She didn't know how Rosamund was maintaining this form.
The power it would take was immense; the amount of soul she was feeding the darkness beyond anything she'd ever attempted before.
The pain must have been unimaginable, but Rosamund didn't seem much affected, her flight as elegant as if she had been born to the air, dancing between gusts of wind and furious fistfuls of rain.
She swooped around the mast in a tight circle, and Miriam trailed behind her.
Rosamund plummeted down toward the deck—for a moment, Miriam wondered if she had remembered she wasn't a bird, after all—but then she went insubstantial, falling through the iron grating.
When Miriam did the same, she found herself following Rosamund's flitting form through the coal-hot hollow of the ship's underbelly.
Men shovelled fuel into furnaces, slick with sweat: they didn't notice the shadows and sparks that darted between them, as Miriam snapped at Rosamund with talon and beak, dodging plumes of steam and the heavy swing of metal mallets.
The sound of the workers was extraordinary—yelling and hammering and the roar of flames—but Miriam could still hear, between it all, the fluttering of Rosamund's wings.
They passed from one side of the ship to the other, through steel beams and solid walls, until they were once again up in the open air, in the rolls of thunder and the stark white flashes of the lightning.
Rosamund went faster, higher, and Miriam did the same, until the wind was almost too strong to counter, and the Monumental was only a speck beneath them, surrounded by the cracked-glass edges of storm-swollen waves.
Then Rosamund plunged down again, passing Miriam by mere inches.
And as Miriam followed, glorying in the chase, she realised she never wanted this to end.
If she caught Rosamund, maybe she would kill her.
Why not? Why not keep the deal indefinitely, see how often Harding could be reborn?
That way, Miriam would never lose her. They could stay like this forever: Harding and Richter, shadows and storm, pulling each other towards their own destruction.
They fell together, wings tucked into their bodies.
The wind wailed, partly frozen rain tearing through feathers and talons.
The light around Rosamund shifted and warped, until she had changed into a woman again, her hair rippling around her head like a crown of flames, her skin luminous.
Miriam did the same, swallowing her own beak, folding her wings into her torso, growing arms so that she could reach out a hand for her.
Rosamund took it, pulling her closer as they plunged.
Miriam looked down, and saw they were heading toward the water.
Shadows don't sink,' she said into Rosamund's ear.
No, they don't,' Rosamund agreed. But maybe they can drown.'
They hit the Atlantic, breaking the surface with enough force it would have shattered the bones of anyone else—but they were just immaterial enough that they sank without true impact.
Rosamund's hand slipped out of hers, and the sea sucked her downwards, leaving Miriam floating unmoored in the half-frozen water.
The darkness here was entire, so deep and impenetrable that even Miriam could see nothing.
Salt stung her eyes and clawed at her skin, the shadows inside her writhing in revulsion.
Miriam revelled in the pain, rare as it was to her.
How far had they sunk? When she looked up, she could see a faint glimmer of grey—the fading light of the sky—but to her sides and below, there was only a void.
She reached out with her mind. Rosamund?
I'm here.
When Miriam tried to see her, there was nothing. She focused more, tried to find the light of her soul. Still, there was only darkness.
Miriam spun in the water. Where are you?
What's the difference between love and hatred? Rosamund asked, her voice echoing, everywhere and nowhere.
There isn't one.
They can coexist, yes, Rosamund said. I know that without doubt. But there's a difference.
And what is that?
There were hands on hers then, a mouth against her neck. Love takes. It makes you want, makes you need, empties you out until there is nothing left but the love itself.
And hatred?
Hatred is a gift, Miriam. It gives you the strength you need to survive.
Then Rosamund was pulling her up, up out of the water, up toward the sky.
And they were birds again, flying without aim or reason, spinning in a dance around the ship as it continued to cleave the waves.
There was ice in the air, frozen salt tossed up from the sea: never before had Miriam flown for so long, so fast, nor had she needed to expend so much power just to stay aloft.
The shadows were reluctant, drawn to Rosamund's light even as they answered Miriam's orders.
And it was only as Rosamund started flying higher again, preparing for another fall, that Miriam finally realised what was happening. Rosamund was trying to tire her out.
Miriam was tired, now she thought of it.
She could feel the strain of commanding the shadows in her limbs, her hollow chest. She had consumed several souls before coming onto the ship, but that had been days ago, of course, and now she had expended so much magic in the chase—her reserves had their limits.
She and Rosamund were competing: to see which of them could keep themselves flying for the longest, immaterial for the longest, before they ran out of power to feed the darkness.
Once, Miriam would've been confident in her victory.
But Rosamund had three souls within her, three souls greater even when separated than any others Miriam had ever seen.
Despite the price Rosamund had already paid, she still burnt so fiercely that Miriam wondered if this was a fight she would lose.
But she couldn't bring herself to end the chase, not when there was something so brutally joyous about it, the wind and the water and Rosamund flying before her.
She thought of the girl in the forest with mud on her face, and wondered what she would say to see her ascension.
Miriam hoped that Harding understood just how far she'd come. She hoped that she was proud.
So, Miriam flew until she felt the shadows start to give way. She flew until she was entirely material again, until she fell to the deck of the ship on her knees, vision swimming. Rosamund alighted beside her, a woman now as much as Miriam was; Miriam craned her head to look up at her.
You win,' Miriam said. Much joy should it give you. The pact is still nearly complete.'
Rosamund smiled tightly. Yes, it is,' she replied. She offered Miriam a hand, helping her stand.
You fly well,' Miriam told her, vision swimming.
As do you.' Rosamund stepped closer, cupped her cheek with her palm. Will you miss me, once I'm gone?'
Of course. I've told you I will.'
But you won't spare me.'
I can't,' Miriam said. There was a gnawing inside her belly: the pact begging its due. She was hungry. She had waited centuries for this.
Rosamund's palm slid downward, towards Miriam's chest. She rested her fingers in the hollow of her throat, pressing the heel of her hand into her sternum. Whoever made you, they made you empty. That's why you aren't human; why you're a shadow.'
Yes.'
But you do have a soul, Miriam,' Rosamund said, with the gentle tone of someone instructing a child. Everyone does. You wouldn't love me if you didn't. You wouldn't feel anything at all.'
No,' Miriam said, automatically. She had made her assumptions, when she was born, and to reconsider them now seemed ludicrous. What need did she have of something so human? I am a shadow, I am soulless; that is how my creators made me.'
Rosamund shook her head. I don't think so. I think you have a soul made of darkness, instead of light. That's why you are so hungry for light in the first place: you need it to cast the shadow your soul is made of.'
Souls were a weakness, the distinction between prey and predator—something to be reaped, to be consumed.
There was something revolting, something unnatural, about the idea that she could have one of her own.
No,' she said again, even as the idea took root, insidious and somehow feasible, despite it all. No, it can't be. It—it can't.'
Just because you believe you're a monster doesn't make you one.'
Why does it matter?'
It matters,' Rosamund said, because it's what will save me.'
Miriam's eyes narrowed. She tried to take a step back—she couldn't. When she looked down, she saw a thin line of sea salt surrounding her feet. How…'
The wind drew it for me, while we were flying. This is my storm, Miriam, not yours.'
What—what are you doing?'
It's a ritual,' Rosamund said. One that poor Thomas Harding wanted to attempt, all those years ago, before you reduced his wife to dust. I needed to empower myself for it—I had to give so much of myself away—but it should work. It has to work.'
Miriam said, both incredulous and pleading, You can't undo the pact. It's impossible.'
I don't intend to,' Rosamund replied. And then she began to glow.
A strange, tearing sensation started in Miriam's chest. She tried to flinch away, but all her power was spent. She could no longer become immaterial, no longer step into the darkness.
Rosamund,' Miriam gasped. I don't understand. What are you doing?'
Don't worry, Miriam. I made a promise, centuries ago: one I mean to keep. My soul will be yours.'
A searing light surrounded them, so bright it was blinding, that Miriam's vision was made white as snow. She felt pain, real pain, a pain so intense she couldn't speak, couldn't scream. Distantly, she could hear the wind roaring, the crack of thunder.
And yours will be mine,' Rosamund said.