Another Faust (50 page)

“No!” she said loudly, without hesitation.

The demon governess raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a wise choice?”

“I’m not talking about your deal, Nicola.”

The governess’s smile faded.

Everything that had happened over the years, everything she had done and not done showed itself clearly in Bicé’s mind. She thought of all the deals the others had made. Had she made one? She thought of all the opportunities. All the times she had resisted. Why had she taken the potion? The first time, all those years ago, she didn’t know she was aging. But now Bicé could see things much more clearly.

“I’m talking about this. This trick you’ve played on me. I’m saying no to
that.
I’m saying no to everything you did to me while my eyes were closed. And no to everything you took while my back was turned. You have no right!”

Vileroy laughed nervously.

“I never got anything for this,” said Bicé. “I never asked you for anything. I have not once made a deal with you.”

“You drank the potion.”

“You tricked me! I accepted a cure for my headaches. Nothing more. I did
not
give you my life!”

At that, Nicola Vileroy recoiled and her face grew red with fury.

“There are rules, Nicola. You can’t just take what you want.”

“And what do
you
know about
that
? What do you know about
my
rules?”

“Because you don’t spend so many decades in someone’s house without knowing their game.”

Belle and Christian moved toward the door, standing to one side and peering in fearfully, while Victoria and Valentin looked in from the other side of the door.

“Whoa . . .”

“Who’s that?”

“What the . . .”

It seemed they all spotted it at once.

Inside the room stood two women. Both looked regal, proud, and in the prime of adulthood, though they were both much older. Both were beautiful, facing each other like hungry tigers. Bicé’s silver mane was loose and shining, and her face had the steely resolve of a woman who had taken control. Was she still aging? None of them could tell. She was certainly not fifteen. Her eyes shone with the wisdom of her years. But her face and body were strong now, and to Belle, she looked more like their mother than ever. Bicé would never again be a teenager; she could never go back. She had spent far too much time living, had learned too much, gained too much knowledge about this world. But while the others were standing outside, something had happened to make Bicé stop dying.

Behind the two women, a giant hole had been blown into the wall. But it wasn’t a hole, really — more like a tear. Somehow, Bicé had managed to tear through the crimson-cube house, revealing the empty space on the other side. The curtain that usually hung against that wall was torn in half, and the crimson wall behind it looked like shredded fabric. Behind that was the open air, leading straight down to the street.
The far wall must be beyond the actual apartment,
Belle thought. A strong night wind was blowing into the room through the tear, and a patch of moonlight was illuminating the two women, their fists clenched, their hair blowing. For the first time, they could see Madame Vileroy with her blond hair wild and loose and her branded eye grotesque with fear. The room had been completely torn apart. All the beautiful things that had decorated it minutes before were destroyed, leaving nothing but a moonlit heap of garbage on the floor.

“Why is Bicé just standing there?” Belle whispered.

“I think she’s done hiding,” Christian whispered back.

“What happened to the wall?” Valentin asked no one in particular.

Belle yelled out, “Bicé, let’s go!”

Madame Vileroy laughed. “And where will you go, my dear? With a face like that?”

Belle began to cry. But then she noticed that something was making Madame Vileroy look alarmed. Bicé was mumbling something under her breath, softly at first. It sounded like all those times when Bicé was trying to decipher languages. Using one to learn another. Figuring things out in her head. Completing families of tongues and dialects, and then connecting them with each other. Finding the links between entire groups of languages, not just one dialect with another.

She started with whispering . . . whispering . . . whispering.

What are these words? How do they fit together?

And then the realization of how much she knew. Building blocks falling together after that one crucial piece is found.

Bicé’s words grew louder and louder as she continued, until everyone else could hear her too.

“What language is
that
?” Victoria said.

“Something Asian.”

“No, that’s just French.”

“It’s some kind of African.”

“Shh,” Belle said, listening intently to her twin sister. “It sounds like all of them.”

Bicé was speaking louder and louder, saying something that made Madame Vileroy take a step back.

“You foolish girl,” Vileroy said, and attempted to step forward again. But Bicé didn’t stop. And Madame Vileroy couldn’t move forward.

“Look!” Christian said, pointing behind Madame Vileroy. Another wall behind her was beginning to tear — big, thick pieces of it falling to the ground, singed. Behind it, they could see the white walls of their real Manhattan apartment, completely unharmed.

“What is she saying?” Victoria said as she clung to Valentin, who was trying to push her away.

“It’s all of them,” Belle whispered to Christian.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s none of the languages, but it’s all of them. The one people used to speak, before it was split into hundreds of different ones. It’s a combination of every language on earth — some people say it’s some kind of angelic language. Somehow otherworldly.”

“How do you know?”

“That must have been Bicé’s goal. To learn all the languages, so that she could learn the one lost language that links everyone. That’s why Vileroy was trying to stop her. That’s why she asked me about our parents.”

“Belle, how the hell do you know that?” Valentin asked, skeptical.

“Because our mother told us about it. She told us about the theories that this language exists, that scholars have tried to decipher it, to put it back together. But none of them can speak enough languages to do it.”

“Wow, I feel like an idiot,” said Christian, his mouth hanging open.

“Why?”

“I told Bicé she needed more goals. . . .”

Madame Vileroy turned around to see her house tearing itself apart. Though her face looked as serene as ever, her fingers were twitching at her side. She turned to Bicé and said something back, something harsh and cacophonous, in a language none of them understood. The sound of her voice made Belle cringe. Christian’s hands automatically flew to his ears. Every syllable coming out of her mouth was excruciating. As Madame Vileroy continued, Bicé’s voice countered. For a moment, Belle thought that her sister was winning this war. But then, suddenly, Bicé spoke in a language Belle could understand.

“Nicola, I’m taking the children.” Her voice was thunderous, like a lioness protecting her cubs.

“They’re
my
children. They chose me. They sold themselves to me.”

“I’m taking them back.” Bicé signaled for Belle and Christian, and instinctively they ran to her. Victoria and Valentin followed but stood apart, close to Madame Vileroy.

Standing there, in the windy room, Belle felt like she was looking in a mirror. An old, yet ageless woman with her two children, her daughter a monster and her son a thief. That was the picture on both sides of the room.

Vileroy. The old demon. Breathtaking. Fearsome. Timeless.

And Bicé. Weary traveler. Sister. Mother. The girl who spoke every language in the world but never managed a conversation. How strange, thought Belle, what her sister had done. Bicé had failed to entice even one person to be her friend, yet she had learned to summon God and the angels in their own words.

“You can’t —” Vileroy’s voice thundered.

“You have done enough to me to buy back both of their lives. They can choose.”

On hearing Bicé’s words, Christian turned to Victoria and Valentin. “Come with us,” he said. “Don’t stay here.”

Victoria laughed. She ran to Madame Vileroy and looked up at her, seeking some approval. Madame Vileroy, once more the loving mother, put her hand on Victoria’s head. “Your parents would be proud, Victoria. They wanted you to be the best. And now you will be.”

Victoria beamed with happiness. Madame Vileroy turned to Christian. “Victoria is smart enough to know that I’m her only family. Christian, are you going to give up everything now? Be mediocre? Poor?”

“I’m going,” Christian said. “Valentin, come with us. Please. It doesn’t matter what happened. She made you do those things. If we leave, we can start over. It’ll be for real this time.”

Valentin had his hands in his pockets, and he seemed to be writing something on the floor with his feet. For the first time since he had known Valentin, Christian saw him look ashamed. He looked as though he could cry for everything he had done, as though he were truly sorry. Christian smiled at him and said again, “Come with us, Val.”

Valentin took his hands out of his pockets and ran them through his hair. “I’m sorry, Christian. For all the stuff I did. . . .”

“That’s OK,” said Christian. “Come on anyway. I know she made you do it.”

But when Valentin finally moved from his spot, he didn’t go toward Christian. He dropped his head and walked shamefully toward Madame Vileroy. “No. She didn’t make me do anything.”

A noise flew from Christian’s mouth, as if he were trying to say something and laugh and cry and cough at the same time.

“Sorry, bro,” said Valentin. “Ordinary just isn’t enough for me.”

“Let’s go,” said Bicé.

“You can’t,” said Madame Vileroy again, just as Bicé was making her way to the door. “I still have Belle’s soul.” Madame Vileroy glanced at the big mahogany door, across the hall. It began to move and writhe, as it had done before. A sick feeling swept through Belle’s stomach. Is that what that was? Like a zombie, Belle began to walk toward the door. She could feel herself walking, but somehow she had no control over it. Bicé reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Belle, no!” she yelled. But Belle kept walking. Bicé ran around and stood in front of Belle. “Don’t go through that door. Do you understand me?”

“Don’t listen to her, Belle,” Madame Vileroy said in a soothing voice. “You want it back, don’t you? Go and get it. It’s right there, beyond that door.”

Belle’s feet kept moving, as if on their own, toward the threshold. Christian, too, was mesmerized by the writhing, pulsating structure, watching the weird shapes trying to escape through the wood. Suddenly Bicé whipped around. In one motion, she put one arm around Belle’s waist and held out the other like a shield, toward Madame Vileroy. She said something else, loudly, furiously, in the language she had spoken before. Madame Vileroy was knocked backward, and another section of the crimson house fell away, revealing a tiny window and a fire escape. Bicé made a beeline for the fire escape. Christian followed, and Bicé dragged Belle, as she tried to resist and reach out for the mahogany door. “Stop it, Belle. Stop it!” Bicé yelled to her sister. “We’re leaving; we’re going to start over.”

“But she’ll come for us.”

“No! She doesn’t have any power over us. We’ve accepted our consequences. It’s all a bluff.”

“But look at that door!” Belle shrieked. “She has my —”

“It’s an illusion, Belle. Selling your soul — it’s not like that. It’s something you keep doing every day. It’s something you can stop doing now!”

Belle swallowed and waited, as if somehow someone would confirm this.

In that moment of indecision, when Bicé could see that Belle had no idea what she was supposed to do, Bicé felt an immense grief for her. Belle had gone along with the deals. She had given herself to evil so easily. She had done enough to fill her with a lifetime of guilt and agony. But she too had been tricked.

Taking hold of Belle’s hand, trying to force her to leave this place, Bicé felt Belle’s pain as her own. Much more than she ever did before. Much more than when they were small and Bicé winced at Belle’s small wounds. Now the pain was coming from deep inside. It was a part of her own experience. Not like a twin. But like a daughter.

Just like a daughter.

Belle reached out toward the writhing door. The hands and faces trapped inside seemed to pull at the wood, as if trying to run through a curtain. But to her own surprise, Belle felt no fear. Her hand quivered as she finally touched it, inching past the surface of the wood. She reached inside and felt around, but there was nothing. Like a trick of the light, the faces disappeared as her hand moved through them. Belle turned and ran.

“But . . . are you going to die?” Christian asked Bicé, as they ran past the shredded wall and through the window.

“I found the cure,” said Bicé.

“But you’re not getting younger.”

“I’m going to stay this way.” Bicé gave Christian a smile that told him that this was better — that he should have courage.

Just as the three were making their way down the fire escape and onto one of the balconies below, Christian heard something.

“What’s that?” he said, looking up through the window into their apartment. Madame Vileroy had receded into the shadows, but something was growing louder and louder, until it was deafening. Suddenly, a plague of insects shot out of the window like a cannon, covering them like a thick, revolting blanket. Belle screamed. Bicé turned to Christian. “Stop them like you did before.” As the swarm hovered around Christian, touching every surface of his body, he closed his eyes and prepared to steal one last time. After a moment, he opened his eyes. No change.

“We should have known. We can’t use her gifts now,” said Bicé. “Just run.”

They tried to ignore the insects as they climbed down the fire escape and ran down the street. Bicé glanced back and caught the frightened look on Christian’s face. He tried to seem tough, but without his gift, he was unarmed for the first time in a long time. At a nearby intersection, the three stopped and looked at one another, confused, wondering which way to turn. They lingered there like little children running from home, aimless and scared and full of self-doubt. But then Bicé smiled and continued on and the other two followed. In the distance, they could hear a passing car on the avenue. But on that little street in New York, there was no one to notice the three fugitives running away in the night.