cheek but kisses my ear