Ivy of Our Hearts

Thirty-nine

"Ivy, what have you done?"

Margaret's voice startled me out of my thoughts. I shut the door but didn't turn from it, imagining her there in her billowy nightgown—spooked by such a macabre scene, her gaze wide and mouth agape. I hadn't put much thought into what I would tell her afterwards. Once his blood had run cold and had dried on the knife.

I gripped the loose fabric of my nightgown. The floorboards whined as she took another step closer, possibly peering down at his lifeless form over the couch.

Manderley hadn't stopped crying, at least what I thought was her version of crying, her blue-black wing lifted over her face in an expression of utter devastation, as if she still couldn't bear to see him in such a way, couldn't believe I'd killed him. Her true love.

"Margaret, I had no choice." I swallowed, trying to ease my nerves so that when I spoke again, I wouldn't stammer.

"We always have a choice."

She didn't understand. Of course, she wouldn't. She hadn't seen all of what I'd seen, hadn't heard all that I'd heard. "You think I wanted to do it?" I spun, the hem of my nightgown brushing my feet. "It was the only way to free us both. Come on, you must see. There was no other way."

I took a step forward. She stepped back, shaking her head. She was ghost-pale, tears shining in her eyes. As one fell, she swiped it away hurriedly, as if she didn't want me to see.

"Should I remind you what he did to us? What he stole from us?" I stomped my foot, sourly irritated. "Come on, don't tell me you've already forgotten."

She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I haven't forgotten."

"Then you understand I had to do it."

She wrapped her arms around her belly. "This isn't you, Ivy."

"No, it isn't me." I stepped closer. "It's what he turned me into. This is all his fault. His poisoning me. His poisoning us." I pointed between us. "He encouraged it."

A look of comprehension passed across her face. She glanced again at Phillip, then at me. "What are we going to do with the body? What are we going to say when they ask about him? Have you even thought this through?"

I bit my lip, gaze turned down, not wanting to meet her eyes. I hadn't thought it through. "I guess I hadn't," I said. I began to pace the room in circles, kneading my knuckles, thinking. "We'll just... We'll just have to keep it to ourselves."

Margaret scoffed. "And what if someone finds his body and links it back to us. What about Simon? He could easily have told someone he saw us here."

"Simon?" I repeated, furrowing my brow.

Margaret turned from me. "Unbelievable."

"Simon is long gone now," I said, shifting my gaze to Phillip, what remained of him. I hadn't allowed my thoughts to wander to Simon again. It was clear now that Phillip had lied to us about him; that he hadn't really found his way home. Moonlight danced across his features, those pink lips, that defined jaw, and strong brow. Even in death his beauty was beyond compare, still such a sad, lovable thing. I understood even better now why Nora had painted those portraits. The fae were a sovereign sort. Beauty infinite.

"Why does he look like that?" Margaret leaned over the couch, reaching out as if to pluck a feather from his plumed body.

"Don't touch him," I said, raising my hand.

"Why not? We're all over this cabin. It doesn't matter what we say or do, they'll know."

I let my hand fall to my side. She was right. In some weird spell, we were all tied together now. Heart to heart. The cabin door struck the wall, letting in the blustery wind, scattering snow across the floor. I whirled to shut it again.