Flawed / Perfect. Cecelia AhernЧитать онлайн книгу.
how to say it – “don’t expect him to—”
“I don’t,” I interrupt. “I already know.”
The realistic view would be to believe that Art will never come back to me. I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping. And it doesn’t stop me from dreaming of the way things used to be.
“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we’re thinking of contacting Mr Berry to discuss the extra brand.”
“No,” I interrupt before she takes it any further.
“Listen, Celestine, it wasn’t part of the original ruling. What happened is unheard of. We want to talk to him to see what your options are—”
“And what might they be?” I say angrily. “Are they going to make it disappear? Is Crevan going to say sorry? No. Just because it’s unheard of it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s Crevan. He does what he likes, and he can do whatever he likes to me again. Promise me you’ll leave it alone.”
She purses her lips and nods. “I understand, Celestine. Your dad wants to protect you; he wants to defend you. Fight for your name.” She smiles softly, loving this part of him. “But I agree with you. I think we should stay silent. If we talk to Mr Berry about it, then I’m afraid we’ll bring more attention to it. I’m not sure if he’s aware of it or not, but your file still says five brands. They haven’t contacted us to update it, and it hasn’t been in any of the media reports. They’ve only mentioned the five. Nobody in the media knows or is talking about a sixth brand.”
Yet. The silent word hangs in the air. This news does offer me some relief. I am still the most branded Flawed person in the world, just not yet known to be the most ridiculously branded. I never thought getting away with five would be a bonus.
Mr Berry knows about my sixth brand already. He saw it happen. I think about telling her, but I don’t. I don’t want to talk about what happened in the chamber. I want to forget. But I can’t. Carrick knows, too.
I see his hand pushed up against the glass, and I hear his voice from the corridor. “I’ll find you.”
I don’t know if I want him to find me like this.
And on that thought, I close my eyes and drift away.
Day six.
I have a nightmare. Juniper is sitting in the chair in my room beside my bed, just staring at me. Our eyes meet, and she smiles a wicked, satisfied smile. I wake up in a sweat, my sheets damp beneath me. Feeling dizzy, I look around. Juniper isn’t there. The house is quiet. It’s midnight. I was sure someone was in my room; I felt a presence. I get out of bed, open my door quietly and pad down the landing, limping as I keep the weight off my branded foot. I listen at Juniper’s door. It’s quiet. I slowly, quietly, push it open. I need to see her there, in bed, fast asleep. Her bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in.
Day seven.
I meet Mary May for the first time. I am expecting a tank of a woman, instead I meet Mary Poppins. I have seen women dressed as she is before but never understood who they were or what they did. She’s wearing what looks like an ancient nanny uniform: a conservative black dress with a white shirt and black tie. The tie has an embroidered red F. She wears black tights and black brogues. Over her dress she wears a heavy black button-up coat with a wraparound collar and red velvet cuffs. She wears a black bowler hat with a red band and another F on the front. Her hair is pinned up neatly and sits in a bun below the back of her hat. Her face is make-up-free and stern. I’m not good at guessing ages, but she’s in her forties or fifties and is a tiny, birdlike woman. She looks like she’s dressed for the middle of winter. She stares at me as I walk in. She looks me up and down, as I have done with her.
“Hi,” I say. I’m not sure whether to shake her hand. The heavy black leather gloves tell me not to attempt it.
“I’m Mary May, your Whistleblower for the foreseeable future. You are aware of the rules, or shall I go through them again?”
I shake my head.
“Verbal communication,” she snaps.
“No, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “I understand the rules.” I’m nervous because I don’t want to make a mistake, I don’t want to be punished again. I don’t know what’s right and wrong, what’s expected of me in this new world. I’ve read the rules, I’ve been told about them, but the reality is quite different. My family is all sitting at the table watching me with her. I can feel the tension in the room. I can’t make a mistake. Not again.
She likes how she has unnerved me. I see the smile in her eyes.
I sit for dinner for the first time since I’ve returned. A regular family dinner. Mary May remains in the corner, hat, coat and gloves still on, her presence as calming as the Grim Reaper’s. Mum has turned on music to fill the uncomfortable silence. Juniper is at the table, eyes down that nervously flit to me when she thinks I’m not looking. The more scared of me she acts, the angrier she makes me feel. Ewan won’t stop staring at me, as though I’m not here to see him.
“What’s she eating?” he asks, looking at my plate of food with disgust.
“They’re grains,” Mum says. “They’re pumpkin seeds. And that’s salmon.”
“It looks like dog food.”
It smells like dog food.
The others are eating chicken and rice. The chicken looks dry and the rice claggy, and I wonder if it is deliberately so. Mum has also cooked cabbage, which she knows that I hate. I can see she is trying to help me, to make this easier for me. I know Mum has tried to keep it basic, but I still want to eat what they’re eating. I don’t want their food because it looks better than mine, or because I’m remotely hungry, because I’m not. I want it because it’s what I should be having. I want it because I’ve been told I can’t. I wonder, again, where this part of me has sprung from. I was the girl who followed the rules; I was on their side. I never questioned anything. Now I find myself on the wrong side of everything, questioning everything. This must be how Juniper felt every day. I look at her. She has her head down and is playing with her food. Once again it irritates me that she isn’t eating it. She can eat it. She has the right and she’s barely touching it. She looks up just then, sees the look on my face, swallows and looks away again.
Ewan is staring at me. At the dressings on my hand, covering my temple. He eyes my chest curiously.
“Mum, Dad,” he whines. “She keeps looking at me.”
“Shut up, Ewan,” Juniper spits.
“She’s allowed to look at you,” Dad snaps. “She’s your sister.”
Ewan continues eating, in a huff.
“You know you’re allowed to speak directly to me, Ewan,” I say softly, finding strength within me to be gentle. He’s my little brother. I don’t want him to be afraid of me.
He looks startled that I’ve addressed him.
“Could you pass me the salt, please?” I ask.
It’s closest to Ewan. He freezes. “I’m not allowed to help you. Mum, Dad,” he whines again, absolutely terrified. He looks to Mary May, who is sitting in the corner of the kitchen, observing with her notepad and pen.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like I’ve been punched, as if the air has gone out of me. I have caused such terror on my own baby brother’s face.
“Oh come on!” Juniper yells at him, picks up the salt and bangs it down in front of me. “You’re allowed to pass her the salt.”
They all continue eating in silence.
I watch them, like robots, heads down, shovelling food into their mouths. All except Juniper. I know none of them wants to eat. None apart from Ewan, anyway, but they are, and I