Pearls on a Chain

Isabeau Delacroix was beautiful, even without us to adorn her. She fit into her lacy white wedding gown wonderfully, though she spent the entirety of her time in it wincing at her own reflection, the rouge on her cheeks hiding how utterly devoid of pallor her nervous, little face was.

“My dearest,” Lord Hartgrove IV said, as he’d slipped us around her neck, fastening us to her with a smile so wide it seemed to tear at his mouth, “Gods would fight wars in the heavens for you. You look beautiful, dearest. Smile, for with this necklace, I am promising you will be Lady Hartgrove by the end of this eve.”

Isabeau nodded, mutely fiddling with us, running her fingers along each of us, as if one pearl could be different than the other. We were not. Layers upon layers of identical pearls congregated on Isabeau’s neck, beginning to drape down to the beginnings of her chest.

Her neck was so small, so slender.

She was smaller than any of the previous Lady Hartgroves. We’d been on the necks of three other Lady Hartgrove’s, a family heirloom, three-layered glistening pearls on a chain, presented from a Lord to his Lady, specifically for the wedding day.

We spend the rest of our time in a cold, blue box. We did not ever see any of the Lady Hartgroves outside of their wedding nights. We never got to adorn the neck of someone not pale, someone not flush with youth, someone not highborn.

It was not in us to be anything other than an embellishment, a sign of a contract between our Lord and his soon-to-be-Lady. We are white against white, a chain to compliment the white dress of the bride.

Though, we did not compliment Isabeau. We were large on her. Even clasped to the tightest of our abilities, we still hung loose around her neck, causing her head to droop under the weight of us.

We were not made for Lady Hartgroves of Isabeau’s size. For the first time, we felt wrong on someone. We could barely feel her heartbeat from under us, and didn’t like how her fingers shook as she thumbed us, barely able to look in the mirror.

We wanted her to smile, like the first Lady Hartgrove, one named Clemency, had when Lord Hartgrove I slipped us over her neck, fitting us just-so above her chest. He’d told a story to his soon-to-be wife, about fighting a hydra amidst swirling sea currents to claim us, just so he could have something worthy of her to present on the wedding day.

“I’d break open the sea itself and dig to its core, if that is what it’d take to bring out the beauty I see in you, angel,” the Lord Hartgrove I said, taking his time to touch Clemency’s neck, relishing in the way he could see the blush beneath his fingers.

Clemency had a heartbeat that was steady and quick. Her skin was warm from a flush that traveled from her face to her neck, filling us with a warmth we could not help but love.

It was the first time we’d truly felt warm, felt something so close to life. We spent so long in our velveteen box, waiting to be handled by the sure fingers of lords, though ours had given us a story. A story that elicited warmth that traveled from his bride to us, a heartbeat that gave us a moderate rise and fall from her chest. It was no longer enough to merely be held, admired. Ever since, we have ached for the wedding day, where we could feel the love of our Lady Hartgrove.

We gleamed with the smiling, blushing Clemency. She glowed the whole of her wedding night, and with her, we shone too. It was painful, to part from her, to see her smile one last time as we were unclasped by Lord Hartgrove I and shut in our box.

It was never quite the same, love. It felt different on the second Lady Hartgrove, Lavinia, who was told by a stuttering Lord Hartgrove II, “I p-plucked and s-shaped these stars from the sky for y-you, d-darling.”

We saw a smile on the second Lavinia’s, but it was not the same utter jubilation of Clemency. Her lips were upturned, and she ducked behind a curtain of red hair to hide the way her expression began to crack. She was laughing at the sweaty-handed lord, too busy fumbling to fasten us to notice.

Lavinia replied, “sure, darling,” before admiring us. Her skin was flush, but more so from the physical effort to contain her laughter. Yet, she could not for long, and it rang from her like a bell. We felt it ripple across us in waves, loud and warm and perfect.

It felt like love, though a different sort. The sort that made Lord Hartgrove II blush and stammer, but ultimately crack a bit of a smile too, and a, “I t-think my f-father got these from a traveling m-merchant. If t-that’s the s-story you prefer.”

We glistened with the bride’s laughter. We didn’t even care that we could not definitely state our origin, on account of our earliest memories being of calloused hands and the insides of a velveteen, blue box. We had a day for warmth and love and the feeling of someone alive and beautiful underneath us and that was perfect anyway.

Even the third Lady Hartgrove, Agatha, who wore us with silent contemplation, felt warm enough. Not because of the silent, gruff fastening done by Lord Hartgrove III, but by the way her aging father took her arm, walking her down the aisle. His whispered thanks, so close to us, for her sacrifice, for her marrying well enough to sustain their family for the rest of their lives. His voice cracked, his eyes shone with gratitude. Her eyes shone in return, and she whispered back that it was her honor to provide for them, that she’d do anything for her family, who danced with her and embraced her throughout the night.

It was love we felt, in a sort of warmth that was like settling. In the way a father embraced his daughter, and she held him tight enough for us to be pressed between them and their whispered promises for wealth and safety.

We were not treasures, or fallen stars, we were just a promise, and that was still enough.

With Isabeau, though, we did not feel any sort of love. When she looked in the mirror, her heartbeat raced to the point of nearly making us visibly rattle. Her skin was cold, clammy, almost sweaty. She grew stiff when Lord Hartgrove IV’s hands traveled from where he’d fastened us, down to the sides of the dress to fix some of the ribbons by her curves.

When he’d left the room, tears caught on the edges of Isabeau’s lashes, only a few making it past the swipes of her fingers, splashing on us just so. It was the closest we’d ever get to our fabled sea origins.

When Lord Hartgrove IV left, Isabeau’s uncle came in. It was an age difference seen by us, from Agatha to her father, but as Agatha was older, Isabeau was younger and thus their father and uncle respectively. Isabeau’s uncle shared her fair hair and dewy eyes, though where hers shone with unshed tears, his were flat and dry.

“Please don’t make me marry him, uncle,” Isabeau whispered, her breath just ghosting those of us on the top layer. We felt another tear hit us, right on the center pearl. “He’s old. And I heard he–”

Isabeau’s uncle grabbed her by the arm, and for a moment, we rejoiced. We thought of Agatha and her father, pressing close. Only this time, Isabeau’s uncle yanked her to his side, long enough to whisper, “I don’t give a damn about the rumors. The Hartgroves are a good family. I got you an advantageous match, despite the fact that I could’ve left you out in the cold. I made you a Delacroix and I made you a wife. Be grateful, and be willing.”

Isabeau’s eyes flitted to the mirror as her uncle released her. There was no warmth to her, nothing to stop the trembling. She gripped us tight, and we let her. Her gaze flitted to a portrait of young Lord Hartgrove IV, right above his bed, smiling with an array of pets, next to a display of empty collars. Lord Hartgrove IV’s smile was painted widely enough to crack the paint at the edges. Isabeau shuddered, and looked to the right, where an open window was, facing out to the sea below. We felt Isabeau exhale, her heartbeat slowing just a hair.

Isabeau’s uncle cleared his throat, and her heartbeat zipped along, as a layer of sweat gathered beneath us in little. We mourned the loss of that little spark of Isabeau, as her uncle beckoned her and us out of the room.

We tried our best to sparkle like we always did. We had been shined the night before, by a lord so excited, his grin seemed impossible. Inhuman.

At the time, we hadn’t thought to wonder why. All the previous Lord Hartgroves had been different in their own way. The first had a dimple on his right cheek that came out when he’d told his fanciful tale about us. The second had marks from pox across his face that never quite healed right that he seemed to try and hide by facing the floor. The third had blue eyes, so light it nearly rivaled our own colorlessness.

The fourth had his smile. It was so wide. So, so wide. He showed off rows of teeth to rival the rows and rows of us across chains. He held us and stroked us and whispered, “it’s almost time, it’s almost time. She’s almost mine. She’s almost mine.”

He clasped us so tight, we thought we may shatter. “She needs to be mine.”

What was it time for?

We should’ve wondered. We should’ve thought of how quickly his gleeful anger leapt from his fingers to us, the closest thing to grasp.

Maybe something could’ve happened. Something different than what did happen.

Isabeau was walked down the aisle by her uncle, eager to be rid of her. Everyone in the reception was bigger than her, friends of Lord Hartgrove IV and not of hers. They cheered when Lord Hartgrove IV kissed her, pressing against us so tightly we felt we may break right there.

It wasn’t like any other time we’d been centered for a kiss. It was harsh, two hearts beating too fast.

Neither person was warm.

We spent the night weighing Isabeau down, our shine only making the ashen expression on her painted face more obvious. We only made her look smaller than she already was.

As we looked out at the guests, we realized we were suited for the necks of those around Isabeau, rather than herself. Women like the other Lady Hartgroves, taller and fuller and warmer.

Isabeau was cold, though it did not frighten us. We only wanted to be something great for her.

We’d been sea treasures, fallen stars, and a promise before.

The night of Isabeau’s wedding, we were something much worse.

When the guests left, it was just Lord Hartgrove and Isabeau, in the same bedchamber they’d been in when we were fastened around Isabeau’s neck. Isabeau stood still in front of the mirror, staring blankly at herself, in her fitted dress and unfitted necklace.

Lord Hartgrove came up behind her. We saw him in the mirror, smile so wide it looked like it would unravel him at the seams.

“Do you want to know the story behind this necklace?” he asked Isabeau, fingers slipping under our clasp to graze the nape of her neck. “It’s been in my family for generations. Passed down from father to son, to let his wife wear on their wedding day.”

Isabeau didn’t respond. She was still as he touched her, touched us. His trembling, cold fingers traveled along us, stopping to graze her skin, stopping just short of her chest, rapidly rising and falling with the beating of her heart.

“My great-grandfather said he obtained the necklace from a guardian of the sea, my grandfather said he plucked stars from the sky to form these pearls. My father though, my father said nothing of the sort. He was never one for dreams. All he said was that this was tradition, that traditions aren’t to be broken. I was to marry a girl and keep her close. And I’m going to keep you close, dearest.”

Isabeau finally moved then, seeming to snap out of the trembling trance that’d held her all night. She lurched forward, out of a startled Lord Hartgrove IV’s grasp. Her chest heaved with the effort as she ran for the window of the bedchamber, overlooking the sea. She climbed onto the windowsill, a single, shrill scream exiting her lips. The smell of the sea filled her lungs, causing her breath to billow us forward and back.

We finally felt it. The warmth of her, the flush brought on by the night air stinging her and us.

Love.

Love for the sea below Lord Hartgrove IV’s bedchamber, for the idea of an endless depth, an eternity under the waves rather than with him. Those of us near the back of our collection could see the mirror, and in it, the beginnings of a smile across Isabeau’s face. Small and red but undeniably hers. It suited her. It made her shine, and us along with her.

We wanted nothing more than for her to be happy, to shine with us. Even if it meant seeing the blue walls of an ocean, rather than a box. The idea thrilled us, even. We were to go back to our very start. We were Isabeau’s to do as she wished with, and we loved her. We loved her as we’d loved all our Lady Hartgroves and the love they’d allowed us to feel.

Right as Isabeau’s slippered feet began to slip from the windowsill, Lord Hartgrove IV tugged on us, bringing us from our loose position, tight around Isabeau’s neck. She gasped, clutching at her neck, trying to find skin from where we’d formed an unwilling blockade. She was thrust back into the room, and into Lord Hartgrove IV’s arms.

We felt her heartbeat then, stronger than it had been. It fought us, desperately, as Lord Hargrove IV brought us deeper and deeper into her skin as she struggled in vain toward the window. We could do nothing but look at the reflection of Isabeau in the mirror, growing more wide-eyed, trying to form cries that would not leave her lips, drowned out by the screaming curses he flung at her. We could do nothing but feel her ragged gasps against us, the way her breath thinned as he held us to her, tighter and tighter.

If only we could do something. If only we were stars, so we could burn him and his soft, cold hands. If only we were sea treasures, so we could summon our original hydra guardian to rip him in two.

At least, we could’ve been a promise. We could’ve promised Isabeau, someone small and alone and weighed down by us, that we could break apart for her. We wanted to break apart, to allow her respite. All we wanted was to feel that heartbeat, to feel the warmth and love of our newest Lady Hartgrove. To be beautiful for her.

It wasn’t right, what happened that night.

We sit in our box and we think of the way it felt to sit against Isabeau’s skin, feeling nothing, not even the beat of her heart. We think of the way the hand that squeezed us tight enough to feel a heartbeat had turned limp and blue. We think of Lord Hartgrove IV unclasping us from Isabeau’s neck that night with shaking hands and furious laughter. We saw all of our indents left behind in her skin, red and harsh reminders of what we did.

We see the blue of our box and think of the waves, which took Isabeau after Lord Hartgrove IV threw her in the sea, still smiling and seemingly so mad he’d been in half a daze when he made us into her demise. He barely remembered to unclasp us from her.

We think of Lord Hartgrove IV’s horrible, wide smile, as he fastens us behind the neck of a girl just as small as Isabeau had been. This one with dark hair instead of light, with blue eyes instead of Isabeau’s weary brown.

“My dearest,” he says as he brushes dark hair from the nape of her neck, to fasten us to her neck. “Gods would fight wars in the heavens for you. You look beautiful, dearest. Smile, for with this necklace, I am promising you will be Lady Hartgrove by the end of this eve.”

This Lady Hartgrove, named Daphne, tries to smile as widely as the monster behind her, but she cannot. “It’s beautiful, my lord.”

Her fingers come to rest upon us, shaky and warm, underneath her lacy gloves. She taps us gently, appraising each of us. We know we are spotless, but we still feel like any second, she will discover fragments of Isabeau nestled between us.

Daphne smiles into the mirror, shaky and unsure, as Lord Hartgrove IV fastens us.

Even on the tightest clasp, we are too loose.

Daphne holds onto us, as if we are a lifeline.

We try our best to shine, to be what she needs us to be, but we cannot. We know what we are fated to be to the Lady Hartgrove we already cannot help but love.

We are whomever our Lord makes us be, and with Lord Hartgrove IV, we are a death sentence.