Ninety Days of Water

Over the following days, I became a much more complacent, and adventurous, charge. In public, I was quiet and unresentful, for I was just beginning to discover the hidden marvels the sea still had in store for me. Far from feeling homesick, as I adjusted, and perhaps primarily because of the anchor I wore, I felt bonded to the ocean.

What had Lightshale ever offered me, I thought, compared with this? What was there on the land to rival the exotic treasures underwater? As the currents stroked my face and rubbed my anxieties away, my transfer from Blackmouth felt less like banishment and more like a holiday. Wide vistas of possibility opened up before me, as easily as the continental shelf unfolded from the inky darkness on my whim. I would return home one day, I assured myself. I would convince Blackmouth Academy to re-accept me, but in the meanwhile, the jungles and reefs around the Grotto were a suitable home-away-from-home.

The water, which had previously been chilly, now felt pleasantly warm as I beat at it with my legs and feet. I had laid aside my cumbersome robes in favour of slightly more permanent, flexible weaves of weeds than those the sea-people typically wore. Of course, I did not have a mutated body as they did, and swam merely with human legs that seemed to know the pattern of the water despite their lack of training or musculature.

I journeyed frequently, and with a wanderlust that not even Fletch could match, often embarking on frolics of my own while he sat pensively in the cave that had been allotted to us. I devoted little energy to discovering the objects of his musing, or to uncovering why he had become so suddenly serious, perhaps even dismayed. I was far too preoccupied with exploring my latest talent. I supposed that the novelty of our strength and speed, as well as the ability to swim without drawing breath, that the shell trinkets granted had worn off quickly for him because he was so used to physical prowess. For Fletch, there must have been no innate appeal in being simply co-ordinated, or able to move one's body as a vehicle, as for him, there was nothing unusual in simply being good at things.

I, on the contrary, had only ever been good at one thing, if my affinity for runes, both as a mode of literature and in the magical sense, could be broadly encapsulated. Even to speed along the empty bottom of the ocean, skimming the dull pebbles without fear of falling, filled me with ecstasy. I had never been so confident on the land. I had never been so comfortable to be in motion at all. Finally, I learned the meanings of concepts that I had only understood academically in the past- 'dynamic', 'fluid', 'free'. Thus, I also acquired a whole new inventory of expressions, and through them, a new perspective on life.

By evening, when the sea-people retreated into the various tunnels that housed them, thinking their home no more wondrous than I had once thought Blackmouth's comfortable, yet unremarkable grounds, I would swim out to the very edge of the coral garden. There, I would part a murky veil, daring to venture where sharks snapped and the rubbery seaweed writhed, knowing that it could not snare me. By day, when my unsuspicious captors turned a blind eye to my activities, I would drift up to loll around the sandy shallows that I learned surrounded the sacred lagoon. Sometimes I would rise so early in the morning that dawn would shatter on my back as I broke out of the waves.

I was enchanted by clans of turtles with horns and pronged tails in place of the smooth, green backs I had glimpsed close to Lightshale. In this secluded area, filled with ancestor species I was sure that time had kept secret, I grew to know the sea more intimately than I had done on my initial, land-based encounters with her. The pale continental shelf was like the sea's exposed neckline, plunging down to meet her hidden bodice, and I had crept all over it. Shoals of fish migrating up the coast would strew necklaces of glittering gold and smooth silver over her collarbones. I would tangle this jewelry as I jetted by, apologising as I forced the fish to scatter and regroup.

I saw not only what the sea was, but what she could do. I took note of the reef that encircled the lagoon, denser and more overgrown than the neat and tidy coral beds around the Grotto. It seemed to have been erected to keep ships away- a jagged barricade, to scrape and splinter errant hulls. As the water grew shallower, I trod among the rocks in this reef, amazing myself with my newfound ability to navigate sharp oyster colonies without sustaining lacerations. I met octopi that were like unfriendly Deghazin in miniature, drifting among still pools with their stripes pulsing poisonously. They, like him, had been hired to guard this spot. With the exception of me, nobody but the sea-people could travel there.

Daintier things, too, the sea had crafted, no doubt to amuse herself in the long, lonely hours before I arrived to befriend her. Among the many traps and fences that comprised the reef, there were also carved twisting spires and arches, piled high in the rubble. These tiny palaces were sturdier than the children's sandcastles the sea knocked over further down the beach that Lightshale overlooked, and much more beautiful. They were the Grotto replicated, planted with weeds of various colours, and populated by bright corals, sponges and tendriled anenomies, all of which undulated softly. Clownfish were the peacocks on the sea's lawn, and starfish the pedigree eels in her ponds. Graceful angelfish and shrimp with legs like delicate, piped glass were her comely courtesans.

Beside the impossible vibrancy of the reef, the political turmoil around Blackmouth Academy and even Lightshale Tower seemed to pale. The aching that had split my heart over my exile faded, too, until I was only barely aware of it, as though it had been a lesson imparted to me in storytelling. None of my former problems seemed immediate. The reef was a dream I could navigate for as long as I pleased, and my every other concern was shelved until I chose to awaken.

I was astounded, therefore, when I saw the titular character of my waking narrative walking in my dream-world. At first, I only glimpsed him from afar, and with the sun bright in my face, glaring off the water that sculpted the bridge of my nose and my cheeks. He might have been a mirage. I blinked, and was dumbfounded when I opened my eyes to find him still there. His long, black cape billowed lightly, as though it had grown threadbare. The sun streamed through it as did through his hair, which had once been ebony, and was now silver. His robes hung open at the lapels, swept back from his chest to reveal the tightly buttoned vest and leather straps which I knew secured various, puzzling instruments to his person. His crow perched, as ever, on right shoulder, which had not rounded with age even slightly since I last saw him.

No, I thought... No, and yet... There could be no mistaking that figure.

Instinctively, I sank beneath the glassy pool from which I had emerged, hoping that the top of my head and my scant reflection would be camouflaged by the rocks. The two would not notice me, I hoped, because they would surely not be expecting another visitor to the lagoon. After all, I was forbidden to be there on my own, and Vaghiiss had said that the sea-people kept away from their ritual place. It was for this reason that I had been bold enough to stray out of bounds- my abilities had instilled me with a confidence I was not used to reining in, and I had never expected to be caught.

It was also fear of reprimand, as well as astonishment, that made me hide. The girl my Master was conversing with was so white beside his blackness, and in the blinding sunlight, that her precise figure was unclear, but I recognised her all the same. It was Iyetta, the curious member of the Drowned whom I had been cautioned about, though I knew not what distinguished her from others of her kind. She seemed less ghastly standing upright, without the water to tug at her ragged clothes as though they were the wrappings of a corpse buried at sea. Her bottomless pits of eyes, too, were invisible to me, so that she might have been a normal girl, albeit a very pale one.

Though sense ought to have driven me back beneath the waves, I had yet to master my boldness, as I mentioned. Additionally, my cowardice, which I then knew was still my instinct, seized control of my will once again. If I moved, even slightly, I might send up a splash that would give me away. I thought of my humiliation if my former Master discovered me occupied so, hiding and in trespass, or if Iyetta, about whom I knew nothing, uncovered me. I could only be glad that her pet, which would have detected me in an instant, did not appear to be present.

Therefore, it was with warring guilt and eagerness that I heard their entire conversation. Or, at least, I heard so much of it as there was left to be said after I had emerged from the water, for it seemed already to be underway.

'She is growing old, and getting frailer by the day,' Tellesing said. 'I have been forced to come out of hiding.'

'Forced?' asked Iyetta, in a dreamy voice with an edge of unexpected fierceness, like a thorn hidden in a cotton-flower. 'I thought you Masters answered to no-one.'

'I answer to her sister,' he said, and familiarity allowed me to hear the sly smile in his voice. 'She is also old, and wishes to evade her fate. Of course, she can offer you the same payment in return.'

'You never mentioned a sister. That makes two. This complicates things.' Iyetta sounded irritated. 'You know how reluctant the Council are to order anything of this sort. They feel morally torn. I trust she knows the risks?'

'She learned... ah, differently to me,' Tellesing said carefully. 'She was not formally educated, but I guarantee that she is well-versed in the making of pacts. Out on the Whispering Plains, they call her the Scarecrow's Wife, because of an ill-advised bargain with a demon that ought to have been to her severe detriment. I would gladly regale you sometime with a full account, but, alas, I am not permitted. All I can say about it is... Well, more pity to the Scarecrow.'

A gust of wind picked up, and I missed what was said next, if anything was at all. The two simply stood opposite each other, motionless, like adversarial pieces on a chess board. Then, Iyetta spoke again, and there was uncertainty in her question, as though she was not only in want of an answer, but perhaps also unsure of what she was asking.

'You do not agree with this decision?'

'No,' Tellesing replied. 'Cheating death has never been my agenda, but then,' he added meaningfully, 'this isn't my agenda either. The sisters' decision is theirs alone. Neither of them is less well-equipped to make it than I am, and that would anyway be improper, for the aforementioned reasons. I do not wish to insult the independence of Lady Morganna's sect, nor to invoke Olivina's wrath.'

'Even so, you do not have to assist.'

I only saw part of what happened next. My old Master opened one side of his cloak, as if to demonstrate something that was tucked inside it. I couldn't guess what it was.

'Ah, I see.' Iyetta gave a curt nod. 'In that case, you will need to talk to one of Them. I suggest Vaghiiss, who is the Captain of the Guard. The Drowning are ceding, you see.'

If Tellesing was surprised by this, it was impossible to tell from his expression. He merely nodded as well, saying that he would certainly do as she suggested, and that he was grateful for her time. This appeared to please her.

They both looked skywards, and then, as if by their mutual agreement, a squall sprung up, vicious and devilish. The clouds were as smoke belched from a chimney, and the wind cleaved furrows in the water, driving the water off the rocks in rivulets. A flash of lightning and the accompanying boom of thunder masked the cry of Tellesing's crow, and made me flinch. I blinked, and my Master was gone. Iyetta stood alone on the white beach, impassive and unnoticing, while the intensity of the storm only accelerated.

The pools that of my hiding spot became choppy, and the cold rain pushed back underwater. As I dived, I kicked my way away from that spot as quickly as I could, and several thoughts popped into my head. Firstly, I wondered whether I should communicate what I had seen to Fletch, who would no doubt still be moping around the cave. Would he approve of my rule-breaking? In his changed mood, would he now deplore it? Could he be trusted not to give me away? I decided that it would be better if I kept my information to myself for the time being, at least until I had assembled a better idea of what I had seen.

This was when my second thought struck. Of all the baffling things that had passed in Tellesing's and Iyetta's exchange, one statement stood out furthest, and that was my Master's mention of 'the Scarecrow's Wife'. As even I, having been least cared-for of Blackmouth's children, knew, The Scarecrow's Wife was a cautionary tale. It was an item of folklore, told to children by their mothers or nurses, and nothing more. Yet, Tellesing, who must also have known this, spoke of it as though it were real, and as if the characters it involved were living people. Was this an attempt to trick Iyetta? Why? It seemed so unnecessary, and such a risk for a prudent man like him to take.

Further, if it was an outright lie, then this did not reconcile with my impression, which I firmly believed to be accurate, of my Master as an honest man. Had he changed so much in a few short years? Had he become morally compromised, or so incautious that he truly placed faith in an artifice so easily undone? While he did not have a cunning personality, I was sure he would at least be capable of cunning if he set his mind to it.

I turned my dilemma over and over in my head, viewing it from all angles like a solid object. Surely, I reasoned, one of these two options must be the answer. Either my Master was delusional, or he was lying. That meant that, if I discovered that their pact amounted to anything, that honour would require me to confront either Tellesing himself or the woman he bargained with.

The other option, the third option, was just too impossible. It was vile even to me, who dealt with spells and made bargains as frequently as others broke their bread.

I refused to believe it, or to give it another moment's consideration. That night, as I slept on a living bed in the cave that Fletch and I shared, my dreams were disturbed by visions of the Scarecrow's Wife, raking and slashing at me with blades instead of hands.



I had first read the tale of The Scarecrow's Wife, not as a child, but as an Apprentice poring over books in the library's highest and most well-hidden tower.

I often delighted in the refuge of the place that my Master, Tellesing, had shown me, just as he had promised he would. In partaking of his rule-breaking, I always felt like he was there. It was like having a friend my own age, rather than a mentor. I sat sometimes in the windowsill that had been his favourite, slumped like a ragdoll against the reassuringly hard and firm sandstone bricks. My feet, I crossed in front of me, anchored by boots that were too large, or else propped up against the opposite side of the arch, where they were not supposed to be. When I sat in such a way, my shadow would trail behind me like an extension of my robe, and I wondered what it would feel like to someday be rid of it. At other times, I would haunt the aisles of bookcases and heavy reading desks. Often, I would linger in the faltering light, well after curfew, until the one window was a blackened portal and all the candles guttered out.

I took guilty pleasure in my rule-breaking. This, coupled with the sanctuary I found in the secret tower, was the main goal of my adventures. Accordingly, it hardly mattered what I read. I simply liked to be reading something for the sake of dragging the heavy, leather-bound books off their shelves, of feeling their immense weight of the grimoires and smelling the dusty scents of aging paper, vellum, and long-spent wax, as well as the curious, musty smells that books acquire when they age. I liked the feel of the crumbling pages and the flaking gold and silver leaf in my comparatively young, soft hands. They were so old, and I was still new, and that was comforting somehow. Whenever I felt like my studies outpaced me, I could come to my secret, quiet spot and be reminded that I had all the time in the world.

The books were also friends to me, full of wisdom and advice, and characters to be my company. There was, I discovered, a universe in each crusty volume. Each night, I would carry a lamp through their ranks, running my index finger down the books' spines- some bumpy with rings hidden underneath the leather, others embossed with symbols and raised lettering, and yet more sporting ornate keyholes, or pierced with rings through which chains were threaded, shackling them to the shelves. I would ignore these latter, for their procurement was beyond my means, and would judge the others according to their titles and texture. Proceeding in this manner, I would choose a story to enter or a topic to immerse myself in. I would set down my lamp so that I could heft my chosen book from its place with both hands, grasping it like a slab of knowledge against my chest until I found a table on which to prop it open.

One evening, my prospecting introduced me to a compendium of folktales. After enduring some trouble tugging it free, which only convinced me of the worth of my prize, I had carried it to my preferred lectern, a slanted oak device whose podium ended in a claw. There, its enormous spine cracked to yield a random page- a page on which 'The Scarecrow's Wife' had been scratched in a spindly, curling hand, as though whoever grasped the pen had possessed needles instead of fingers.

I will endeavour to recount for you the story I then read, as accurately as I can, and without too much embellishment.

Our tale takes place in the autumn, maybe forty years ago. It was a warm evening, much like the night on which I first read about it. Inside a weathered hut, candles flickered softly, licking at the air with tongues like slivers of the sinking sun. They were the same shade as the poppies, whose hue could just be glimpsed through a window blind with cataracts. Orange, too, was the wheat that stretched endlessly beyond the yard, where the day was ended, and sunset bled over the rolling fields. The air was still.

It was a scarecrow land, both in colour and in shape- a world of shadows and taunting reflections. Since the young girl's father had gone away, it was an empty, tormenting place, full of half-realised dreams and hopes that would never come to fruition. She stared out as she sat at the crude, wooden table, drumming on its scarred top with fingers that were raw from sewing. Though this setting was her home, she did not love it.

Splintered, slouching posts were bound in chain-gang style by a single line of rusting wire, forming a crude imitation of a fence. The weather had worn at their wood, impressing it with contorted, sorrowful expressions. Broken items of farm machinery lay beyond the fence, where weeds had claimed them. Even the house was shabbily constructed, more like the effigy of a dwelling than a truly livable place. The hearth was bare, lacking kindling. Roughly nailed walls kept the dust devils at bay, whilst the packed earth served for a floor. Disarrayed shingles, sticking up like the spines of an old pinecone, did their best to shield her from the rain.

In the fields a few fruit-bearing trees grew, stunted and bare. For the most part, however, wheat spilled uninterrupted between horizons in a carpet of identical blades. The vast plains and the dry air curdled with the promise of lightning combined to form conditions ideal for the creation of life; like a blank canvas or a tepid, primeval pool. It was as though the motionless landscape was just an empty shell, waiting to be ignited with a soul.

In her plain cotton dress, the girl also felt like a scarecrow, imperfect and heartless, like something broken or not quite made. The fabric hung sadly from her bony frame, pinched around her waist, beneath a chest that was thin and ribbed like a birdcage. On top of her head, a knot of straw-coloured hair was pushed askew. Though she was young, her cheeks were sallow.

'Am I my sister's shadow?' she asked the apparently empty room. 'Some doll of her, perhaps, left behind to keep the blackbirds away?' She made an exasperated gesture, as though shooing away imaginary scavengers.

The candle flames danced cryptically in response, lengthening in the dusk. Dissatisfied, the girl swooped upon them, too, shuffling them around the dusty tabletop until they were arranged into a perfect ring. Then, taking a precious stick of chalk, she completed the circle. As the chalk pressed harder against the wood, fat tears splashed down, threatening to ruin it.

'Caw, don't cry, Olivina.' A shadow flapped in the darkness. As it batted the air and scraped at its perch, two bright pin-points were momentarily visible through the gloom, like shining, glassy buttons. 'We're doing all we can to help it now.'

'Will it do, do you think?' Hands on narrow hips, the young woman inspected her work.

'Caw, I should think so,' said the crow, 'and I would know. Many a real sorcerer has called me his familiar. If only they could see the things we animals got up to when they weren't around!'

The girl sniffed and offered a weak smile. The bird loped out of its corner, talons clicking along the top of the fireplace, wings held wide for balance. It had been well-camouflaged, being completely black but for a bluish tinge about its feathers. Inquisitively, it approached the blind window and cocked its head, so as to peer out through the crack.

For a while, they waited, saying nothing to each other. The land bruised where the sun struck it, and then grew dark. A wounded moon rose out of the dust and was suspended like a pumpkin in the sky, just as a silver sickle rose above Blackmouth Academy, barely visible behind glass that was brimming with reflections. Bright and baleful, the pumpkin moon shone in one beady eye as the bird opened its beak.

'The sun has set.'

'Is it time, then?' asked the girl. Her fingers like ghosts' against his midnight plumage, she petted him fondly, thinking that he was soft for such a bird.

'Ark,' he croaked. 'It is not a precise thing, but any moment now.'

'I've never done this before,' the girl said simply, but without any trace of worry in her voice. It was a statement, not requiring an answer, and so they both sat quietly again.

Soon enough, the candles began to waver in the breathless evening, and the table shook, rattling its sparse contents. Apprehensively, they stood together and stared at the sigils in chalk. Faltering dimly at first, the fresh scribblings started to glow a violent white. They writhed like serpents, and, as the pair watched, lines peeled off the wood, becoming smooth ribbons projected inches above the scuffed surface.

A crackling, rushing sound filled the air, as though the room were being engulfed by invisible flames. There was a flash of something that was not quite light, but a bright shadow, like light's opposite. Then, as it died, a man replaced it.

Or, at least, he was something similar to a man.

Moonlight glinted off his long horns, which were thin and curved like fishhooks, and glittered in the thousand teeth of his smile. He was half-naked. The exposed top of his body was so pale that it was luminescent in the semi-darkness, and his skin was speckled with pearly scales. His lower half was draped in a robe so long that it pooled on the packed earth floor. Olivina did not care to guess whether concealed feet or hooves.

Tendrils of the white ribbon snaked around the demon's hips, binding him at both wrists. For a moment, he stood still, inspecting his cage with eyes that were as black as his teeth were brilliant. His trapped hands flexed, testing the tightness of his shackles. Then, at last, his lips drew a thin line over his nightmare grin, and he seemed satisfied. His eyes smouldered.

'Who summons me?' he asked.

The girl stepped forward, unafraid. 'I, Olivina of the Whispering Plain, summon you.' Behind her, the crow poised anxiously, its beak clamped shut. 'I summon you, O Beast of Longing, by the dusk that is your soul and the flames that are your tongue.'

'Ha,' he scoffed. 'Demons have no need of souls. So little you mortals know!'

'Ark!' The crow objected, acting as mediator. 'The lady calls and binds you. You are in no position to show her scorn.'

The man-like creature stiffened, but thought the better of a reply. 'Well, then, lady,' he turned to Olivina, displaying a smile that dazzled like a gift of knives. 'What would you will of me?'

She thought about the things she wanted, weighing each of them in turn. It would seem that she would only get one wish. Firstly, she thought, there was her sister, who had been flown away to Blackmouth Academy, the most prestigious of the three schools of sorcery. As a small child, Olivina had longed to join her, but she had not possessed the requisite gift- a strong aura and a natural ability to bend magic. No matter, she thought. I have my wiles about me now, and they can serve me better than other talents.

Secondly, she thought of her brother, who had been killed in a frontier skirmish, and of the family farm gone to ruins. She could not help but feel that her brother's death had been the result of his own foolishness. It was lamentable, but not a tragedy worth squandering her sole request on. Likewise, she felt no affection for the wretched farm. My father might be missing, lost on another of his adventures, she considered, but he is old, and can be of little help to me now. I will not allow sympathy to sell me short. I will have the thing I bargained for.

Thirdly and finally, Olivina thought of herself. She did not need her sister's talents, her brother's help or her father's love if she could have the end to which her jealousy and resentment could only ever be a means.

'I want a husband,' she said, 'with a heart and cunning to match my own. I am sick of being left all alone, to look after myself in this crumbling ruin of a house.' She threw up her hands when she declared, 'I want a prince with immense wealth who will provide for me. I want to be the envy of all other women. I want to never lift another finger!'

The demon grinned, and it was a grin that grew until it nearly split his face in half. 'You are certain of this?' he purred. 'This do you vow?'

The crow began to shuffle its claws, cawing uneasily where it perched on the tabletop. It had seen enough pacts performed to know the importance of wording, and it now attempted to bark its concerns at Olivina. She, however, was so rapt at having all she wanted within her grasp that she ignored it completely, ceasing even to distinguish words from its guttural croaking.

'This do I vow,' she swore eagerly.

'In that case,' said the demon, 'I have few requirements in return. You see, I am already a prince among demons, and I want for little. I will be needing only your heart, and your blood.'

Well, thought Olivina. That is not such a bad deal! Of course I will be able to pledge my heart for a heart. It seems only natural that I should be fond of my husband. As for my blood, I have often heard that demons need a drop or two to seal the bargain. I am not afraid to spill some of mine.

'Do you vow all of this?' the demon prompted her.

'Yes,' said Olivina, dispensing with her considerations, and thinking herself very wise and prudent for have done so- she was surely the equal of her sister, if not her superior in making pacts. Already, she was much less afraid than Miri. 'This do I vow.'

'This then, you shall have,' replied the demon, in all politeness, his mouth, his eyes, his teeth and his cheeks all sharpened corners.

The formalities being sealed, there was a hiss like the one that had announced his arrival, and a column of smoke erupted in the centre of the room. Then there was a snap, and he vanished. The candles winked, and Olivina craned forward, anticipating the appearance of a man worthy to whisk her away from her peasant's mess of a home.

Olivina waited, but the minutes passed, and no-one came. Have I been cheated? she thought sourly. What did I do wrong? I must have bound him correctly- there were ropes about his wrists. She turned to the crow, which had fallen silent again, imploring it with a loathing stare.

'What did you do?' she demanded, startling it so that it hopped back, beak agape.

Before the stricken animal could reply, there was another snap, and the demon reappeared. It was clearly him, although he was very different. His fishhook horns remained, as did his thousand-toothed smile, but he otherwise looked human. He was clothed in the finest silk and velvet, with silver buttons upon a jacket of royal purple and blood red. He had also brought something with him, but it was not what Olivina had hoped for. Instead of man, the demon held a bundle, which he presently unfolded on the dirty table. The crow leaped out of the way with a cry of despair, fleeing back to the mantelpiece.

Out of the bundle came several needles, which were bent cruelly like the demon's horns, a spool of thread, and white ribbons that Olivina suspected were woven of sinew rather than fabric. There were also metal blades and shears of all lengths- dozens of pairs that spilled out with a clatter. Was he going to sew her a husband; to craft one from scratch? She swallowed anxiously. Somehow, she didn't think that was the answer.

'If we two are to be as one,' said the demon, merrily, 'then we must match.'

'What?' Olivina protested. 'That was not our agreement! I vowed that I would give my affection in exchange for a man who already matched me, in heart and temperament! I wanted a prince with wealth to look after me. I wanted to never lift a finger, or work another day in my life!'

'You will have all of those things,' he replied calmly. 'You will have your bargain fulfilled. You are forgetting, my love, that I am a prince. I am the Prince of Demons, the Beast of Longing, the Scarecrow- I go by many names. I have a domain wherever there is lust and want, or jealousy. I oversee whatever is coveted, and I rule the covetous.'

'You do not have a heart and spirit to match mine,' Olivina said, remaining firm, although her cheeks flushed and were wet with tears.

'On the contrary,' said the demon, 'I think you will find that our temperaments are well-matched. You asked for your equal in cunning. I think, if you will permit me to indulge myself, that I may even be more cunning than you are. I will also provide for you, more than happily. I am a demon, and can provide you with anything you want. Indeed, it is my very purpose to fuel your lust, to provide for your wants and to keep you wanting more forever.'

Olivina gave a small whimper, her hands curled into fists at either side of her face.

'I believe you asked, lastly, to be the envy of all women?' the demon then asked. He paused, and when she did not nod or make any signal to adopt this statement, he continued. 'You will be the envy of all women, indeed! You will be the envy of everyone, for I am known as the Beast of Longing, and Envy always is my wife.'

'But,' Olivina stuttered, her thin face white with horror. 'A heart... You don't really have...?'

'A heart to match yours? Ah, I see that you have done some research! You are right to assert that demons do not normally have hearts of their own. However, if you recall, you promised me your heart. What better match for your own heart than itself?'

'No,' she whispered, feverishly. 'No, this isn't what I bargained for.' She appealed to the crow, but he had shrunken well into the corner, shielding his face with one wing, watching only through a gap between his feathers.

'This was our pact, my love,' crooned the demon. 'This you vowed, and nothing more.'

There was nothing she could do but accept it. Now that they had bartered as equals, the binds were gone from his wrists, and the one who called himself the Scarecrow was picking through his tools, searching for a knife. He selected the sharpest of the blades, and held it raised and gleaming in the candlelight. Then, he swept it through one of the candles' fiery tongues, so that it ran with orange as though it had just drawn blood from the flame.

'We will begin with your wrist,' he announced, 'since you shackled mine.'

Presuming that he meant to draw some of her blood, Olivina gingerly extended her arm. 'How much?' she asked weakly. 'How much do you need?'

Now the demon's smile glimmered more dangerously than ever. 'How much?' he repeated. 'How much will I need? Why, I never heard us talk of sums! Of course, I will be needing all of it.'

She howled and tried to pull away from him, but it was too late. The pact bound her, endowing him with all the strength he needed to carry it out. I will not detail all of what happened next, for it is quite horrifying, but I will tell you the necessary facts. The demon did not kill her, of course, but he was endeavouring with his tailoring to make her more like him- a container, or a vessel to be filled.

'If you are to be the Queen of Envy as you request,' he said, 'then you must be a perfect doll, so that all women may project their fancies onto you, and play with you in their tormented dreams. For you did say that all women must envy you, and I would not let my side of the bargain lapse by letting you only be the envy of some.'

With his blades and hooks the demon worked, taking her blood from her body, and stitching the parts that he thought less than satisfactory. He took her heart through her back, slitting the flesh up her spine with a long, thirsty dagger that left a hole behind like the space in a gutted carcass, so that she was completely empty inside. Through a neat row of eyelets he punched on either side of this, he threaded the ribbon, which was made of sinew, just as Olivina had feared. Then, with the toe of his fashionable boot to her back, the demon pushed his doll against the tabletop, and laced her up like a corset.

The tears came in hot, wet gulps. Olivina endured them as she might have suffered growing pains or the pull of a hairbrush at her hand, denying them in the knowledge that they were insensible, childish things to be overcome. She bit back her tears, her prominent front teeth drawing blood from her bottom lip. Perhaps I will like it, she consoled herself, when I am his Queen. Perhaps I will yet have power and provision, as he promised.

When he had finished her body, the Scarecrow placed two curved, spotless horns, like his own, on her head. This, he explained, she would have in place of a crown. When it was done, he procured a long mirror from thin air, and set it for her to admire herself in. The effect, she had to admit, now that her pain was over, and she could not see her back, was remarkably beautiful.

Immediately, she fell in love with herself, becoming the object of her own envy. She was a jointed caricature, just like a doll or a scarecrow. She was painted cheeks and flesh stitched onto a frame, but she was lovely. As the crow gave a mournful caw from where it cowered, she danced with her reflection, performing three perfect pirouettes.

How dainty she was now! How lightly she moved without all that extra baggage inside her!

'I am pleased, husband,' she said, smiling. She thought to herself, Why, this will not be so bad after all. He is only a demon, and just like a man, in truth. Better yet, he is like a god.

Just as she was beginning to stoke a longing for more power, the Scarecrow interrupted her. 'I am glad that you like it,' he said, 'but I still have one minor adjustment to make.'

Blindly trusting and once again charmed by her luck and cleverness, Olivina pranced over and took the demon with both of his hands in her own. 'What is that?' she asked prettily. She felt the demon's own fingers, cool and smooth like spent wax, rubbing her hands.

'Your last specification,' he said softly, his wide lips turning up only slightly at each corner, 'was that you should never lift a finger again.'

At this, the crow gave a final, hideous croak, and launched itself at the window-sill. Prying the window further open, it squeezed itself through the gap, and took off with much flurry into the night. It was all the sign that Olivina needed.

'No!' she whimpered again, and tried to pull her hands away, but the demon gripped them tightly.

'Oh, yes,' he assured her. His callous eyes fell on the line of metal instruments -all blades of some kind or another- that remained on the tabletop. 'Don't worry,' he chided, 'I might be bound to take those fingers from you, but I'm sure I can find you some adequate replacements.'

I recall how I shook on my stool as I read those last few lines by the spluttering light of the candles in the library tower. I think I might have blown one out, by accident, when I gave a gasp to match Olivina's. With an ashen face, I read the final part, feeling terrified when I pictured the reckless girl standing before that mirror once again, torn between affection for her perfect body, and disgust at her hideous, bladed hands. Because of them, she would always be imperfect. She would always be wanting.

I had slammed the book shut with a start, and hurried to extinguish the rest of the candles. With a final, paranoid glance around the tower -to confirm that it was free from demons- I had gathered up my lamp and sprinted downstairs to bed.



As I lay on my back in a completely different bed; a bed of soft, cushiony sponges and mossy weeds, I reviewed my memory of the tale. If it had been an accurate version, then it seemed at once horrific and fanciful.

I considered it unlikely to be true. Even if it was, I remembered it more as a tale about a selfish fool and her severe punishment than as one in which the heroine triumphed, becoming an object of fear on her own. How did that line up with what Tellesing had said- “more pity to the Scarecrow”?

Was there more to the story? I closed my eyes, letting the sea flood my ears with a combination of tidal sounds and Fletch's snores. How is it even possible to snore underwater? I thought irritably. I groaned and rolled over onto my side, burying at least one of my ears into my sea-sponge pillow.

In the morning, I decided, I would find answers.