Christina Kampani

Things We Do for Beauty

Novel extract

Prologue

I wait a long time, watching the blood pool over the floor. Just when I think it must be done the scarlet lake grows; is it really possible that so much blood could hide in a single body? A thud and the pool ripples, spitting red before I can comprehend what’s even happened: I let the blade drop. 

I am not sure how much time has passed – my mind went someplace else as soon as it was done. I killed someone. I did it with my own hands. My hands – only now I remember, I shouldn’t look; oh but I do, and it’s true they are painted red: red of poppies, red of velvet, red of burning coal.

I force myself to look at the body – it is a body now, no more no less. The eyes are wide, the horror still alive in them. I pull the lids down, pray they might forget it all. I close the mouth too, seal the words I cut short.

They should find it by dawn – I could never pull it down so many stairs, not without getting caught. I must run then, but how? I could clean my hands on the tattered curtains, search for clothes in the wooden chests. If I make it to the dock, I can steal a boat. And then? Then I will sail far, to a place where no one knows me and I can, at last–

My heart stops. Someone – no, it’s me, I had forgotten about the mirror. The girl in there, her eyes are glass, the eyes of a doll not a person. And the skin, so pearl-like so perfect a doll’s skin, how could that be if not in a dream. The lips, two rose petals in shape and colour – red, on her face on her chest on her skirts; she wipes it off her cheek and it’s my hand, somehow, it’s found my face. 

And I hate to think it, and yet it’s true.  

I am still so

So beautiful. 

Part 1: Before

Chapter One

We stand behind the curtains of Sunset Hall. We wait for our guests to take their seats under the pillared archway. We hear the clink-clank of silverware as plates are set before them, the wine pouring into porcelain cups. We hear their voices. Older men discussing the tides, the beauty of the castle, how Father has grown fat and Mother hasn’t aged a day. Occasionally, we hear younger men laughing politely. Our future husbands, tired from the journey, anxious, I am sure, to see us for the first time. Are we pretty? Are we hideous? Expectations are a dangerous thing.

Vera squeezes my hand. I can tell she’s growing restless by the way she keeps shifting her weight, cracking her neck. 

‘Praise the Siren Queen, I hope they’re handsome,’ she whispers. 

She has been muttering it all day like a spell, willing it to be true by force of repetition. I have been thinking a lot, these past few hours. The worst thing that could possibly happen to my twin sister is a plain suitor. These are the honest fears of someone whose fate has only met them smiling.

I, for one, hope they are ugly as the depths of hell. Maybe that will make it easier.

I look at her over my shoulder. She is wearing a pale blue gown that appears green under the candlelight. Square neckline, embroidered with golden flowers, long bell sleeves that make her swirl like a forest fairy. A few strands of hair are swept away with pearl-studded barrettes, while the rest flows dark and loose down her waist. 

My own gown is lilac. The sleeves flare around the shoulders and tighten over the arms, a white lace finish around the neckline and wrists. I can tell it would have itched horribly, back when my skin was normal. There are silver threads that make the whole dress sparkle from the distance. I wear earrings in the shape of teardrops, made up of tiny diamonds. I have been made to reflect the light from every angle, diverting, distracting.

My hair has been baked in thick curls, with some sort of plait roping around the back. This took the servant girl two long hours before Mother deemed it satisfactory. I declined to look in the mirror, so I have not a clue what all the pulling has amounted to.

However impressive the design, it cannot have been worth it. You can dress me like a spring flower, you can knit my hair into a thousand plaits, but all the finery and diamonds in the world cannot soften the horror that lies beneath.

So I wait, coiling scaly fingers around my sister’s hand, anticipating the humiliation bound to follow our great unveiling.

Footsteps thud along the stage. My father’s shadow looms on the other side of the fabric. Vera squeezes me tighter. It is now my turn to pray, pray that he has done as I pleaded and warned the guests about my condition.

‘My lords, I present to you my daughters: Nori and Vera Lavencrest,’ he announces as he peels back the curtain.

The chandelier floods Sunset Hall with impossible light, making one feel as if staring at the sun. I turn away, longing to break for the corridor and disappear into the dark.

Applause erupts from the dining area. I am expected – and there is nowhere to hide.

Vera and I descend from the stage, the applause growing louder with every step.

Our table has been draped in sky blue, matching the walls of Sunset Hall. All four guests sit in our direction, leaving only Mother on the other side. According to Father, these are the most powerful men in the Forgotten Isles. I lower my gaze, unwilling to face my reception in their important eyes.

The applause halts; they have noticed.

It is now hushed whispers that accompany our grand entrance. I want to run, but Father is quick to take my hand. He smiles as he pulls me towards four pairs of furrowed eyebrows, four sets of gritted teeth. 

He has not warned them. He has thrown me in the lion cage and swallowed the key.

‘Nori, Vera, please welcome our esteemed guests: Lord Eldric Vanderwal of Thorn Reef with his son Bastian.’ He gestures towards two copies of the same man, one old and one young, both large and dressed in black. 

It takes a moment for Lord Vanderwal to remember his manners. ‘P-pleased to make your acquaintance, my ladies.’

 ‘And Lord Julian Stoneheath of Solyria with his son, Gale.’

Unlike the Vanderwals, the Stoneheaths are fair-haired and brightly dressed. Their velvet jackets shine in bold red and indigo, folding over high-neck shirts. 

‘Pleasure to meet you, ladies,’ says Lord Stoneheath, though his grey eyes betray the opposite. On his right, a golden-haired boy forces a smile. 

We curtsey and take our seats next to Mother, while Father assumes his post at the head of the table. 

*

Sunset Hall seems to have bloomed in roses. There is a pot of them by every pillar, the flowers climbing up the arch windows. Vases line the dining table, the petals pink and swollen with fragrance. Around them, a feast for kings: meat pies, pumpkin soup, roast potatoes, cheese and bread, candied fruit, wine. 

I concentrate on my plate as servants rush to fill it with everything I would have liked in better circumstances. Four pairs of eyes are peeling me apart, yet I must pretend not to notice. I am like a wounded fox in a hunter’s trap, waiting for my father to save me.

There is no small talk across the table, no empty pleasantries. Mother sips her wine in silence, as if she were dining alone. 

At last, Father clears his throat. ‘My lords, it delights my heart to have you here, after all these years. Let us celebrate tonight, for soon our families will become one.’ 

His enthusiasm fails to reach the room. Lord Vanderwal inspects the flowers laid before him with great interest. Directly across from me, his son studies the floor. Lord Stoneheath chews on his bottom lip, opens his mouth and closes it again.

‘Edgar, may I have a word?’ he says at last, glancing in my direction.

My stomach twists – he means to complain. He means to say that this wasn’t what they agreed upon. Not when I look as I do, not when they hadn’t known.

Even the beauty of my sister and all the diamonds on my skin have not sufficed to appease them. In fact, they do not see the diamonds at all. They do not see the perfect curls, or the plait that took two hours. They only see a girl deformed, green and scaled as a sea monster.

‘I would also like a word, Edgar,’ says Lord Vanderwal.

I count partings in the lace of my wrists until my vision blurs. I owe myself this – they will not see me cry.  

‘Lord Stoneheath, Lord Vanderwal. If you’ll allow your host to finish, you may speak all you please.’

It is now our guests’ turn to stare at their plates. I notice a vein swelling in Lord Stoneheath’s forehead, bursting through his skin. I cannot bear this for a minute longer, let alone a whole evening.

‘So, back to the matter at hand. Your sons are fine men, my lords, and I trust them to make good husbands to my two daughters.’

You could hear a feather drop.

‘Now, I shall do everything in my power to make both unions fair. Although my daughters are twins, Nori is the firstborn. As such, she stands to inherit my castle and lands, my army and ships–’

‘P-pardon me, Edgar, which one is Nori again?’ asks Vanderwal.

‘It’s me, my lord,’ I whisper, avoiding his gaze.

‘As I was saying,’ Father continues, irritably this time, ‘my manor in Siren Cove belongs to Nori and her future husband.’

The four guests exchange glances. So, that was my father’s glorious plan. He is going to double my dowry and auction me off to the greediest man. For the longest time, there was a part of me that hoped he was simply delusional. That his immense love for me had turned him blind, so that he never saw me as the others. He would have me believe it, unlike Mother, who tries to bury me in elaborate fabrics and jewels the few times I leave the castle. 

‘Of course, Vera will receive enough gold to last a lifetime. Enough to spoil my grandchildren with all their hearts desire and more.’

Vera’s face is frozen neutral, as if getting her portrait painted. I cannot tell if she is wounded by her lesser value, or pleased that her looks alone provide more than enough compensation. 

From the other side of the table, green eyes linger on her freckled cheeks. My sister’s prayers have been partly answered: one of our potential husbands is undeniably handsome. When I look at Gale, I think of the fey illustrations in our library, with their high cheekbones and elven features. Gemstones line his ears and the rings on his fingers, reflecting the light of the chandelier in ruby, emerald, violet. His hair glows too, spilling gold down the red of his jacket. 

I wonder if Bastian senses that he falls short in comparison. Broad but plump, a second chin emerging from the curve of his neck. Wild black curls fade into thick sideburns, yet sparse facial hair. Feathery brows fall over brown, unremarkable eyes. If his father is any indication, age will not improve him. 

Had the choice been mine, Bastian is the one I’d marry. Maybe plainness has made his heart soft – maybe he would treat me kindly. 

‘A little bird told us that Vera has the prettiest voice in Siren Cove,’ Gale says, staring into her eyes. ‘I was hoping to find out if the rumours are true.’

Vera’s face, usually the colour of sand, is now blooming pink as the roses on the table. 

‘That’s only half of it. Go on, tell them darling,’ says Mother, the first words she’s spoken this evening. 

‘I play the harp too. I could play a song after dinner, if you wish.’

That has always been the plan, ever since the visit was first announced. She has been practising this song, Northern Stars, every day for what feels like a thousand years. Even now it repeats in my head like a tired music box:

Northern stars, guide my prince back to my arms…

‘The same bird let it slip that Nori reads at such a pace, a fishing boat once sank from her weekly books alone.’ 

It takes me a moment to register that it is me Gale is addressing. I notice the unease in his eyes, even as he tries to hide it. 

‘I’m afraid that’s only a rumour,’ I say, my voice sounding hoarse, out of practice. ‘It was a merchant ship, not a boat.’

Father laughs, which is to be expected, seeing as he is the likely inventor of this particular tale.

‘Maybe you’d care to show us around your library sometime,’ Gale responds, smiling this time. ‘They say it is to die for.’

Lord Vanderwal elbows his son in a not-so-subtle manner. Take the example, he means to say, it’s your turn to flatter the rich girls. 

‘Bastian, Father says you have a love for hunting,’ Vera steps in, coming to the rescue. ‘Do you ever have any interesting adventures?’ 

‘I do have adventures, yes – plenty of them, in fact, more than you could count. Well, maybe not more than you could count, but plenty enough still. Once, I caught a boar as big as this entire table. You wouldn’t believe it unless you had seen it with your own eyes.’ He smiles for the first time, and it’s a shy, self-conscious smile. 

‘I don’t believe it. Boars don’t grow bigger than five feet, even I know that,’ she teases.

‘Come to our palace in Thorn Reef, and I’ll show you his tusks. You’ll see then that I’m no liar.’ 

‘Lord Eldric, is this true?’ she asks with a giggle. 

‘Well, I don’t know about the table, but it was bigger than my fat arse, and that’s saying something,’ he answers with a booming laugh.

‘And Gale, I heard you play the lute. If I sing tonight, then tomorrow is your turn to entertain.’ Vera cocks her head in that coy way she has, making her hazel eyes glimmer.

‘We have a deal,’ he says, looking first at her lips, then her eyes. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment too long, as if they were the only people in the room.

‘Maybe you could teach Vera the lute, Gale,’ Mother chimes in. ‘She has a gift for music – she learned to play the harp before she could even speak.’ 

‘She can keep the damned lute if she wants,’ snaps Stoneheath. ‘When Gale catches so much as a rabbit, he can sing and dance all he pleases,’ he says, shooting an icy glare at his son. 

Gale takes a sip of his wine, pretending not to notice. Mother may have found her match, I think, shoving a candied fig into my mouth.

‘We could go on a hunt together,’ Bastian offers, evidently thrilled to be getting the upper hand. ‘I could teach him everything I know – it won’t be long before we catch one of the mountain lions that roam the hills.’

‘There are no mountain lions in Siren Cove,’ cries Vera. ‘Where have you heard such fairytales?’ 

‘I bet I can bring one to your doorstep tomorrow,’ Bastian says with a blush that reaches down his neck.

Lord Vanderwal observes the interaction with a weary look that I am struggling to interpret. It occurs to me that I should contribute something to the conversation, but my mind is blank. 

It’s been a while since the last time I was forced to interact with strangers. I search my brain for slivers of information Father has volunteered on our guests: Bastian is nineteen, like us, while Gale is four years older. Solyria, where the Stoneheaths are from, is the southernmost of the Forgotten Isles, and by far the warmest. Thorn Reef is up north, closest to the deadly whirlpool that seals us from the rest of the world.

‘Do you ever fear the whirlpool, living up there?’ I ask, looking at Bastian.

‘I fear nothing. Only an idiot would sail that way,’ he grumbles, biting into a chicken thigh.

No one can say I did not try. With the chatter coming to a halt, everyone turns to eating. A neglected slice of pork pie bleeds stuffing on my plate. I contemplate giving it a try when my throat clenches shut, my mouth fills with salt and slime. Not now, I think, even as the sea-snail crawls into my tongue, tasting of dirt and ocean. Quickly, I gulp down my wine, trying to mask my revulsion. Mother gives me a warning look, as if I would dare to spit the creature out here, in front of the guests. That is an aspect of my affliction we do not discuss, even amongst my family. 

In a daze, I look up to the wall, to the portraits watching us from their high seats. My father’s lineage and their spouses, extending left to right, from his great-great-great-grandfather all the way to myself and Vera as children, when I still looked human. There is one portrait missing, right between Mother and me: Aunt Laurel. The only other relative cursed with my condition, apart from Grandmother, whose affected arm is conveniently left out of her portrait.