You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,37

the flames with oak, ash, and thorn, aiming for a smooth passage.

“If she pulls through, she must stay here with us.” Harriet caught my gaze with hers, warning me, perhaps. “She can never live out there with you. She would wither then, be gone for good. She was never meant to live.”

I nodded silently, gulped down what I could from the wooden cup presented to me. It tasted harsh and bitter. Tasted like defeat. Any life would do, though. Any life for my girl.

“Now you must sleep,” Harriet said, and when the herbal brew laced my system, I did. Even through the pain, through the waves that ripped me apart, I slept.

Then, when I woke up again, my life had changed forever.

* * *

She was such a tiny thing at first, my Mara, lying there on an oak leaf. We fed her my milk from a rosy red petal and covered her body in soft downs. Pepper-Man made her a cradle from twigs, and the spiders spun her a dress of silk. Every day after school I walked to the mound to take care of my little daughter. I let Harriet take my milk and my blood to feed her when I was gone. She grew fast, though: within a month, she was the size of a newborn child. Within the year, she looked like a girl of five; brown of hair, blue of eyes, beautiful in every way. She stopped aging when she reached adulthood, has been a young woman now for years. Radiant and healthy, always.

Isn’t that what all parents wish for their children? That they will grow up and be strong?

There would be no other children, though. Faerie births are hard, and I was never quite the same again after. The medical exam Dr. Martin had me do before the trial only confirmed that fact: my womb is broken—torn and poorly mended.

The mound itself is a womb for the dead, spewing out twisted life, and that is where my daughter lives, safe and protected, always.

* * *

There is another version of this story, but I am not sure of its origins.

It could have been Dr. Martin, coaxing me and twisting my mind. He did that sometimes, asked and asked until I gave in and made up other stories, just to make him stop.

In that story, I am sitting at the table with my family. It’s another Sunday dinner; roast or ham or something glistening at the center of the table. Olivia is sullen for some reason. Her pouty lower lip quivers as she chews through the meat. Her long lashes fan out on her creamy skin, her gaze is glued to the plate.

Ferdinand, home for the weekend, is just at the onset of puberty himself. He is a pale shadow by the table, playing with the brussels sprouts on his plate with the fork; rolling the green balls back and forth between the heaps of meat and the sickly white potatoes. No gravy for Ferdinand, he likes things neat.

Mother at her end is folding and refolding the napkin in her hands. Her coral-red fingernails are smoothing the soft paper repeatedly. She isn’t eating, she is chewing her lips. All her lipstick is gone and I can see her swallow and swallow. Her eyes look wrong, like shattered crystals; something is broken in there. I think she might have been crying—or if she hasn’t already, that she is about to very soon. This is a rare thing, it barely happens.

Father is somber. He’s serving himself more potatoes, pours more gravy on top. He doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t look at Mother. He is looking at his food, and his lips stretch, and he eats. Mother looks at him, though, expression somewhere between pleading and fury. Occasionally she looks at me and her face goes blank. She is ice and smooth, like white stone.

“I’m doing better in school this term.” Ferdinand’s voice is very quiet.

“Good,” says Mother. “That is good.”

Father chews. Olivia sulks. Ferdinand falls back into silence.

“Cassie, how are you these days?” Mother’s voice has a shrill edge to it.

“Fine,” I say, or rather whisper. Truth is I am not fine. I am sick a lot, I throw up. I have a baby in my belly.

“No more trouble at school, I hope?”

It hasn’t really been more trouble than usual—those days I kept the snide girls and bullies at bay by being scary, by telling stories about Pepper-Man. I would glare and scowl and say he had taught me