I Am Her Revenge (23 page)

Claire looks at me, a question in her eyes. “Your mother?” she asks softly.

As soon as I nod, she’s across the room and hugging Rose. Rose seems less shocked by this than I am, and she gives a small crack of a smile as she hugs Claire back.

“I thought you were going to die,” I tell Claire. I assumed my voice would sound warm, happy. Instead, it’s as scorching as the heat of a fire. “I held your head in my lap and thought you were going to die.”

Claire blanches, looks down. “My parents are putting me in a rehab program. They weren’t even mad. They just—they were actually worried about me.” She pauses, a smile sparkling on her lips. Like she can’t believe it. Her expression darkens again, and, still staring at the floor, she tells me, “I’m sorry.”

The flames lick at my throat. “You should be.”

“Sarah!” Rose hisses.

Her use of that name draws both Claire’s eyes and mine. “Sarah,” Claire repeats, savoring it as she looks back at me. I wonder if I look anything like a Sarah to her.

I close my eyes. What would Sarah do in this situation? “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it’s not your fault. I—I should have noticed. I should have done something, said something. I didn’t think. I’m just glad you didn’t die.”

Claire seems to find this amusing, and she half smiles at me. “I’m glad you’re glad I didn’t die?”

I nod. She doesn’t realize how big that is for me.

They release me
that afternoon, and I’m led into the shining world outside. Rose has gone home to prepare a bedroom for me, and Arthur is the only one left with me now as I sign the discharge papers, though I make him leave the room when I put on my jeans and the shirt that he brought me from Madigan to replace my bullet-torn one. I let the orderlies wheel me out to the front of the hospital and step out into a dreary, cool afternoon.

“Where do you want to go?” Arthur asks.

I consider this, looking out into the parking lot and the village beyond. Everything is unfamiliar and new. I feel like it suffocates me, makes my chest tight and nervous.

“Can we go back to the cottage?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows at me, and I know it’s a strange request. But I have to see it again.

He leads me to his car. Without a word, we drive the winding roads back onto the moors, and I look out at them eagerly. They’re home to me now, I realize. This wild place, the mist clinging to the wide expanse, the wind-battered trees: It’s home.

It’s growing darker now, night throwing a chill on the land. We come upon the stone structure of Madigan, its lights shining out into the gathering darkness, inviting us in. But as soon as I step out of the car, I turn away from them.

We wander down the hill and into the wild, helped by the light of the moon, only slightly dampened by the clouds drifting over its surface. The night is calm, almost eerily quiet. There’s only a breeze ruffling the heather, not the full-blown whistling wind I’m used to.

I move faster.

I stop when I catch the first glimpse of the cottage’s black shadows. Arthur steps closer to me, almost touching but not quite. “Are you sure you want to go in?” he asks.

I nod and force one foot in front of the other. I’m here, and I’m not as fragile as I feel. I can face this place.

It’s still an active crime scene, so we can’t enter. But I can shine a flashlight into the window and look inside. They removed Morgana’s body, of course, but harsh yellow tape cordons off the area where she fell. I think I see a dark outline on the floor, like a bloodstain, but I look away quickly before I can confirm.

My drawings are still on the walls, though, and all of the candles and warm blankets are still there. If I put a good fire in the hearth and come out here with my sketchbook in hand, it will look almost exactly as it used to.

It’s still mine.

Arthur gently places an arm around my shoulders, drawing me into his embrace. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

I nod. “I think I will be.” I let myself lean against him, let him support my weight a little bit. I feel like I’m fourteen again, when Arthur was the singular strength and warmth in my life. I didn’t realize how much I needed that back then.

I force myself to step forward. “I’m sorry,” I murmur without turning around to look at him.

“For what?” he asks.

“For touching you. I know you don’t feel that way about me.”

He places his hand on my arm, gently turning me to face him. He stares at me, his deep brown eyes concentrated on mine as if he’s trying to figure something out. Before he can say anything, though, the question that I’ve wanted to ask him for so many years bursts out of me. “Why?”

“Why what?” he says.

“Why did you leave me after I told you I loved you?” I feel suddenly dizzy, my head swimming. But now the words are out, and there’s no taking them back.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You know what I mean. You left me. You didn’t even say goodbye. Why?”

“Because you wanted me to,” he says, his voice harsher now. “You told Morgana everything. About our spot behind the guesthouse, about my poetry. It was all a game, one of your little practice tests. And I fell for it.”

My mouth drops open as he accuses me, those warm brown eyes turning cold, his jaw set in defiance. As if he’s facing an enemy. I scramble to understand his words, my mind sprinting to re-create the past. How could he see me as an enemy when all I did was fall in love with him?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and all of a sudden, the Arthur I’ve come to know in these last couple of days is back. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I know she made you into that person. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you laughing about me with her. It was real for me, no matter how much of a joke it was for you.”

I shake my head, my thoughts clearing as I figure out exactly what Morgana did. “She played you. And me. I didn’t tell her that we’d fallen in love, or anything about us. She must have been spying on us, letting us get close so she could rip us apart.” It’s all so clear now, and I wonder how I could have missed it. Morgana, the woman who taught me how to manipulate everyone around me, had done the same to me so easily. She raised me with a boy I was never supposed to talk to, but she made him my whipping boy because she knew hurting him would hurt me. She made me care for him. And then she sent him away so I would know the pain of a broken heart, so I would use that pain to become the weapon she wanted. I was a fool.

I step closer to him so that he can see the truth in my eyes. “It was never a game for me.”

He studies me for a long moment. “You really loved me?” he asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He pulls me in for a hug, and I bury my head in his chest. His heart is beating as loudly as mine. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

We stay locked together for several lingering moments, his arm securely around my waist, our pulses racing. “Viv?” he asks, pulling back so he can look me in the eye. “What do you want to do now?”

What do I want? The words taste strange as I swirl them around my mouth, feeling their edges with my tongue. I can do what I want. But what exactly is that?

“I want to graduate,” I say finally. “I want to get to know my real mother. And then I want to see the world.” I don’t know exactly what I want from the world. College, maybe, or to sell my art on the banks of a river somewhere. Something. And I can do it. I can make a life for myself, a life all my own.

I am not dangerous anymore. I’m not some avatar. I’m whatever I want to be.

Arthur nods, like he was expecting that answer.

I look at him seriously, making sure he’s listening. It takes everything I have to ignore the sudden weakness in my knees, the dryness of my throat. I have to say this. I know that with every particle of my being, though the strength of the knowledge shocks me.

I clear my throat and force the words out. “I want you to come with me.”

He definitely wasn’t expecting that. He shifts to face me full-on and stares into my eyes, searching. As I watch his brown eyes grow even darker, my breath catches in my throat. My lips part, and before I realize what’s happening, he has stepped forward, wrapped his arms tightly around me, and is pressing his lips against mine.

It feels like sunrise. Like that moment when bolts of golden light shoot through the gray haze of the world. When the sky turns pink and red and orange—a riot of color over the bleakness of the moors.

I kiss him back, pressing my lips against his with a desperation I can’t measure. My arms are around his neck, pulling him as close to me as I possibly can.

I open my mouth wider, deepening the kiss, and the image of the golden circle of the sun rising above the world fills my mind.

We pull away only when we have to catch our breath, and I lean my head against his chest. I’m still not close enough.

“I’ve tried—all these years, I’ve tried to fall out of love with you.” His voice is uneven, his breath ragged. “I tried to tell myself that you used me, that I was nothing but a plaything to you. I tried to hate you.”

“You certainly seemed to, when I came here,” I murmur into his shirt.

“It was a good show. But really, my plan was to help you run away, to escape. I got us fake passports when I went to London, just in case. I’ve been trying to save you ever since you got here, but I could never figure out a way.” With my ear against his chest, I feel his heart beat faster. “I love you, Vivian. I always have.”

There’s a pause, and I try to sort out what I am feeling. “I don’t know if I can love as other people love. Not anymore,” I say slowly. “I don’t know if I can give you back everything that you need.”

He draws back and looks me in the eyes. “We’ll take it slow,” he assures me. “I think you’ll be surprised, Viv.”

I like that idea. I like the idea that I can surprise myself, that I can grow into someone different, someone better.

“Call me Sarah,” I tell him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First off, thanks so much to my family. Mom, you always, always encouraged me to work hard for my dreams, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Dad, you’ve shown me unconditional love and support. Thank you for everything.

To Greg, for telling everyone you’ve ever met about your writer sister. I love you, and I’m so proud of you, too. And to Jenn, for being more like a true sister than just a sister-in-law. And, of course, to Lucy and Jimmy, for being the absolute cutest niece and nephew in the world.

To my incomparable grandmother, Liz Ghrist, for being a perfect example of a smart, well-traveled, strong woman. And to Lahoma Moore, Granny, the sweetest woman I ever knew.

Thanks so much to Denise Delaney and Ross Netherway for putting me up in London every year so I could traipse around the city. Denise, thank you for having your hen party in York so that I could go visit the Yorkshire moors and be inspired to set the book there. Without you, this book wouldn’t have happened.

And to my wonderful critique group: Angélique Jamail, Shirley Redwine, Brenda Liebling-Goldberg, Lucie Scott Smith, and Gabrielle Hale. You’ve rooted for this book from the beginning, and I’m so grateful for the helpful comments and critiques you’ve given me along the way. Extra thanks to Angélique and my other high school creative writing teacher, Carolyn McCarthy, for teaching me all the rules of writing. And how to break them.

I have to thank all of the friends who’ve cheered me on, even when I couldn’t go out because I was revising or researching what happens when you get arrested in England: Nic Buckley, Karan Lodha, Allison Maffitt, Valerie Grainger Henderson, Jen Chang, Curtis Sullivan, Jenn Richards, Drew Rossi, Adam Yock, Lee Mimms, and Erin Nelsen Parekh.

I’m also indebted to the YA community in Houston and online. All of you readers, writers, and bloggers have been so supportive, hilarious, and wise. Thanks for all of the book recommendations, encouragement, and commiseration.

Thanks to my agent, Alexandra Machinist, for being so excited about this book that you pitched it out the next day. You’ve helped make my dream come true.

And thanks to my fabulous editor, Elizabeth Tingue, for the critiques that have made
I Am Her Revenge
so much stronger. You’ve understood this story from the very beginning, and you actually made me excited to revise it, which has to be a first. And to Ben Schrank and everyone at Razorbill and Penguin for believing in this book.