Then—as the shadows within her fell away—Miriam understood. The grimoire had said that salt and water would weaken a demon; the grimoire had given instructions on the swapping of souls. She should have known. She should have known.
It was too late now.
Mortality came to her as a revelation of fire: she felt all the world set itself alight, felt her own life burn from her and then reform, molten.
She was falling apart and then she was together again, but the alignment of herself, her heart and bones and blood and darkness, was different and awful and wrong.
If this was what it was to be born, Miriam wondered that people could ever be frightened of death.
Nothing could be worse than this, the knowledge that you were at the mercy of your own flesh.
Her skin prickled. For the first time, she felt the cold.
She felt the ship rock beneath her, and her stomach lurch in turn.
She felt the thin layer of salt on her hands, the dampness of her clothes, the weight of them.
Her legs trembled. There was a tightness in her chest, and after a moment, she gasped a breath: the relief was immediate.
She needed to breathe. Miriam had never needed to breathe before.
As her vision cleared, she looked at Rosamund.
But she was no longer Rosamund, nor Esther, nor Cybil: she was something else. Her eyes were black and empty, the eyes that studded her arms shimmering with darkness instead of light. When she smiled, the shadows curled themselves possessively around her shoulders.
What have you done?' said Miriam.
You know what I've done,' said Harding. I swapped them: light for darkness. My soul is yours, and the pact is fulfilled.'
Miriam looked down at her chest, at the light there, blazing still. No.'
A witch's soul, at least.' Harding smiled. You haven't lost everything.'
And you—'
I'll use my immortality well; better than you have, at least. After three lifetimes of suffering, I'll appreciate it far more than you ever did.'
No,' Miriam repeated.
Harding said, Yes, my love. And you know something? Fear suits you, too.'
The storm had stopped. The ship creaked beneath them, thunder silenced, clouds above starting to clear.
Miriam said—too stunned to be angry—You can't do this to me.'
I can, and I have.'
You've destroyed me.'
Don't think of it as a destruction. Think of it as—a remaking.
A rebirth.' Harding laughed, tipping her head back.
Her voice echoed, skipped over the water like a stone across the pond; it was the most beautiful thing Miriam had ever heard, the most horrifying.
The same as you gave me, twice before. You should be grateful.'
The icy wind raked itself over Miriam, and she shuddered.
Harding stepped forward and took Miriam's elbow, steering her toward the railing of the deck, facing the prow. Miriam was too numb with shock to resist.
Harding pointed out into the distance. There,' she said. Do you see it?'
Miriam did see it: like stars brought to earth, a collection of tiny lights, scattered by an unseen hand across the horizon.
It was the sort of thing she had seen many times, civilisation at a distance—she soared above all things, stepped away from all things, with such ease; it was difficult to be impressed.
But she could not soar above it now. This was humanity, the thousands, the hundreds of thousands, the millions.
Miriam was not exceptional anymore. She saw the lights of the town and she imagined herself walking among them, peering up at the highest floors of the highest towers, knowing she could not reach them.
And perhaps there was something wonderful about that: the impossibility of it all.
Something mundane was now as magical to her as any pact, any shadow, any soul.
New York,' Harding said. We've arrived. Three hundred and thirty-two years ago, we made a deal. Do you think it was worth it, even now? To have lost your immortality?'
Miriam considered this—for only a moment. Her teeth chattered. She was so cold.
It was horrifying. It was extraordinary.
She said, Yes. It was.'
Harding paused at that. For the first time since her transformation, she looked uncertain.
Enjoy it, then,' she said. Your humanity.'
Then the shadows began to seethe around her, and she started to fade from view.
Wait!' Miriam cried, trying to take hold of the darkness, to pull it back to her—it slipped from her hands, intangible. Wait, please—'
It was too late. Harding was gone.
Miriam gasped once more, pressing herself over the railing.
She was still shaking from the cold, too shocked to cry—she'd never wanted to cry before, but she wanted to now—and all she could think of was Harding's face, Harding's black eyes, the way she had cupped her cheek, had told her she loved her.
I can't do this,' she said to the shadows, and they trembled as if in sympathy.
I can't do this,' she said again, voice louder—a realisation, and somehow a glorious one.
It turned out weakness was beautiful, somehow, that uncertainty was exciting to her in a way that nothing had ever been before.
Miriam couldn't do it: she had no idea who she was, what she was.
She brought her fingers to her lips, tasted the salt of them, felt the warmth of her tongue and the coldness of her skin.
She laughed, panicked and joyous and desperate.
I can't do this without you, Harding. Don't leave me here.
If I must be human to atone, then that is what I'll do.
I'll—I'll welcome it, even. But I can't do this alone. Don't make me do this alone.'
The Atlantic replied with nothing but shrieking gulls.
Please,' Miriam said. Please.' And then she did cry, crying and laughing at the same time, at the cruelty and the perfection of it all. The tears were hot as they streamed down her face, and when she curled her hand around the railing, the metal was unforgiving and immovable.
She stood there until the sun had entirely set, and only then did she accept that no reply was coming.
But when she turned around, Harding was watching her.
She offered Miriam a palm.
Miriam stepped forward, placed her hand in hers. You came back.'
I did. I realised I wanted to. And why shouldn't I have what I want?
' Rosamund pulled her closer and raised herself up on the balls of her feet, pressing a kiss to the corner of Miriam's mouth.
It's lonely, isn't it, Miriam? Being human.
But you don't need to be alone—not anymore. I'll stay with you, if you want.'
Really?'
Of course. There's one way to ensure it.'
Miriam looked into her eyes. They were dark, darker than shadows, and just as difficult to escape.
She could drown in that dark and never see the light again.
How many people had looked into Miriam's eyes and seen the same?
How many of them had carved their names into Miriam's skin?
That soul, now Harding's, had swallowed so many others.
And in Harding's face, Miriam could see the face of every person she had ever consumed: the starving and the broken, the desperate and the tearstained.
Now she realised that some part of her had wanted to be human, just like them.
Since the very moment of her creation, Miriam had playacted as a person, had loved and regretted and hungered for something better.
No one had ever forced her to be a woman. She had chosen to be.
Frog or scorpion, the outcome was the same.
Miriam smiled. Harding smiled back.
Let's make a deal,' she said.