Another Faust (49 page)

When Christian had come up with the plan to fool the insects, Buddy had been scared. But he had pulled it off with all the loyalty of a true friend. He had played his part perfectly and tricked even the smartest. And Victoria had fallen for it and so had her disgusting swarm; Buddy had led them right to Christian. It was so easy for Victoria to believe that Buddy was stupid, that he was an empty dummy, that he would let Christian sell his soul. But even though so much of his mind had been erased or corrupted by Vileroy’s tricks and tortures, Buddy had a good soul. He was a real person, as real as any of them.
Benjamin.
He had only wanted to help Christian, and the children before him. Buddy was dead now, but before that, he had been Christian’s best friend.

“Hurry up, hurry up!” said Belle from the other side of the small door.

“Are you sure there aren’t any bugs here?” Bicé called back.

“Just move —”

But Belle didn’t have time to finish her sentence. Because just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Having fun without me?” said Valentin, in that sort of slimy tone he’d taken on more and more lately.

“Valentin, what are you doing?”

“What are
you
doing? And where’s Christian?”

“Christian’s in the main room. Go find him. I’m sure he’ll want to hear your poem or whatever.”

“Who’s in there?” Valentin glanced past Belle toward the door.

“Nobody. Just go, Valentin.”

Bicé could hear talking just outside the door. Someone was there. She had pulled the entire room apart and still no serum. There were bottles and boxes everywhere, but not a single one looked like the stuff she’d been drinking every night. She was so scared; she was losing her concentration. She kept opening the same drawers over and over, pulling the same pillows apart. Her hand was twitching visibly now. All that nervousness and paranoia that had built up inside her — the effect of years of solitary living, of slowly becoming a recluse — seemed to be coming out all at once.

“Where is that bottle? Where is it? Where is it?”

Bicé started to mumble nervously to herself. First in Greek, then Welsh, then Korean. Her mind seemed to be operating separately from her body, running at its own breakneck speed. She heard the voices outside again.

“Forget it, Belle. I’m going in.” It was Valentin. Then she heard a noise, like a kick to the stomach, and a gasp.

Then she saw it, the drawer in the wall, painted the same color as the wallpaper.

“What’s this?” she said to herself as she pulled it open. Her hands were now shaking so much that the drawer came crashing out, spilling all its contents to the floor. But there it was, the familiar bottle, full of the green liquid she had come to know so well. She grabbed it and tried to pull the top off, but it was stuck, and her arms were growing weak. Bicé pulled and pulled, every few moments turning toward the door, just waiting for someone to come bursting through.

Then she saw something else. A rolled-up piece of parchment was lying on the floor. Taking another look over her shoulder, she opened it up to read. The message was cryptic. Written in a scrawling script, it looked as if it was thousands of years old. Bicé had to squint to make it out. It was some sort of recipe. A set of instructions set in rhyme by Vileroy or maybe someone even older.
How long has Vileroy been doing this?
Bicé wondered.
Was she ever a child herself?
Maybe the recipe was written by Vileroy’s own governess, or her governess’s governess. Whatever the case, there it was — her way out, a recipe for a lifetime of potion to keep her alive:

As Bicé read the message on the parchment, she finally understood, and she felt sad, for herself and her sister, whose lives had been ruined by each other. Bicé threw another glance at the door. Her hands were sweaty, and she felt cheated.
How can this be?
The antiaging serum was made by stealing someone’s beauty. Someone with shared blood. Bicé didn’t want to accept it, but it was hardly a question. Poor Belle.
That’s the reason she became ugly — because all her beauty was used to make this potion so that Vileroy could trap me.
Vileroy must have slowly leached away Belle’s true beauty — the beauty that was inherent in her before the governess gave her a new, mesmerizing face. Under that ravishing mask, no one would have noticed that she was getting worse and worse, her loveliness seeping away and replaced by vanity and pride, leaving her ugly inside and out. Then, finally, when Vileroy wanted it, years of deterioration appeared suddenly on the poor girl’s face. Bicé felt a deep pain in her chest. She was complicit in her sister’s ugliness — and in her extreme vanity — because she had spent years drinking away her sister’s true beauty.

At the same time, a part of Bicé, the part that mourned the loss of her formative years, remembered that Belle was the one who had gotten them into this.
In a way, isn’t this a fitting punishment for her? Wasn’t she the one who traded me in so she could be beautiful? Wasn’t she the one who saw my life as less valuable than her vanity?
But then Bicé chastised herself for thinking this way. She was far too old for pettiness now. Besides, there was something that bothered her even more.
A curse to use the other till you die.
Would she have to keep using Belle in order to stay alive? Make her uglier? Die when her beauty was fully spent?

For a terrible moment, Bicé just stood there, losing track of the seconds — not hiding, not grabbing hold of the fabric of time but letting it slip through her fingers as she stood motionless.
So this is how it’s going to be, just like before, even if we escape? How appropriate.
For Bicé to stay alive, Belle would have to give up the one thing she had betrayed her sister for in the first place. She’d have to atone for handing Bicé’s life over to the demon Vileroy by giving up the outer beauty that had seemed so much more important. Maybe this way, she’d regain some shred of integrity, or if not that, a little redemption. Someday, Bicé would be a shriveled old woman, tired of mind, back sore, and Belle would be a ghoul, deformed and undignified, but they could still be together, and they’d be as close as any twins could ever be.

“You’ll be sorry for that!” hissed Valentin after Belle kicked him in the stomach.

“Sorry — so sorry, Valentin.” Belle tried to help Valentin up, but Valentin pushed her away. She turned toward the room again.

“Belle, would you like to explain what you’re doing in my wing?”

Belle froze when she heard Madame Vileroy’s voice. She turned to see the governess standing behind a fallen Valentin, arms crossed, with Victoria lingering behind her. Christian was running down the hall after them, and came to a skid when he saw Valentin. Suddenly he felt sorry for Valentin, lying there, emaciated, eyes bloodshot from trying to remember his own lies, tangled in a web of his own creation, never sure which parts of his life had actually happened. For a moment, Christian thought that Valentin was the unluckiest of them all.

“Where’s Bicé?” Madame Vileroy demanded.

No one spoke. But Belle’s heart was audible. She closed her eyes and prayed hard that Madame Vileroy would not go into the room.

“Step aside.”

Madame Vileroy moved past Belle and pushed the door open.

Ignoring the recipe for the moment, forgetting all its ghastly implications, Bicé focused her strength on the task of pulling open the bottle, which was still firmly stuck. Finally, with a barely audible
pop,
the cork came loose in her hands. Bicé’s hands shook as she moved it to her lips, making sure not to spill a drop. Could she really do this? Could she take a drink knowing that every sip came at the expense of her sister’s soul? But then, before she could drink, she heard a noise, and the governess glided into the room like a raging storm. On seeing Madame Vileroy, a flood of desperation washed over Bicé. Her eyes darted, and her lips quivered. She couldn’t die here. She couldn’t surrender in the presence of so much evil. Bicé’s frail body shook at the awful thing that she had to do, the thing she knew she
would
do for the very first time with full knowledge. In that instant, as she prepared to drink, Bicé felt her heart thump and her head spin. She gasped as Vileroy neared, and before she knew it, she had dropped the bottle to the floor, shattering it into a thousand pieces, spilling the liquid across Madame Vileroy’s sanctuary.

“Ah, poor Bicé. It seems we’re going to lose you, dear.”

Bicé simply stood, not knowing what to say, what to do in this moment, the most important moment of her life. She had lost the liquid that would save her life. But no one could save her from Vileroy but herself. Before they could escape, they had to confront her. The children would finally have to face their governess.

The old demon tilted her head. “Why waste your last few hours trying to leave? Might as well stay here and die in comfort.”

Bicé tried to say something, but all she could do was squeak out a tiny “no.”

“What
are
you going to do without that bottle? Of course, dear, I’m always willing to make a deal.”

Bicé hesitated, the fear of death so palpable and real in her heart that she almost choked on her own spit and tears. She felt the fear overtake her, make her weak, make everything else fade in comparison. And then she felt a wave of guilt and shame. Because there, in that instant, she had almost given in. She had asked herself the fateful question:
What is a soul, anyway? Can I sell something so intangible for something as precious as my life?

But then, Bicé had another realization.
How can Vileroy give me my life? The potion is gone. What gives her this power to give and take life? To dangle death like a toy over my head?
Bicé’s tears dried and she pulled herself to her full height.