Chapter Text
“Hey, Melissa, can I borrow your textbook for a sec?”
Dahlia turns, smiles at the girl who’d tapped her shoulder. Her lip gloss-slicked mouth curves up. Lip gloss is for whores, Mother would say. Why would you want a man to look at your lips?
Because, Mother, that’s how you get them. They see the shiny beacon, and they think it’s them your lips are calling to. They think about what it tastes like, what it feels like, what it must be like to come close close closer until they’re even more of a sticky mess than you are.
“Where’s yours?”
“I left it back at my dorm,” says the girl — Mindy? Minty? Horrible name. “Can I just take a peek at yours?”
Minnie. Even more horrible. If she had to choose one, Dahlia would go with Mindy. It’s a nice name, actually, if you know how to use it. Think about the image it invokes: dumb blonde cheerleader, strand of hair wrapped around her index finger and bright pink gum in her mouth.
But this one would have no idea how to use it. Mousy brown hair, thick-framed glasses. Like some kind of closet genius. It would have worked on someone else, perhaps. Not Dahlia, who knows the grade point average of every single person in all her classes. Not Dahlia, who knows for a fact that Mousy Minnie did not leave her textbook in her dorm.
It’s currently in Dahlia’s apartment, stuffed at the bottom of her trash can underneath a pile of wet tea leaves.
“Sorry,” says Dahlia, “but I don’t think so, Mindy.”
Mindy reaches up and adjusts her glasses, as though they’re some kind of shield. “It’s Minnie,” she hisses.
“That’s what I said.” Dahlia faces forward again, flipping her hair with such force that she feels the far too satisfying way it hits Mindy straight in the face. The smell of her expensive shampoo, light and floral, fills the air. Dahlia hopes she chokes on it; got to get her money’s worth, after all.
It’s important, Mother always said, to stay on the good side of the right people. People with power. Of course, she meant a different sort of power, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? Mindy, with her low grades and her distractedness, is not the right sort of person. What benefit could she possibly offer? She can’t even keep track of her own belongings.
And if someone doesn’t do that, can they really get mad when they find them missing? When they find that someone else – someone faster, smarter, better – has leaped at the opportunity before them?
Besides, Dahlia’s not a heathen – the opposite, in fact. She knows all too well about the existence of spirits. It isn’t as though she thinks she can just skate through life consequence-free; it’s just that this is all she knows. May the spirits strike me down if I do any wrong, she’d whispered with her fingers reaching toward Mindy’s textbook, the old words falling from her lips not unlike the waterfall she’d been forced under as a child.
Against all odds, she’s still standing.
The spirits, then, are on Dahlia’s side; or perhaps more accurately, they just weren’t on Mindy’s. The lesser of two evils, and the spirits have nothing better to do than judge for themselves.
At the front of the room, the professor claps his hands together. One of those men that's used to being listened to. Dahlia obliges, if only because half of what he's saying is interesting — usually when he's reading out loud. Everything else, though, is nothing but drivel. Case in point:
"Imagery!" he proclaims, the ruler of a kingdom who refuses to see that he is nothing but a jester in a robe. "Who can analyze the imagery in last week's reading for me?"
Even before he's finished the question, his eyes find Dahlia in the crowd. She's front and center, the only one he can see. They both like it that way.
What Mousy Mindy back there doesn't understand is that contradictions only work if they're worth something in the end. Take her: doing everything she can to dress like she's smart, like that would somehow make her as intelligent as she pretends to be. Even if you find yourself intrigued enough by her to unravel the mystery she hides, you'll find yourself utterly disappointed.
Most people, Dahlia has found, are like that. At first glance, you think they're one thing: a sweet tutor, a loving boyfriend. A wonderful mother. It's only when you look closer that you find the truth. They're all rotten oranges, black and oozing underneath their peels.
Tentatively, she raises a hand in the air. Fingers slim, nails just painted a fresh pink. Soft. Dainty. "I can give it a try," she says, "but I'm not entirely sure if I really got it..."
"Ah, Miss Foster! Don't worry about that — that's what class is for, after all. The best place to learn, which means the safest place to make mistakes."
A liar, or just naive? The first would be preferable, which is why the second is most likely the truth.
There's nothing safe about mistakes. Only the opposite. Mistakes imply a lack of knowledge, of skill. They reveal little chinks in your armor, and you never know who's already reaching toward you, eager to dig their manicured nails in until they find the skin beneath.
"All right," says Dahlia softly. Her eyes flick down to her notes — dozens of pages in impeccable cursive — and she clears her throat. "At first, I thought the lamb was supposed to symbolize strength."
"Interesting." Professor Creep reaches up to adjust his glasses. "And you don't think so anymore?"
"It's just that... if the lamb is so strong, why does it go back to the shepherd? The gate is open, isn't it?"
She hears some other students behind her break out into whispers, but whether they're admiring or unflattering, she doesn't care. The world fades away, leaving just her and her professor. He looks at her with familiar eyes. Terry's eyes.
She imagines pulling them out. Burying them beneath the roots of a tree. Proof of existence.
"What if it can't?" he asks.
"Can't? It's not tied up—"
"Not physically," he says, and takes a step toward her. He must love this. A young mind that he thinks he's molding. Clay ready to be shaped with his fingers, ready for him to leave imprints of himself all over. If only he knew that she's already been fired in a kiln. She is bisque, ceramic, glass. "The outside world is scary for a lamb, isn't it?"
"And the shepherd?" Dahlia tilts her head to the side. "He has an axe, does he not?"
"He does," the professor concedes.
"And the lamb knows about it."
"It does," he says, "but your mind can be a powerful thing."
He's even closer to her now, drawn in by her beaconness. From behind, someone coughs, breaking the spell she's cast over him. He blinks, returns to himself, steps back until he's an appropriate distance away.
"The lamb!" The professor raises his voice, speaking to the entire room once again. “Melissa here brings up an excellent point — why does the lamb not escape? Anyone else want to weigh in?”
There is no sound from the rest of the room. He waits one second, then two, before relenting. Dahlia hides a smile. There's really nothing to making yourself look good, not when everyone around is so keen to help you out with it.
"As Melissa is clearly the only one who did the reading," he says, glasses slipping down his nose in his haste to look down on his students, "I'll be giving her extra credit. The rest of you, I hope you've learned at least one thing today."
That there's no use competing with Dahlia, of course.
"And for you, Miss Foster, the answer of the lamb. You see things from an objective point of view: the axe leaning against the wall, the gate rusty and half open. But what you must do is see things from the lamb's point of view."
Dahlia's pen dances across her paper, her eyes wide in rapt attention. Has no clue what he's talking about, she writes. The lamb's point of view? What does it know? To eat, to sleep. To die. That's all.
"Why would it escape? It cannot make the same connections we can. It cannot see the axe and think death. It cannot see the gate and think freedom. All it knows is the shepherd. When he yells, it thinks love."
"Oh," she murmurs, as though suddenly everything makes sense. "I understand now."
He beams. "I knew you would."
But what she understands, he would never guess. Now she knows: she cannot see things from the lamb's point of view. For her, it is impossible.
Dahlia is many things, but she is no lamb.
Still, she smiles. Perhaps this professor isn't nearly as much of an idiot as she'd taken him for. Not when he has this much faith in her. Some might call it misplaced; she wouldn't.
Keeping his gaze, she runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Drawing an impossible amount of attention to the glossy sheen. It’s cloyingly sweet. A just-bitten fruit. A freshly baked pastry.
A too-large strawberry dessert.
Mail day today.
Dahlia stops by on her way back from class, and returns to her apartment with an armful of envelopes. There are benefits to choosing a common alias, but also drawbacks: much more mail than belongs to you.
She sifts through it all impatiently. Bills; she takes great pleasure in throwing these away, both hers and not hers. Oh, I'm so sorry, I never got these! The mail delivery in my apartment is just so awful. A love letter — that's new. She gives it a read, scrunching her nose as she does. Too sappy. Too many flower metaphors. And as someone named after one, she's the best person to judge.
These all are ripped to shreds and sprinkled into her trash can like confetti, right above Mousy Mindy's textbook. The poor thing; Dahlia hears replacement textbooks can be so expensive these days.
One more piece of mail left, and this one really is for her. The latest edition of Oh! Cult! magazine.
Plenty of girls have guilty pleasures, secrets that they squirrel away from the rest of the world like a prized nut. Romance novels, maybe, or shopping habits. Dahlia's is Mother.
No one would see anything strange about this, either. Just a daughter checking up on her mother. How dedicated, they would say. How dutiful.
That's certainly one way to see it. Here's another: this is the best way to find out if Mother has dropped dead yet.
Dahlia flips through the magazine with such urgency that she nearly rips the pages. News from Kurain hasn't been very interesting, lately, not since the old Master disappeared years ago. Even Dahlia and Iris leaving didn't warrant the front page; only a fleeting sentence on page 17. She still has that issue. The page is tacked up on her refrigerator.
But this month, it seems, is different. Something new, something big enough to make the front page. A picture of Mother.
She looks the same as always, Dahlia notes rather unhappily. Her hair still perfectly coiffed, without even a single strand out of place. Mouth set in a tight line. Something different, though: eyes bright with unfettered glee. And the reason for that glee becomes apparent when Dahlia’s eyes slide down down down — glasses, if she had any, slipping down her nose — to the other person in the photo.
A girl. Eight, according to the caption at the bottom of the page. Deer in the headlight eyes. Mother's hand on her shoulder, those familiar long nails digging into her skin. Dahlia's felt those same nails; she can still feel the red marks they leave behind. Her and Iris, matching as always.
Morgan Fey, the caption says — no title of Mystic granted to her, for she's never deserved it in the eyes of the spirits — and her daughter Pearl. A prodigy, they call this girl. Overflowing with newfound spiritual power. The strongest the village has seen in years.
Her daughter. So Mother has been busy. Discarding her daughters as though they were dregs at the bottom of her teacup wasn't enough; she had to replace them entirely.
And the name. Dahlia wants to take back everything she'd thought about Mindy's name being awful. Comparatively, this is much worse. Mother never was good at names. Dahlia. Iris. Common names. She probably didn't give them more than a single moment's thought, just looked out the window and picked the first thing she saw.
Pearl, now. More valuable than dahlias, certainly. Shiny new. A second chance in every way that matters.
The clock in Dahlia's kitchen chimes out a reminder, drawing her out of her thoughts. Teatime already. She rises and goes through the motions, just like she has every day for years and years. Measuring out tea leaves — store-bought, because Kurain-grown are too hard to get — boiling water, steeping. Burying Mindy’s textbook beneath even more used leaves.
Does little Pearl brew tea? Does she go through the motions? Does she go out to the garden and pick the leaves herself? Does Mother click her tongue in disappointment, because the tea is too hot or too bitter?
Probably not. Cousin Mia never did, after all – this was an honor given only to those with no other redeeming qualities. No power. Unable to say no.
That’s how the world works, Mother would say. There are two types of people: the servers and the served. The brewers and the drinkers. You’re born as what you are, and there’s no changing that. No sneaking over to the other side. It’s something that’s coded into you, and the more you try to hide it, the quicker other people can spot it in you.
Never mind the fact that Mother was able to switch over rather easily. A lifetime spent brewing tea for her sister, and then she delighted in making her daughters do the same for her.
Dahlia takes her teacup in hand, steam wafting up to her face like a caress, and considers the photograph again. Eight years old. Not so young, not really. Older than Dahlia was when she left the village. The girl's eyes are so big. Not like Mother's, with their heavy crow's feet — only a fool would call them smile lines — framing them like a portrait. She must take after her father, whoever he is. Yet another stupid man caught in Mother's claws, only long enough for her to take what she wanted from him.
It hadn't worked with Dahlia's own father. This time, though, it looks like Mother's gamble has paid off.
Deer eyes. Like this girl's never seen a camera before, never been taught to smile for a picture. Makes sense, Dahlia supposes. There are no pictures of anyone in Fey Manor. To display one would be to go against all of their teachings: to deify the vessel over its contents, going against its one true purpose. That it is replaceable, defined by nothing except for its ability to channel.
The only thing greater than Mother's staunch following of the rules is her love of attention. She must have found a dozen different ways to justify this magazine picture to herself — and who would dare question the acting Master of Kurain? The brat, Mia's sister, may be next in line, but until she comes of age, Dahlia has no doubt that Mother must be squeezing every drop of deference from the rest of the village. Nothing but a plum in her weathered old hand, crushed to a pulp.
Dahlia runs a finger over the glossy surface of the magazine. Another beacon, this time designed to draw her in. Her own tricks used against her. Her and Mother; the student, the master.
No, not deer eyes. Lamb eyes.
Her professor was right: she does have to see things from the lamb's point of view. Taking up a pair of scissors, she carefully cuts the front page photograph in two. Mother goes into the sink, with the entire cup of boiling hot tea poured directly onto her smug face. Dahlia doesn't drink the tea. She never does. It is not so easy to do so. You cannot become the served, the drinker, without someone else taking that other position. Someone else must be your server, your brewer.
It's easy for Dahlia to turn her back on Mother; she's done it before, after all. The picture of Pearl goes up on the refrigerator. Side by side with Dahlia's own article, though the difference between them is staggering. A front-page picture, a throwaway mention. There was more to the story past the ending, she realizes. She's only seeing it now. There is a lamb, trapped in a pen all its life. There is a shepherd, axe in hand. And there is a third person: just that. A person. A girl.
The lamb may not be able to see the axe. It may not be able to see the open gate.
But the girl can.