Madly (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Samantha

MY DREAMS ON THE FLIGHT home are dark and strange. Aphroditas dances in front of my eyes, her body twisting and spinning. Wrapped around her wrists are dark green bracelets of luvy that beckon me to join in, winding up Aphroditas's arms. Yet when I look up at her again, she's the mercrone, all mottled skin and rotting teeth. In the dream I cry out, but it's the mournful cry of the abominable. A bright white light interrupts us, so pure I have the urge to bow in its presence. I'm on my hands and knees, praying to the light. Something soft and gentle caresses my face. I lift up my head and it's snowing petals of pink jasmine.

Kirsty shakes me awake. “Hey, earth to Samantha.” I blink back sleep from my eyes and find my legs are cramped up against the seat in front of me. Kirsty didn't want to spring for better seats—the luvy money won't last forever and we have more ingredients to find—but then
she isn't as tall as me. “You're kicking the people in front.”

“Sorry, weird dreams,” I say, hoping to stay awake till we get home.

We land back in Kingstown and I'm accosted by my mum, who jumps past crowds and security to get through to me and holds me tight.

My dad stands a little bit off to the side, holding Molly's hand. Mum hug-walks me over to them, and then lets me go just a fraction to let them in too. “I . . . am . . . so . . . glad . . . to . . . see . . . you,” says Mum, between kisses on the forehead. I envisage my face, covered in her bright pink lipstick. I'd like to tattoo it there, that symbol of family love.

They've hired a car to take me home, and I've never been so glad to pull up on Kemi Street and see the front of our store. A few things have changed, though. The sign is new. It's been done in the old style, with our family coat of arms carved into a beautiful piece of dark wood, but it glints with new paint. There's something different about the glass in the window too. The square panes appear artfully frosted rather than caked with a potent mixture of dirt, grime, and dust.

“We spent some of the luvy money on doing up the storefront,” Dad says, taking in my expression and reading it perfectly. “There were so many media here, journalists, photographers, cameras—they all want a piece of you.”

Dad beams with happiness. I know I should too, but instead I feel the mounting pressure. They've had a taste of the life we could live, and they like it. This is what I wanted, but now it's up to me to make it happen.

I put on a smile, even if it doesn't reach my eyes. It's better than nothing.

Once I'm inside the kitchen, it's nice and familiar. Nothing has changed here. “I'm going to find Granddad,” I say. All the questions that have been sitting in the back of my mind bubble up to the front. I push through the kitchen to the lab, where he's at his desk, just like always.

“Well, you've had quite the adventure, young lady.”

“What happened in the last Wilde Hunt?” I try to keep my voice calm, but my heart is pounding in my ears. Granddad stops working, placing both his palms on the table. He removes his half-moon glasses and rubs his eyes.

“I've told you this story. The royals broke the rules and let a synth win, and your great-grandmother lost her livelihood because of it.”

“You never told me she went to Mount Hallah.”

“I didn't know.”

“How could you not know? You were her apprentice!”

He levels me with a stare. “Masters don't share all their secrets with their apprentices.”

“Then did she tell you she created the first synth?”

Granddad slams his hands on the table, and I flinch. “Lies! Who told you that?” He shakes with fierce rage, but it dissipates almost as quickly as it rose up. He slumps in his chair, his fingers tracing one of the knots in the wooden table. “She wouldn't let me come with her on the final leg of the hunt. The last ingredient was mystifying us all—eye of a centaur—and we couldn't find it anywhere. Can you imagine asking a centaur for its eye? They protect the bodies of their dead more fiercely than any creature on this earth. No, there was no procuring that ingredient.

“We had an argument. She sent me home from the hunt. I knew she was up to something, creating something . . . but without her diary, I will never know what it was. And then the next thing I knew, that fool Zoro Aster had won the hunt and Cleo had lost her potions diary. She was never the same after that. Within the year, she died. Her diary was never found. In one fell swoop, I lost everything.”

I reach out and put my hand over his. “You were sixteen. There wasn't anything you could have done.”

“There is so much I could have done. I shouldn't have left. But that is all in the past now.” He rubs his long beard. “There is something you can do,” he says. “Trust your instincts.”

Granddad turns back to his desk and resumes scribbling in his journal. It's a dismissal, but a kind one. He's
shared more with me in the past ten minutes than he has in my entire life.

That's when it hits me. Maybe it's not my instincts I need to trust. Maybe it's my dreams. I spin around abruptly, bumping into the table and sending the glass jars tinkling on the surface. Luckily nothing breaks.

Dad pops his head into the lab. “Everything okay in here?”

I rush toward the kitchen. “Is Kirsty back yet?”

“She just arrived.”

“Good, because I think I know what the next ingredient is.”

I take a deep breath before I begin. If I'm right, the next ingredient requires highly specialized skill to find. Plus, it's an ingredient that's well-protected to the point of being almost illegal—you need to jump through innu­merable hoops and get pages of government permissions to acquire it through the normal channels. I wonder how Princess Evelyn did it without alerting anyone. Did she get it by herself? Did she pay some extortionate sum for it? Maybe she has one in the palace backyard, and we don't even know it. Somehow, I doubt it.

I follow Dad into the kitchen, where Mum, Molly, and Kirsty are waiting for me, all looking at me with expectation in their eyes.

“Unicorn tail.”

There's a group intake of breath.

“Whoa,” Molly says, her eyes opening wide. “I've always wanted to see a unicorn.” Molly's favorite toy is a stuffed unicorn with a sparkly horn that she received on her sixth birthday. They're by far her favorite creature.

Kirsty drops her head into her hands. “Unicorn! That's a problem for us.” Unicorns can only be approached by virgins. Let's just say that puts Kirsty at a disadvantage.

“Why? I can get it,” I say.

“Can you?” Kirsty raises an eyebrow.

“What?” I squeak. I can't believe Kirsty's just asked that in front of my parents.

“I saw Zain leaving your room last night.”

“No! We didn't . . .” The blood rushes to my face.

She holds up her hand. “Don't freak out. That's not what I'm asking. The whole unicorns only appearing to virgins thing is a common misconception,” she says.

“But nothing . . . I can't believe you think that . . . I am still . . .” My face gets warmer and warmer, and I turn an unhealthy shade of beetroot.

Kirsty laughs. “Do you need me to get you some water?”

I stick my tongue out and relax when I realize no one is actually judging me. “What do you mean, then? Why can't I get it? I thought that's why most of the specialized Finders for unicorns come from that religious order that follow vows of complete chastity.”

“It's not about virginity in the physical sense. The
ancient word for love can actually be translated in many ways, only one of which implies the physical. It's a juicier myth that way, isn't it?” Kirsty wiggles her eyebrows. “But turns out, unicorns are even pickier than that. So I have to ask, Sam . . . have you ever fallen in love?”

“No!” But then my heart spikes. Is that true anymore? I hesitate. “At least . . . I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“That's not going to fool the unicorns.”

“Oh, Sam—I didn't know! Do you have a boyfriend?” my mum asks.

I bite my lip. “Well, over the past few weeks, Zain and I have got a lot closer. Then last night we talked . . .”

Now my dad gets angry. He narrows his eyes. “He knew.”

My face drains of color at Dad's statement. Mum turns to him, worry in her voice. “John . . .”

“Well of course he did! That snake, he must have planned it. He makes Sam believe she's in love just before she has to meet a unicorn? You don't find that a bit suspicious?”

“He didn't ‘make' me anything—I suppose you think he planned the whole night on the mountain and the abominable too?” I snap. “Anyway, it's none of your business.” Tears burn my eyes. “Zain cares about me. We care about each other. He wanted to work with us on finding the cure, not against us.” I face my dad, who thankfully has the decency to look ashamed by his outburst. I can
see him reach out, wanting to apologize, to take back what he said, but I'm far too angry to let him. “We'll find a way; we'll pay someone . . .”

Kirsty begins, “I'll call the Sisters and get a quote—” but then another voice cuts in. “I'll do it,” Molly says. “I'll go to get the unicorn.”

“No,” my parents and I say in unison.

Now it's Molly's turn to be hurt. She stands up, the tips of her dark brown braids quivering. “You never let me help! I'm strong too, and I've never been in love. I can do this.”

“No, it's far too dangerous for you, Molly,” I say.

“I'm part of this family. This is our hunt.”

I stare at her. She suddenly seems so much older than twelve in that moment. Kirsty is staring at her too.

But Dad shakes his head. “Molly, it's absolutely out of the question. We will hire a specialized Finder, that way both of you can stay safe. And let's not forget that Emilia is still out there. Who knows what she'll do.”

“That's so unfair. You let Sam do whatever she wants, but you never let me do anything.” She runs out of the room, and I hear her take the stairs two at a time to her room, slamming the door.

I stand up from the table. I can't even look at Dad, or Mum, and definitely not at Kirsty. I'm angry, but I'm also ashamed, which only makes me angrier at them for making me feel shame. Do I love Zain? I'm not even sure. But I know things have changed between us, and that this fire in my chest is new and uncomfortable. To be honest,
I still can't really believe he knows my name. Let alone, that we might be . . . well, special to each other . . . after what we've been through. I don't even dare put it into words in my head. Can you put a jinx on something just by thinking about it? Can you ruin something before it's even begun, with the pressure of expectation? Of course you can, and that's why I say nothing. Not even to myself.

He didn't know—couldn't have known—about the next ingredient. He could have figured it out, I suppose. And now I'm doubting him, doubting me, and that makes me feel worse.

“I need to take a walk.” When I leave the house, there's no word of protestation from anyone, no “Be back by ten” or “Where do you think you're going?” They just let me leave. They'll be busy trying to find a specialized Finder, anyway.

A sick feeling turns my stomach, gnawing at my insides, as the cool air blasts my skin. What if they're right? What if he just used me last night? Was I an idiot for believing that there might actually be something between us?

I don't really care where I'm going, I just let my feet take me away from my home. But they have a mind of their own, and soon it's pretty obvious that I'm heading toward the one place I might find an answer. Or, if not an answer, then maybe a big hug. If I can get her to forgive me, that is.

Anita.

I turn my walk into a jog, getting rained on by a light
drizzle. I careen around the corner, flying through the Patels' front gate until I almost collapse against their front door, and try to regain my composure. Suddenly I'm scared. I need Anita like I need air, but there's every chance that she won't forgive me.

What I did was pretty bad, after all.

Even though I didn't knock, I must have caused enough of a ruckus, as I can hear locks shifting in the door. I push back from the frame and run my hands over my hair, trying to make myself look presentable.

Anita's mum answers the door. She's obviously surprised, but smoothes her reaction into a gentle smile. I've always loved Mrs. Patel. Her cooking introduced me to curries and naan bread, and she's never raised her voice, even when Anita and I stole her henna kit and spilled black goo over her handmade carpet.

“Come in, Sam, dear.”

“What are you doing here?” says a voice laced with daggers.

I stop on the threshold and look into the house, where Anita is standing at the top of the stairs. I shuffle in a bit as Mrs. Patel shuts the door behind me; she shoots a look I can't see at Anita, who rolls her eyes. Then Mrs. Patel disappears into the living room, leaving me in the hallway, feeling only a few inches tall.

Anita folds her arms over her chest. “Shouldn't you be off Finding somewhere?”

“I'm here to say sorry . . .”

“Well, you've said it. See you around.” She spins on her heels.

“Wait, Anita.” She hesitates, which is enough encouragement for me. I jump up the first couple of stairs, so familiar with this house it might as well be my own. “I am sorry. Really sorry. What happened in Bharat—it wasn't me. I wasn't thinking.”

Her shoulders slump a little. I climb one more stair. “I . . . I got swept away in this whole hunt thing. I can't believe I hurt you like that.”

“You really did hurt me.”

“I know—”

“We would have helped you, supported you, right until the end, even if it wasn't us who made the potion . . .”