The Story Sisters

Elv didn’t pay them the least bit of attention, not even when they stole the cakes off her plate. In the faerie world, the old Queen was dying; she was a thousand years old. She had summoned Elv to her side. Which of the three is the bravest? She who has no fear of what is wicked is the only one who is worthy. She alone will follow me and be our Queen.

The girls’ mothers were enjoying martinis while discussing their divorces. Why not be brave, indeed. It was the perfect time to sneak out. The city was waiting, and the Story sisters had the chance to be on their own in Manhattan, a rare circumstance. They let Mary tag along. She was their cousin, after all, even though she was so serious and dour. Now she endeared herself to them by saying, “Let’s split like pea soup.” She was so corny and honest, they laughed and grabbed her and brought her along.

Once they got past the doorman, the girls made a mad dash for the park. They were all giggling, even Mary, who had apparently never jaywalked before. “We’re going to get arrested!” she cried, but she galloped across the street without bothering to look both ways. They all loved New York. The pale afternoon light, the stone walls around the park, the radiant freedom. They threw their arms into the air and turned in circles until they were dizzy. They shouted “Hallelujah!” at the top of their lungs, even Mary, who’d been an atheist from the age of five.

When they settled down, the girls noticed that Elv had wandered off. She was walking toward the horses. Some of them had garlands of fake flowers around their heads. They wore blinders, and heavy woolen blankets were draped over their backs. They seemed dusty, as if they’d been housed in a garage at night rather than in a stable. The air smelled like horseflesh and gasoline. The other girls would have been happy to dart down the stairs and head for the zoo or the fountain, but Elv lingered, eyeing the horses. She had thoughts no one else had. She alone could see what they could not. When she narrowed her eyes, all that was wicked in the world appeared, exactly as the Queen had predicted. It was like a scrim of black ink spread across the earth and sky.

Elv saw past the luminous now into the murky center of the what could be. Would anyone else at the party have seen how tired and beaten down the horses were? Most people looked at what was right in front of them. A glass of champagne. A dance floor. A piece of cake. That was all they knew, the confines of the everyday world.

A couple got into the first carriage in line. They were on their honeymoon, arms draped over each other. The driver whistled, then clucked his tongue. He tugged on the reins. The horse, resigned, began to move. One of his legs seemed wobbly.

“This is animal cruelty,” Elv said. Her voice sounded far away. She had the desire to cut off the hansom driver’s hands and nail them to a tree. That was what happened in fairy tales. Evil men were punished. The good and the true were set free. But sometimes the hero was disguised or disfigured. He wore a mask, a cloak, a lion’s face. You had to see inside, to his beating heart. You had to see what no one else could.

The next horse on line looked the worst, old and dilapidated. He kept lifting one hoof and then the other, as if the asphalt of the city street caused him pain. He wore a straw hat, and somehow that was the saddest thing of all.

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned about a bunch of fleabags,” Mary Fox huffed. “There are human beings starving to death all over the world. There are homeless people who wish they had as much to eat as these horses.”

Elv’s beautiful face was indignant. She flushed. She spoke to her sisters in Arnish, something she rarely did in front of outsiders. “Ca bell na.” She knows nothing.

“Amicus verus est rara avis,” Mary shot back. She was vaguely insulted that she hadn’t been included in the invention of Arnish. “That’s Latin,” she added. “FYI.”

The old horse on line was foaming at the mouth. There was a river of noise on Central Park South. The driver snapped his whip.

“Ca brava me seen arra?” Elv said softly. Who among us has the courage to do the right thing? “Alla reuna monte?” How can we save him?

Elv was the dancer, Meg was the student, but Claire was the one who knew how to ride. She had been attending classes at a stable not far from their house. Her instructor had said she was a natural. Elv and Claire exchanged a look. They could communicate without speaking. Exactly as they had in the horrible man’s car. In Arnelle, it was possible to read each other’s thoughts, especially if the other person was your sister. Your own flesh and blood.

The owner of the hansom was busy talking to the driver behind him. They were both lighting up cigarettes. There was blue-black exhaust in the air as taxis and cars sped by.

Elv went up to the men.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Both men turned and looked her up and down. She was gorgeous, a peach.

“Did you ever hear the story about a princess the enemy tried to capture?” Elv said. Her voice sounded funny—but she went on. “The princess got away, but they captured her horse instead.” This was the way all the best stories started, in a country nearby, a world full of human treachery.

“Oh yeah?” The driver of the hansom drawn by the old horse with the straw hat signaled her over. “Why don’t you come closer and tell me about it.”

The men laughed. Elv took three steps nearer. Three was a safe number. There were three sisters, three beds in their room, three coats in their closet, three pairs of boots on the floor. The smell of horseflesh made her feel sick. Her throat was dry. The second driver had his lunch in front of him. A hero sandwich wrapped in brown paper. Elv’s mother had been the one to tell her the story of the loyal horse in their garden one night. It was one of the old Russian stories that never shied away from cruelty. Are you sure you want to hear it? Annie had asked. It’s such a sad story. There had been white moths fluttering around the tent they’d set up. The other little girls were upstairs, asleep in their beds. Oh yes, please, Elv had said.

“They burned him and stripped him of his flesh,” Elv went on. “They cooked him in a cauldron. Then they nailed his skull to a wall.”

“That’s not a very nice story.” The second driver clucked his tongue.

“Come on closer. I’ll tell you a story,” the driver of the bad hansom urged. “I’ve got a much better story for you.”

Elv looked at them coolly, even though she felt a wave of dread. If they knew she was nervous, she’d be at their mercy. But if they thought she was ice, they’d be afraid to touch her. “Later, they tricked the princess and trapped her in a garden maze. But she made her escape because the skull spoke to her. Run away, it told her. Run as fast as you can.”

No one noticed that Claire had gone up to the carriage horse. The horse snorted, surprised to have been approached by a stranger, skittish until Claire opened the napkin filled with petits fours she’d taken from the party. At the stable down the road in North Point Harbor, the horses crowded around for carrots, but Claire knew they preferred the oatmeal cookies she often had in her pockets. The old carriage horse seemed to appreciate the French pastries he was offered.

The driver’s attention was still diverted, so Claire went around to the steps and climbed into the carriage. She didn’t know what she was doing, but that didn’t stop her. She was thinking about animal cruelty, and ribs showing under the skin, and the way those men were looking at her sister. She had never been brave in all her life. Now she had the definite sense that something was ending, and something was beginning. Maybe that’s why her hands were shaking. Maybe that was why she felt she had already become a different person than she’d been that morning.

Claire had never even been in a hansom cab, although she’d ridden in a horse-drawn sleigh in Vermont. Last winter, their mother had taken them to an inn where there was a cider festival. It was supposed to be a fun getaway, but the local teenagers mocked them. The ringleader, a skinny boy who was nearly six feet tall, had called Meg an ugly bitch. He’d gone to grab her hat, but Elv had come up behind him. She kicked him so hard he’d squealed in pain and doubled over. “Now who’s the bitch!” she had cried. They’d had to run back to the barn where their mother was waiting, wondering where they’d disappeared to. They’d been laughing and gasping, exhilarated and terrified by Elv’s daring.

Claire thought it would be difficult, maybe even impossible, to figure out the particulars of the carriage, and she’d have to struggle to get it to work, but as soon as she picked up the reins, the horse started off. Maybe it was her light touch, or perhaps the old horse knew he was being rescued; either way he took the opportunity to flee, not slowly clip-clopping like the previous horse and carriage. He took off at a trot. Claire felt light-headed. Horns honked and the carriage jostled up and down precariously, wooden wheels clacking.

The driver turned from Elv to see his carriage disappearing down the road. He took off running, even though it was impossible to catch up. On the sidewalk, Elv leaped up and down, applauding. “Yes!” she cried out. She wanted the horse to run as fast as it could. She felt alive and free and powerful. They had made their plan in absolute silence, that was how deeply she and Claire knew each other.

Meg and Mary Fox watched, stunned. The horse was at a full gallop now. Runners and cyclists scattered. The carriage was shaking, as though it might spring apart into a pile of wood and nails.

It took all of Claire’s strength to hold on to the reins. She remembered the number one rule her riding instructor had told her. Never let go, not under any circumstances. She could feel the leather straps cutting into her hands as she was tossed up and down on the seat. There was an upholstered pillow, but underneath there was only a plank of wood that hit against her tailbone. Maybe she should have been more frightened, but she had the impression the horse knew where he was going. He’d probably been along this same route a thousand times. Everything was a blur. There were sirens in the distance, blending together into a single stream of noise. Claire had never felt so calm. She had the sensation of floating, of following destiny in some way.

“Good boy,” Claire called, although she doubted the horse could hear her. Everything was so noisy. He was running and the air was rushing by. The horse had kept to the asphalt path, but he suddenly veered onto the grass. There was a big bump as they went over the curb. Claire could barely breathe, but she held tight to the reins. It was quieter on the grass. Everything smelled fresh and green. Now Elv would be proud of her. Now she would be the one to make the sacrifice, save the day.

Se nom brava gig, Elv would say. You are my brave sister.

Slats from the carriage were falling off, leaving a trail in the grass. They had almost reached the reservoir. That’s where the horse seemed to be heading. When they arrived, Claire hoped he would stop and drink. Everything would be fine then. She was certain of it. Maybe they could take him home, to the stables out on Long Island. She could bring him special treats every day, and he could be happy, and they could be too.

Mary Fox dashed back to the Plaza to look for her mother. She ran so fast that she began to have an asthma attack. She stopped when at last she reached the ballroom door. By then she was gasping. Tears were steaming down her face and she was shaking. Seeing Mary in such a state was shocking. Everyone knew her as logical Mary who read medical journals for fun. Now she seemed transformed. Her hair was straggly, her face ashen.

“Hurry!” she cried. Her voice sounded childlike, reedy. “It’s life or death!”

The girls’ grandfather, so recently ill, was taken home by Elise, who also had Mary in tow, her inhaler already in use. Madame Cohen was taken to her hotel by their uncle Nat so that she wouldn’t get the wrong impression of Americans and their dramas. Still, Madame Cohen worried about the Story sisters, especially the eldest, who had the misfortune of being too beautiful and had a far-off look in her eyes. Madame Cohen had seen what could happen to girls like that; they were picked off like fruit on a tree, devoured by blackbirds. No one liked to hear bad news, but she would have to warn Natalia. She would have to tell her to look more carefully at her eldest granddaughter. She would tell her to look inside.

PEOPLE GATHERED IN ragged groups outside the Plaza, hailing cabs, wondering how the day had gone so wrong. Annie and the girls’ grandmother raced to the line of carriage horses. When they explained to a policeman what had happened, he quickly called for a squad car. Everything seemed to be going at a different speed. Time was in fast-forward. At least the other girls were safe, running over to their mother and grandmother at the entrance into the park. Meg looked pale, but there was bright color in Elv’s cheeks.

When the police cruiser pulled up, Meg got in alongside her grandmother. She felt irresponsible and scared. She should have watched over Claire. Something had gone terribly wrong and she hadn’t done a thing to help.

Elv came to stand beside the squad car. There was green pollen in her hair. She looked shimmery and hot. Everything she touched smelled burned, like marshmallows held too long over a bonfire. “I hope that driver gets put in jail for a thousand years,” she said. Her voice was powerful, as though she were reciting a curse.

Annie felt a chill. Elv was always at the center of things, gathering the other girls around her. “Whose idea was this? Yours?”

Elv narrowed her green eyes. “It was animal cruelty.”

“Get in the car,” Annie told her. “We don’t have time to discuss it.”

Elv climbed into the back of the police car, sitting in the middle beside her sister, so crammed in she was practically on Meg’s lap. The cruiser took off through the park, siren blaring. All the windows were rolled down. The wind whipped through with such force that it stung. Elv wished they could go even faster. She liked the way her heart felt, thumping against her chest. As for Meg, she kept her fingers crossed and held her head down. She said a silent prayer. She couldn’t bear for anything bad to happen to Claire, who always put others first, even an old horse she’d never seen before.

Midway through the park they spied the horse, galloping at full speed. He didn’t look old, like skin and bones. He looked as if nothing could stop him. A patrol car was racing alongside of him, keeping pace. An officer who was a marksman took a shot from the window of the car. One shot and the horse stumbled. Another, and he fell with a crash. The carriage went up and nearly vaulted over him before it stopped, shuddering. For Claire, it was like a ride at an amusement park, one where your heart is in your throat, only this time it stayed there. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth her heart would fall onto the grass. She was still holding the reins. Both of her arms were broken. She didn’t know that yet. She was in shock. She didn’t see the horse anymore. Maybe he had gone on running. Perhaps he’d had made it to the reservoir and was drinking cool green water. But when Claire pulled herself up, she glimpsed the heap on the ground in front of her. She was fairly certain she could see his chest moving up and down. She thought he might still be alive, but she was mistaken.

The officers from three squad cars came racing over. Claire still wouldn’t let go of the reins. An ambulance had pulled up and one of the EMT crew members came to talk to her. “Just let me unwrap them,” he said. He would be careful, he promised, and it wouldn’t hurt. But Claire shook her head. She knew it would hurt. She could still hear the clattering sound of the racing carriage through the quiet. She would hear it for a long time. A dappled light came through the trees and spread like lace along the ground. She smelled something hot and thick. Even though she’d never breathed in that scent before, she knew it was blood.

The girls’ mother and grandmother were ushered from the police cruiser to the fallen carriage. The other Story sisters were told to stay where they were. They were too young to see what was before them. Death, broken bones, a trail of blood. But as soon as Annie and Natalia were across the lawn, Elv darted out.

“Come on,” she urged Meg.

“We’re supposed to stay here,” Meg reminded her.