Nightshade (Sorrowsong University, #1)

by Autumn Woods

“I get you’re independent. And now more than ever, I see why. But there’s nothing you could say that would put me off you. I’m serious about this, Ophelia. Serious about us.”

“How did they die?”

“They died in a helicopter crash.” Somewhere, puzzle pieces start to clip together. Her fear of helicopters, her refusal to fly anywhere, her avoidance of all questions related to her family. Her hatred of me from day one. Oh my god.

“It was a Green helicopter, wasn’t it? The one that crashed into the valley?” “I hate you,” she whispers, tears running over her lips. The tinge of color that was in her face fades to white. “You know about it already. You knew people died and you let him cover it up. I hate you and I love you, but I hate you more.” “Ophelia. Fuck.”

“Ophelia, I am so sorry.” “You’re sorry,”

“You’re sorry? I was supposed to be there for them, Alex. I was supposed to hold their wrinkled hands and remind them what day it is and watch them succumb to age. I was supposed to come here for Christmas and watch them fight over the vegetables and fall asleep on the sofa, and your father took that from me. And you knew. And your mother knew. And all the people around him knew what he was doing, and you all looked away.” “That’s not—I didn’t know about it until after it had happened.”

Two gentle hands lift my chin, a pair of small feet stepping either side of my knees. She looks like an angel. My angel. “I didn’t mean to blame you,” she whispers. “I know the blame lies with one person and one person alone.”

“My life stopped four years ago,” she says, breaking the fragile silence. “I used to read. I used to bake cakes and make pottery. I used to have a friendship group. I gave up on it all the day they died. I only swam because the lake was so cold, I couldn’t think about anything else. Your father buried their deaths. Erased all trace of them, sent out a hundred NDAs to a hundred of the right people.” Her next breath is a shudder. “I didn’t get support from anyone. Didn’t get financial support, or council support, because there was no record they’d died. The house was bought out by your father’s company and gifted to me, but I was completely alone. No newspaper wanted to hear about it, no journalist would risk crossing your father. I couldn’t bring myself to go to school, didn’t sit my exams. I wanted to be a psychologist, but no universities had a place for a girl who didn’t finish school.”

“Everything about my life is just silent. Stagnant.” I run the bristles of a hairbrush down the wet skin of her back, just how she likes. “You won’t know silence like this again. I’ll fill each second until our last.”

“Then I’ll love you with the same intensity that you hate me. I’ll hold on to you just as hard as you push me away. I’ll fix you like you’re fixing me. I’ll always be here, Ophelia, I’ll sit at the bottom of valleys and stand on the top of mountains with you. We’re too good not to work.”

“I know you, love. I see you and I know you.” I lather the impossibly long, ginger strands with the soap. “I know you get so mad when you can’t get one across in your crosswords. I know your favorite book is The Great Gatsby. I know you’re quiet because it’s easier than putting yourself out on the line. I know that time spent with Colette and the other girls makes you happy in a way I could never fulfill. I now know you turn your mirrors around because you remind yourself of your mother. I know you, Ophelia, and it’s a privilege.” “It’s scary to be known,” she mumbles. I get that. I feel it too. Ophelia has me in her hands, and that’s terrifying. “Don’t break my heart. It’s fragile.” “I promise not to,”

“Good girl, begging for me.”

“I was worried you’d leave me,” she whispers. “When you realized I’d hidden it from you all this time.” Fuck it. Maybe it’s too soon, maybe I am emotionally underdeveloped, but I don’t care. “I’m not going to leave you, Ophelia. I love you. And I know you’re not ready to say it back, and I understand why. But I love you in ways I’ve never loved anyone before. My mind has been this shitty shade of gray for so long, and now there’s this little thread of auburn copper.” I wrap a lock of hair around my finger. “This little orange strand runs through the gray like a ray of hope. I love every piece of you, especially the parts that you’ve convinced yourself aren’t worthy of my love.”

We head into the other bedroom, a larger, empty room with a double bed. I don’t need to ask why she doesn’t use it. She squats down beside a pile of neatly packed boxes. Each one has a small note in her neat handwriting. Mum’s clothes. Dad’s clothes. Board games. I have a new respect for Ophelia. In fact, it goes beyond respect and into reverence. I imagine a seventeen-year-old girl boxing up all of her parents’ possessions alone. It’s a miracle she’s still here and breathing.

“Is this yours, too? And the Rolls and the other one in London? Why’d you need three cars in a country you don’t even live in for half the year?” “Calm down, Twist. This one is a rental. I do like it, though. I might get one to keep at university. Would be nice to have somewhere to rail you that has working lightbulbs.” He cocks his head at me. “Did I say that last bit out loud?” “Can’t tell, I was busy staring at your ass.”

Alex slides into the driver’s seat, handing me his phone to put some music on. I do just that, and take an ugly close-up selfie on it too. He grins and sets it as his lock screen, pulling the car away into the night.

“John, I have a very hungry, very grumpy woman here.” “I don’t envy you, lad.” “One portion of fries for her, I’m begging you.” My mouth waters. I would love some chips right now. “I’ve already locked up, mate. Sorry.” Alex pulls a giant wad of cash from the glove box. I’m practically hugging myself with elation. He loves me. “Name your price. Any price.”

“Bastard charged me twenty quid to borrow his kettle.” “Because you sound American.” “Well, my American friends tell me I sound French, my French friends tell me I sound English, and my British friends tell me I sound American.”

“I’m a virgin,” I blurt out abruptly. Thanks, brain. He nods, swallowing his mouthful with a fond smile. “Cool. I’m not.” I nod right back, like one of those dashboard figurines with the wobbly heads. “Cool. Cool, cool. Nice. Good for you, I mean. Get in there, man.” Get in there?

“And I haven’t shaved my legs yet.” “I should bloody well hope not. You need all the help you can get in that fucking house.” He eats the last mouthful of his noodles. “I haven’t shaved mine either.”

You’re a brave woman going near Alex. From Fleur, Mia, Evie, Éléanor, Charlotte, and Josie. “Fleur wrote that tag. Her whole life is dedicated to keeping me humble.” “They got me a present?”

and rapidly try to blink away the tears. I fail miserably. It’s a friendship bracelet. Small and purple and messily homemade. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Alex brushes my tears away with his thumbs. “Mia is desperate to FaceTime you. Actually, they all are.”

a homemade Christmas card, too. It’s a crossword, the word Ophelia running down the middle with the word Alex coming sideways from the end. He’s such a romantic.

“Okay, before you tell me off for the last two, they’re selfish gifts.” “I’m scared now,” I mumble, unwrapping the final two. A MacBook and a pair of noise-canceling AirPods land on my lap. “No.”

“Ophelia, you’re too beautiful a woman for that blurry webcam. It’s not fair on me. It doesn’t do you justice.” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t swooning. The two women inside me have abandoned their constant fighting. They’re on the same team now, bent over with their joggers down. “And the headphones?” “You try untangling those stupid earbuds and you’re in a bad mood for the next four hours. For the sake of my balls, use these.”

holds my present. It looks tiny in his large, veiny hands. “It’s not…it’s in a different league to these.” I motion at my pile of gifts. “Well, I’m excited.” He unwraps it neatly, turning over the small, orange sketchbook. There are fifty pages of premium drawing paper inside, and I’ve written a prompt on each one. Every page is different. Draw something you love. Draw a Georgian window. Design a banquet hall. Design a church spire. Draw something at Sorrowsong.

“My very own Aphrodite.”

“What happened to the best two inches of my life?” He laughs. “Finally replied to those penis extension emails in my spam inbox.”

ALEX HAS BEEN at mine for four nights. Four nights crammed into the smallest single bed known to man. We’re official. Well, he says we’ve been official for a month and a half, but I’m coming to terms with it.

I want to know about one that happened here in Sorrowsong.” His father yawns down the line. “That one was a shame.” I’m so sorry, Alex mouths at me. I’m glued to the bed by my own morbid curiosity, my apparent need to see myself suffer. “Who ordered the hit?” “Me.” “Why?” “Ah, it was complicated. I did feel a little bad.” Alex’s hand tightens around the edge of the mattress. “Who was the intended target?” “A woman, I think. Her and her husband. I can’t recall their names. Annabel…Anna? Something like that. Wasn’t anyone of importance; no one noticed they’d gone in the end, anyway. Probably one of the easiest cleanup jobs I’ve ever done.”

“Who’s the girl, Alex?” I freeze in place as I pace the room. “No one you’d have heard of.” “Lose her.” “I’ll think about it,” he says, shaking his head at me.

Can’t wait for later. Ophelia What’s later? Alex Me, you, the shower, a blindfold. One across. Two words, eight and five. O and P. I’m gonna eat the fuck out of it later. Ophelia Can I blindfold you? Alex Carte blanche, Ophelia. You can do whatever you want to me.

It’s him. It’s Bancroft. Ophelia, you fool.

I want it all with Alex. I want the busy Christmases and the messy kitchens and a basket full of our laundry and I want to wash his hair until the end of time. I scream his name again, in the hope someone, anyone, will hear me. I love him, and I haven’t told him.

“So what does this make us? Study buddies that bury bodies together?” I can’t fight my smile. That feels like a lifetime ago. “The day I bury a body with you, Alex, is the day I’ve lost my mind.” He flutters long, black lashes at me. “You lost your mind, angel?” “I lost it the day I got into your car.”

Listen,” he slaps his palm down on his thigh like a father teaching his son a lesson, “when a hot girl is mean to you, you say thanks. I love mean women.”