Body of Stars Laura Walter (chrome ebook reader .txt) 📖

I trained my eyes on Cassandra and Miles across the room. They were talking intensely. I noticed how Cassandra moved in front of my brother, how she leaned forward and smiled, how her skin glowed in the low light of the shawl-draped lamp. I saw the way my brother’s left hand reflexively curled in a fist every now and then, an unconscious resistance to her charms.

The spots in my eyes exploded into color, streaks of rainbow blotting my vision. I blinked hard, but the colors remained. I was hearing things, too—distant bells, the sound of the ocean, a far-off door slamming shut.

“If you’re not looking for business, you’d better leave. This is no place for changelings.” The warmth from the man’s hand traveled even farther up my thigh. “But you know what I think? That you need the money, and that the two of us are in a position to help each other.”

I wanted to call for help, or slap his hand away, or at least form the word no, but my body felt too heavy and slow to take even the simplest action. Breathing was all I could manage, and in this way I felt newly awakened as a changeling once more: fresh, raw, and out of control.

A woman stepped into the room then from the back. In the time it took her to appear in the doorway, the man’s hand miraculously lifted from my leg and he shifted away from me quickly, as if I might burn him.

“I had the most wonderful reading,” the woman said. She came toward the couch to address the man next to me. She had vivid, deep-black hair pulled into a tight ballerina’s bun. Her skin was smooth and young-looking, her neck dotted with jewels that sparkled when she moved. She was radiant. Chloe had told her so many wonderful things, she was explaining to her husband. She felt, at last, that she had a good sense of direction.

When the woman’s gaze drifted my way, she stopped smiling.

“Glad it went well,” the man said quickly. He stood. I could smell his sweat, his fear. I could see a bit of red creep up his neck. “Let’s go,” he added, and started pulling his wife away. She gave me a long, deadly look before they clattered out the door.

I was still holding the teacup, my hands trembling. Miles crossed the room and pried the cup from me. “Relax,” he said.

I didn’t know how to tell him what had happened, how that man had propositioned me and how I’d felt unable to stop him. Already guilt was creeping in, the realization that I was failing to protect myself. So I didn’t tell Miles. I didn’t say anything.

Angel appeared in the doorway and looked across the room toward Cassandra. “Chloe will see you now, miss.”

Cassandra smiled and smoothed her hair. She might have still been half drunk on rose sherry. She was probably not herself. I wanted to reach out to her, to touch her skin—to comfort myself with the reality of her body, as if this alone could keep her safe.

But I made no move, and Cassandra followed Angel, disappearing into the darkness.

Mapping the Future: An Interpretive Guide to Women and Girls

On Suffering and Hope

And here we must acknowledge that the future is sometimes too vast, too heavy with grief or guilt, for a woman to bear alone.

It is a grim truth that girls and women throughout history have attempted to alter their markings, whether through tattoos, scarring, bleaching, or other mutilations. Others dress modestly to keep their truths private, and yet others refuse to acknowledge their bodies at all, as though ignorance might prevent the future from unraveling. But the future cannot be escaped, dear reader. The future is a force, a steady unrolling of time and truth that presses on regardless of mortal whims. We advise the girls and women reading this text that such fate has played its hand in the life of every female human who has lived upon this earth—and it will be no different for you.

The future is built not only on shadow but on light. To roll back the centuries is to reveal baby girls born with pinpricks of predictions, young girls entering their spectacular bloom, and old women whose thinned skin still carries the weight of prophecy. In that sisterhood can be found suffering, yes, but also endurance and strength and, when all else is washed away: hope. That hope is part of every woman alive, and that hope is what allows a woman to withstand the worst of her fate.

No future, dear reader, can break a woman on its own.

13

Once Cassandra was gone, Miles examined my teacup. He turned it around and around in his hands, rolling it between his palms, inhaling the lingering scent of tea. A single speck of a tea leaf clung to the inside of the cup; he caught it on his fingertip and brought it close to study it.

“Did Cassie drink any tea?” he asked.

I shook my head, feeling dreamy and small. “Just that man.”

“Celeste. Listen.” His voice sounded stern. “I think you might have been drugged.”

I laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

I laughed a moment longer before the sound splintered and broke.

Miles watched me closely. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“I should find Cassie.” I rose to my feet unsteadily.

Miles was at my side, letting me lean on him. “We need to go.” His voice was so very quiet, but I heard it. I felt I could hear everything, all over the world. I just needed to tune in.

“We can’t leave her here,” I said, and I veered toward the hallway where Cassandra had disappeared. Miles came with me, holding on to my elbow. I knew as if by instinct where to go: to the door at the end of the hallway, the door that was open just enough to reveal cracks of light around the edges. When I put my hand on this door and pushed, it opened