The Unbecoming of Belinda Blackwell

There are few places Belinda Blackwell likes to lay down to rest more than upon her husband’s chest. 

He hadn’t been expecting her. Belinda hadn’t been expecting to be home so soon, either– what with the unpredictability of her father’s illness demanding open schedules from his children, someone on-call at all times lest the old man die without one of them there to hold his hand. When Oscar had come to join them a week early— something about a case closing timely and a stiffening in his shoulders when Belinda enquired about her sister-in-law— she pounced on the opportunity to bid her brother and father adieu and return early to the husband she so desperately missed. 

Finding Etienne still tangled in their bed covers, she had stripped down to her chemise and crawled atop him slowly. He had thrashed hard upon stirring and finding her there, his eyes foggy with confusion and fright, but she had kissed his face and rubbed his arms, whispering “It’s me, it’s only me” until he relaxed back into the sheets. 

Now they rest quietly, teetering on the line between half-asleep and half-awake, Belinda’s ear pressed to Etienne’s chest to hear the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. 

“Well, I’m glad Oscar will be with him,” Etienne says appeasingly, having listened in silence to her stories from London. 

“Mmm. I think it will do him as much good as father. He seemed like he could use some time away.”

“Away from what?”

“I’m not sure…” Belinda plays with a loose thread on Etienne’s nightshirt. “I feel bad saying away from his wife, but all signs point to it being the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when I brought her up, but he wouldn’t tell me anything specific.” 

Etienne’s hand tightens where it rests on the nape of her neck. “Then I hope that time will serve them both well.” 

“I do, too.”

She tilts her head to observe the strong profile of her husband’s nose. “And you?” she teases, “Has time away from me served you well?”

“All I managed to accomplish was missing my wife.” He tucks his chin to look down at her. “Though I have been doing some research in your absence.” 

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” The entire walk to their chambers was an obstacle course of books and journals on every table top and cast aside in the middle of the hallway like he had thrown them down as he was walking. And before that, there was the cook coming to greet her in the foyer with concerns of her husband’s increasingly strange demands while Belinda was away– his supposed need for rabbit hearts and pitchers of salt water, bunches of fresh rosemary left to dry on the windowsill for exactly thirty six hours and demands of her and the housemaid to not disturb him when his doors are closed, certain tasks he’d undertaken where it was vital he not be interrupted. 

For the sake of goodwill, she gave them both the rest of the morning off. 

Belinda knows of her husband’s beliefs— glimpses into a world of ritual and wardship, studies of augury and communion and necromancy that he prefers she not get too close to.

Etienne shifts underneath her, and she reads discomfort in his movements. She strokes a hand down his cheek so he knows not to be ashamed of it all on her behalf. “What has prompted it? Have I come to see you while I was gone?” 

He’s told her, too, of the spirit that haunts him– the one that looks just like her, that follows him around the house and watches him from doorways and windows and stares at him unblinking, stares at him like he’s done something unforgivable. Belinda has never seen herself, and Etienne claims the spirit has never appeared while she’s in the house. 

She fretted for days over having to leave him when word of her father’s illness arrived, knowing what it might invite back into Etienne’s life, but there was no getting around the trip and besides, Etienne had sworn his confidence that that time was behind them. 

It would appear that he’d spoken too soon. 

His eyebrows tick up at the middle, like he’s attempting to contain his emotion. “I thought it was over,” he whispers. “It’s been so long. I feel like a fool, letting my guard down as I have been.” 

A deep ache swells behind Belinda’s ribcage. She squeezes Etienne tighter. “You’ve been happy. It’s not foolish to hope. What have you found?” 

“There is a ritual. One for banishment. I have been completing the prerequisite steps over the past week.” 

“Oh?” Belinda struggles to understand. 

“Yes. There is only one step left to do. It won’t be easy.” His fingers flex against her back, a signal that he is thinking hard. He seems to choose his words carefully. “The act won’t be physically challenging, but I fear the toll it will have on my heart and constitution.” 

Belinda frowns. “It sounds taxing. Are you sure this is the only way?” 

She considers not for the first time bringing up the possibility of relocation– abandoning this home that torments him so in favor of a fresh start, a life away from paranoia and body doubles she can’t see.

Before she can muster up the right words, he’s saying, “It will be worth it. I want to do it. I want my Belinda to be the only Belinda in my life.” 

She smothers a grin against the column of his throat. “I’d quite like that as well.” 

Etienne is quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t pretend it isn’t terrible. But it is necessary, too. I want my wife to have a good life, and I need to be better to give one to her. I need to be rid of this.” 

A strong rush of affection surges through Belinda. Oh, she loves this man something awful. She’d follow him into Hell. “Then you will be brave. And you will be successful.” 

She rises and falls with the depth of Etienne’s answering sigh. “You sound so much like her,” he mutters. 

“Like who?” she asks.

“Like Belinda.” 

Belinda’s thumb falters where it was rubbing a soothing path along his collarbone. “What?” A giggle bubbles out of her, confusion mingling with sleepy amusement. 

“It’s uncanny. You’ve never been this good before.” He doesn’t seem to register her stiffening, or he does and ignores it. “You’ve never come to me like this, lay upon me like this. You must know what I’m going to do.” 

“Etienne–”

“It won’t work.” Etienne raises his voice, speaking over her. “I won’t let it.”

Belinda lifts her head to look her husband in the eyes. A coldness cracks through her when she sees the resolution in his face. 

“Etienne, I don’t…” Her voice breaks off into a scared whisper. “It’s me.” 

He shakes his head. “My wife knows me better than this. She tells me when to expect her. You’ve misjudged. I know you’re not really her this time.” 

Belinda curses her attempt at being romantic. He thinks she's haunting him, not surprising him. She's never been so near him when he's in the middle of one of these supposed spectral visits. It's sobering. It's frightening.

She tries to sit up, and grunts when Etienne uses his hand on her neck to ease her back down again. His hold is strong– not enough to hurt, but in her shock, she goes easy. 

Etienne’s mouth is at her ear. “My wife is not to be home for a few days yet. By then, all of this will be dealt with and done. It will be like it never happened. She won’t have any part of it. She will not have such a weak, nervous husband.” His voice shakes. “I will keep her safe.”

It’s all the warning Belinda gets before the knife is plunged into her back.  

She jerks violently. Pain whips through her, fast and brutal. 

It’s like someone has dumped a full basin of water over her. 

No. No, the sensation is real and it’s not water, it’s blood, hot and wet and slick and spreading fast, sticking her chemise to her skin.

She frantically shoves herself up, grappling for a place on her back she can’t reach, too low for the arm she stretches over her shoulder, too high for the one she stretches under. She arches, incapacitated by the pain, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto rocks, gasping into air that isn’t helping her situation, feeling inches from death. The knife digs into her shifting skin– or is her skin digging into the knife?– the awful, writhing, sawing sensation ripping through her. She's never been stabbed before, but this cannot be normal. Flashes of rabbit hearts and salt come to her, and no, of course this isn't normal. Not by Etienne's design. 

She hunches, trying to scramble away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go that it doesn’t follow. She shoves her face into the pillow beside her husband’s stunned face, her hands fisting at the sheets. 

Etienne grips her hips tight. “...Belinda?” 

She can only answer with a whimper. She’s trembling so hard she can barely open her mouth anymore for how hard her teeth chatter. 

“No.” Etienne pushes against her shoulders. She doesn’t understand what he wants. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Dear God, no.”

His touch moves to her face, and he wrenches her head back with his hands shoved up into her hair. “Belinda.” He jams his fingers under her jaw, ignoring her choking, feeling for something. Upon finding it, his face goes white. “Belinda.” Again, more urgently, wrestling to sit them both upright. “Belinda.” 

It’s all coming to her in flashes– the horrible red smear on Etienne’s cheek, the wetness that’s dripping down the back of her legs, the sudden realization that she can’t support herself. She slumps against Etienne. 

Dazedly, she thinks of her parents, of all the men they’d wanted her to marry. A parade of surgeons and doctors with their deep pockets and upturned noses. Professionals who would know what to do with a gaping wound, professionals she had rejected for the love of a poet, her poet, who had nothing to offer but a quiet life and endless adoration. 

Etienne cradles her against him, rocking them back and forth. He's sobbing. “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were the specter. Please believe me. Oh God, please forgive me.” 

He sounds wrecked. Belinda wants to comfort him, but she can’t pick her head up. 

Then darkness clouds her vision, and she can’t do anything at all anymore. 

— — —

Belinda blinks awake. 

The ground is uncomfortable beneath her back. What is she doing on the ground? 

Etienne is kneeling by her side, head in his hands. There’s something red all over his hands. Belinda pushes herself up, reaching out to touch Etienne’s knee. 

He jolts at the barest brush of her fingers. “Belinda.” He sounds relieved. He yanks her forward and she goes crashing against his chest. 

Why is his heart beating so fast? That red substance on his hands is getting all over her now, staining her crisp white chemise. Why does it smell so strongly of metal?

Her head feels fuzzy. 

Really, why is she on the ground? A moment ago, she was laying in bed, gossiping with Etienne about her brother’s marriage. Did she fall out of bed? Did she hit her head? Is that why everything feels so… Off? 

“I’m sorry…” she murmurs slowly. “I'm not sure what happened. Did I fall?”

“You…” Etienne is shaking. She must have really scared him. “I fixed it. It’s alright.” 

“Fixed what? How long was I out?” 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re alright. It’s all alright now.” 

Belinda frowns. “Etienne, is my head bleeding?” 

He winces. “What? Why are you asking me that?”  

“Blood.” She can’t think of anything else to say. She should get a cloth, something to clean him with. 

She pushes away from him, bracing against the edge of the mattress to stand. Her hand sinks into something cold and wet. 

Before she can search for the source of it, Etienne pitches forward, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her to look back at him. It makes her head spin. 

“Don’t look,” he says. He sounds gravely serious. 

Belinda’s heart stutters. “What?” 

“Don’t look.” 

Like a petulant child, Belinda can’t stop herself. She’s wriggling out of his grip before he can stop her again, ignoring his cry, turning to look at herself laying dead in a mess of blood on the bed. 

Herself. On the bed. Blood. 

All air leaves her. 

She jerks to her feet, stumbling backwards. She can’t look away. She’s just laying there– her hair stuck to her forehead and her chemise soaked through with red. Her eyes are still open. 

Behind her, Etienne remains on the ground. His voice is low, thick with grief. “There was an accident. I did what I had to. To fix it.” 

“What…” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. She doesn’t even know what to ask. She can’t look away. 

“I didn’t know if it would work. I had only read about the ritual. I’ve never attempted it. But the journals said I could comb through time, and bring something back with me." He looks up. "I brought you.” 

Belinda’s stomach turns. Etienne's face is wet with tears. Where is she? “You brought me… From the past?” 

“From before the accident. Yes. It was the only way. You were already gone—” his voice breaks, and he hangs his head. His shoulders are shaking. 

Belinda looks at him. She looks at herself. “But… What of the Etienne in the past? Are you the same as him?” 

“Our paths have diverged,” he says gravely.

“Well. Then. What of that Etienne? Is he all alone now? How must he feel, having just had his wife taken from him?” 

Etienne shudders, his eyes darkening. “I know how he feels.” 

For some reason, that’s what does Belinda in. Her stomach lurches and she stumbles to the lavatory, shoving the door closed behind her before retching into the sink. Nothing comes up. It makes her feel worse. 

She looks up into the mirror. Yes, that’s her face staring back at her with wide eyes and tangled hair. But yes, that was her face, too, staring back at her from the bed. It feels like dying just to think of it. She can’t imagine what dying must really feel like, can’t imagine how anything can be worse than this terror that’s seizing her insides. 

Etienne’s voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled and pleading. “Please. I didn’t want this. All I wanted was you.” 

He nudges at the door, like a dog desperate to get in. 

She staggers over to open it. Etienne is still on his knees, still on the ground. When the door is open wide enough, he drags himself forward with his fingernails digging into the wood floor. 

He bends low to kiss her ankles. She closes her eyes tight at the sensation. 

“My love. My life.” His tears drip onto her foot. “I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.” 

What did you do? A voice in her head begs her to ask.

And somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere inside her that already knows— somewhere she can’t reach, is asking, Which part do you regret?

— — —

They bury Belinda in the garden. 

Belinda watches numbly while Etienne strips that other-her from the bloody chemise, re-dressing her in something soft and clean. He gathers her hair and fastens it into a braid to keep it off her face, and his touch is so gentle and reverential that this time when Belinda excuses herself to retch into the sink, she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. 

Belinda gets dressed herself, tugging on a gown, though her hands shake so hard that Etienne has to help her with the fastenings. 

She follows behind Etienne and stares at her own face, lax where it rests against her husband’s— their husband’s?— shoulder as he carries her down the stairs and out the backdoor. Is that what she looks like when she sleeps? 

They leave the bloody mattress as it is, for the housemaid to find. 

“We’ll say you were with child,” Etienne had said, not meeting her gaze. “They won’t ask questions if they believe you lost something.”

Etienne is right, as he tends to be. When Belinda retires inside hours later, the silent vigil over the little upturned patch of dirt beneath her favorite tree becoming too much for her to bear, the housemaid, Miss Clarke, is already waiting for her, wringing her hands in the hallway. All it takes is just enough performance of Belinda’s averted eyes and a hand pressed to her stomach for Miss Clarke's face to drop. She coos sympathetically, fussing over Belinda so tenderly that Belinda is weeping before she can hold herself back. 

“We buried her in the garden,” Belinda croaks. 

“All by yourselves, ma’am?” Miss Clarke asks, sounding surprised. 

“We couldn’t bear to leave her.” Belinda says, and now she’s telling the truth. Then, she tells another. “I don’t know what happened.” 

— — —

Belinda looks out from their bedchamber, trying to ignore the sharp smell of vinegar and lemon, the bed stripped of its linens behind her, the way the mattress has been flipped. 

She watches Etienne as the sky goes from blue to orange. Hours pass and still he remains, bent over the grave of his dead wife while his wife watches over him. 

After what feels like an eternity, he rises, stretching his arms. He turns, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look back up at the house. 

Belinda tries not to notice how he flinches when he spots her, feeling like a specter in the window.