Page 11 of The Cannibal

For the first time, the presence of Phoebe and other friends didn’t entirely absolve my reservation that we had targets painted neatly on our backs.

Phoebe reappeared with a chiming glass, a smile as bright as the pearls she wore. The room gathered at the table, preparing to take seats with their respective name cards. One by one, I glanced at the names on the length of the table, my gut sinking the closer I got to the opposite end. Then there it was.

I stood at the head of the table, Phoebe being my opposite.

People began to sit, but I didn’t.

I thumbed over the design of the cup, waiting.

“We are all gathered here, not just for a generous meal but to celebrate a life.” She beamed, her eyes snapped to me, raising her glass. “I am honored to present my oldest, dearest love to the Nest. May the lifeblood embrace you, Alina.”

All raised their glasses, then drank.

I raised the cup to my lips but did not let it touch me. The scent lingered, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Phoebe stared as she drank, eyes sharp from over the rim of the cup. Such intensity could be seen even at our distance.

I simply tipped the cup, then abandoned it at the table while service began.

5

THE POISONER

The only sound in my room the next morning was the shuffling of clothes. Phoebe plucked through piles of dresses, corsets, boots, shoes, skirts, blouses—everything. Each heap, a different flavor of dressings. Her nimble fingers swept through each, dedication that met her standards. But this was a distraction. The twitch in her brow and the slight squint of only her left eye was a tell; something else was agitating her. The excuse to dress me was to mask that this was her way of calming herself.

Something lingered just under the surface, and it was as delicate as dried flowers.

They moved a bureau into the room and some other small furniture items to make the room less bare.

“I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I just kept gathering more.” She raised a dress up, holding it to the light to see the details. She only spared me a glance over the sleeve.

“Does it matter?”

“Fashion has always mattered.” She approached the bed, laying the dress next to me. Her delicate hands smoothed the fabric straight. “It is a language. We have to send the right message.”

“Who dictates the right message?” I tried to keep the conversation playful.

She thought about it and eventually left it unanswered.

“No more black,” she said, “but you can settle for green, a navy if you really can’t pick anything else.”

“I don’t get a mourning period for my own death?” I joked.

“Considering you’ve worn black for at least four years in a row, I think you can take a break.”

A stab to my gut, metaphorically this time.

“Stand.” She gestured, collecting the corset for fitting.

I stood before the new tall mirror they added to my room.

Phoebe’s sharp nails dragged along my shoulder as I was relieved of the nightgown. The soft cotton gathered down my legs as soft as clouds, only covering my feet by the time my skin was exposed to the air completely.

My skin was so pale, the veins were visibly black just beneath the surface. Dark circles weighed under my eyes, despite my six-month rest. Down my abdomen, a white scar. My fingers trembled, the raised blemish still sensitive—or just enticing memories.

She slipped my combination top over my head, as if to push the image of my scar away, then I stepped into the bottoms on my own.

“What happened?” I stared at her through the reflection.