Page 36 of How To Survive This Fairytale
“Oooh, but I’ll get them out of you, one way or another.”
Cyrus winks, and your whole body goes hot.After a moment, you recover just enough to say: “Good luck.”
Cyrus claps his hand to his heart and bursts into delighted laughter.For the first time in—how long?—you smile.A real smile.Not a grimace.Not anything with sorrow or apology in it.A smile with all your shyness.A smile with all the best parts of you.
“Your turn,” you say.“Who would you be if you weren’t who you are?”
“Easy,” he says.“I’d be a bullfighter.”
The idea of this elongated twig of a man fighting bulls makes you guffaw.Soon he joins you, the two of you are laughing together, and it’s just soeasy.This is who I’d want to be if I weren’t who I am, you think.Someone who could make you laugh like this every day.
Soon, the sound of your laughter wanes.He dabs tears from his eyes with his finger.Comfortable silence settles over you, though not for long.
“Gertie could look into breaking your curse,” he says, “if that’s what you want.”
“Not a curse,” you say.“Just magic.”
“Magic that binds you to silence,” he says, “is a curse.”
He looks at you like you should understand this.You sigh and lower your eyes.
“It’s not like what happened to Gertrude.Iagreedto this.And there’s no way out of it.And-–even if it was a curse—I think I’m better off cursed, anyway.”
Cyrus’s gaze softens.
“I understand that feeling,” he says.
When he exhales, his shoulders slope downward.You follow the curve of his neck down his shoulder to where his shirt ends, to where fabric ends and feather begins.So many white feathers, all of them neatly preened, laying against each other in perfect rows.I’m better off cursed.I understand the feeling.
This is where you’re supposed to say something.You’re certain of it.
Except you don’t have words.Just a feeling, in your chest, that this confusing truth he’s offered you means a great deal.Maybe you’re supposed to say something, but saying something would sully it.You both know that silence can hurt, but you both know it has value, too.
He takes a long, contemplative sip from his tea.The idea of drinking it makes the back of your neck break into a sweat.The idea of needing to explain why you’renotdrinking it is enough to nearly make you break out in hives.Mirroring him, you bring the mug to your lips.
You never escaped the gingerbread house.Not really.
Maybe it’s time to try.
Slowly, carefully, slowly, carefully, slowly, slowly, slowly, you take the smallest sip possible.It doesn’t taste like nothing, but it’s as close to nothing assomethingcan be.
What relief you feel.You can bear it.One sip at a time, you can bear it.
Nineteen
Gertrude welcomesyou with an embrace so delicate you might as well be made of glass.She doesn’t hold fast, like Cyrus, or draw you tight against her.She wraps her arms around you, presses her gloved hands to your scapulae, but keeps her body distant, her commitment to this act of affection loose.
“I mourned you,” she says.
When she draws back, the only hint that she feels anything at all is the slight shimmer of wetness in her eyes.
“My seventh brother.”She smoothes her hands over your shoulders.Her white gloves will get dirty, and you suspect she knows this but doesn’t care.“How tall you are.How broad and strong.Not at all the way I remember.”
“I grew up, I’m afraid.”
“Or else you’re not him.”
She folds her hands in front of her navel.