The Santiago Sisters

One day, Julia came to her and said: ‘I’m leaving. You’re sixteen now. You’ll live. I’ve renewed a friendship in the city and I’m going to stay there for a while.’

Calida’s mouth fell open. ‘What? But what about …?’

‘The farm?’ Julia swished a silk scarf over her shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Calida: it’s yours. You always did like this place better than I did.’

‘I can’t look after it on my own.’

‘You’ve got Daniel.’

‘Mama—you can’t. It’s not …’ Her throat closed, making it hard to speak. She felt like sand in an hourglass, time rushing through her fingers. ‘There isn’t—’

‘Come now, Calida. You’re an adult. Teresita’s started her new life. You can’t expect me to hang around here for the rest of my days playing the doting mama.’

And, just like that, the next morning, Julia left. Just like her daughter, she was able to turn away from her past and her responsibilities without a backward glance. She left behind no cash—but Calida wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. It was blood money, testament to the devil-sent pact the three of them had orchestrated, the abomination of that unholy exchange. Calida would have nothing to do with it.

Alone, she summoned Diego’s voice. Speak to me, Papa. Tell me what to do. And she heard his reply: Every path has an ending. Every problem has an answer.

It was the same guidance he’d bestowed on her when she took her pictures, telling her to be still and quiet and at peace, because only then was she truly able to see. Calida had become a lone pillar in a sandstorm, after the rest of the building had blown down. All her life she had been taught to be self-sufficient, to rely on no one but herself. Now, after the dismantling of her family, she understood for the first time how crucial this independence was. The way forward was to become the pillar; to lean on no other supports, neither props on either side nor a foundation beneath her feet.

Winter blew in. It was the harshest season Calida could recall, sleet lashing and winds crying, and some nights the gale threatened to tear the wooden farmhouse from the ground. The land froze and with it the ghosts of their crops. Food was scarce. The old roof leaked and dripped, and as fast as they repaired one fissure, another appeared. Calida lined up buckets on the kitchen floor, the slow seconds counted by the pit-pit of water as it spat into the tin. Each day she prayed for sun, a sliver of promise in the clouds, but the sky churned grey and limitless as a deep, livid sea.

Paco the horse became sick. It started with a waning in his eyes, a burning ember reduced to a flickering wick. He became listless and depressed, and lost his appetite. ‘Strangles,’ Daniel called the disease.

Calida couldn’t survive losing Paco as well. She floundered against his illness, unsure what steps to take. But Daniel knew. He said: ‘I know how much he means to you—it will be all right,’ and in the same grave, capable way as he tackled so much else on the farm, he did what was required to save Paco’s life. Calida questioned why Daniel was still here; the pay had long since dried up, but he never graced her with a response. Just once, he asked if she would refrain from enquiring again.

‘I’m part of this,’ he told her. ‘That isn’t going to change.’

But what had changed was the lost ease of their companionship, when Calida’s youth had excused her bumbling infatuation and Teresita had never said those wicked things. She can be so desperate. She should set her sights lower.

She cringed whenever she thought of it. Calida yearned to unpick it, correct it, tell Daniel there was no boy in town that she liked; Teresita had lied about everything. But if she did that she was confessing to having eavesdropped, and admitting to him her true feelings. Why couldn’t she admit it? What did she have left to lose?

Teresita would tell him, she tortured herself. Teresita would dare.

‘Do you miss her?’ asked Calida one afternoon, as she hung up Paco’s reins, stopping to rinse her hands beneath the outdoor tap. The water choked a splurge of brown before clearing. It was accompanied by the sharp stench of iron.

Daniel didn’t speak for several moments. She was wondering if he’d heard, when at last he said: ‘You know, Calida—I’m glad it’s not you who went away.’

Calida wasn’t glad. If she had gone away, she could have proven her sister wrong: she could have an adventure; she could take a chance … The trouble was, a chance never took her. It stung that he hadn’t answered her question.

‘She really wanted to go, didn’t she?’ said Calida.

Daniel faced her. ‘Sometimes, if you’re unhappy, you have no option but to leave. It’s self-preservation.’

The wind moaned in the rafters. Calida examined the nail on her thumb.

‘She hated it here that much?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s young. She doesn’t know what she wants.’

‘I do. And I’m the same age.’

‘But you’re …’ Daniel smiled a little, with compassion, humour, she didn’t know what. ‘You’re different, Calida. You’re not like other girls.’

‘You left your home,’ she said. ‘Do you think about your family?’

His blue eyes held hers. Calida could see him about to open up, the last bud in spring, but then his face fell into shadow, as it had on the day they’d met.

‘I’ll never go back,’ he said bluntly, turning from her. ‘That part of my life is over. There’s nothing left. I can never return.’

‘You never talk about it.’

‘There’s nothing to say.’ Daniel started stacking saddles on the barn ledge; the weight of sheepskin and the tangle of reins. ‘But the more distance there is between that place and me, the happier I am. I’ll die before I cross that ocean again.’

He stopped, then, and said, ‘It’s not the same for Teresita. I swear to you. I know that much. You’re too important to her. This place is too important. She doesn’t realise it yet, but she will … She thinks she wants more—that whatever’s out there is better, that it’ll solve her problems, answer her prayers. It won’t, because the problem she’s trying to figure out isn’t this place—it’s her. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t leave herself behind. One day soon, she’ll look around at her new world and consider what she swapped it for … and then she’ll see her mistake.’

Calida bit back tears.

‘I don’t want anything to happen to her,’ she said. ‘I can’t help it. What if it does, and I’m not there? I’ve never not been there.’

Daniel came to her, put his hands on her arms. A spark raced up Calida’s spine and set fire to her blood. ‘It’s nice that you care so much,’ he said.

She nodded. There was a long pause.

‘I broke up with my girlfriend,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

Daniel waited for her to speak, as if he had offered a handshake and she’d left him hanging, unsure when to pull away. He returned to ground they’d been on: ‘I know what it’s like to be parted from your family. It hurts … but you’ll find a way.’

She nodded. A flush of shame crept up her neck.

He feels sorry for me. I can be so desperate sometimes …

‘Thanks, Daniel,’ she muttered, and hurried back inside.

14

Paris

Tess Geddes mounted the wide stone steps of the Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris and gazed up at the building. From the bell tower, a deep clang resounded.

In the heart of the Quartier Latin, Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris was the most prestigious and exclusive boarding school in the French capital, if not in Europe. It was set apart from the standard education system and reserved for those with elite money and standing, a finishing school to prepare young ladies for world domination.

Pretty, polished students wearing knee-high socks and frilled skirts dashed ahead of her, glossy manes bouncing and leather satchels slung elegantly over one shoulder. Tess watched them, appraising the challenge. I can do this, she thought. I can do anything. When Simone had informed her she was going to Paris, it made no difference. England, France, wherever it was—as long as it wasn’t Argentina, with people who didn’t want her and who got rid of her the first chance they got.

Simone stood back as her staff hauled the baggage: a huge buckled trunk with gold studs that resembled a coffin. Tess thought, I know who’s buried in there. She wondered, if she sprung it open, whether she would find, instead of daintily laid blouses scented with pockets of fragrant rose pomander, the body of her old self, curled up in a ball like a kitten in a straw nest, hair brittle and eyes closed.

‘You’ll make so many friends,’ Simone was saying, as she pressed a tissue to her nose. Several other parents glanced over at this show of emotion, their attention snagged by Simone’s sizeable entourage and the incognito dark glasses that marked her out as a celebrity. Although, judging by the throng of gleaming four-by-fours parked at the school gates and the ranks of bodyguards talking grimly into Bluetooth headpieces, Simone wasn’t the only VIP on the premises. Their audience glanced between Simone and Teresa, who couldn’t have looked less alike, and smiled politely.

‘And you’ll even have Emily for company!’

Simone could barely choke out this sentiment, but she made a valiant effort. Up ahead, Emily Chilcott was linking arms with a fiery redhead and shooting Tess death glares. Emily had been attending Sainte-Marthe for three years, one thing Brian had insisted on, and was apparently Queen Bee of the dormitories.

‘Mademoiselle Geddes, I believe?’ A middle-aged woman was walking towards them, one arm held out, as pale and goosebumpy as a raw chicken thigh. ‘I’ll take you to your lodgings, shall I?’ she said in English. By now Tess had a competent grasp of the language. Simone’s lessons hadn’t been fast enough so she had taken matters into her own hands, devouring every book and magazine she could, reading it alongside her dictionary into the small hours of the night. ‘See if we can’t get you settled in. My name is Madame Aubert and I am your house mistress.’

Simone kissed her farewell. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks, darling …’

As Tess followed Madame, she eliminated the echo that rebounded through her brain. A few weeks … That was exactly what Julia had said as she had been driven away from Patagonia. Fuck them, she thought. They don’t deserve my tears.

The school was like a cathedral. Stained-glass windows spilled red and gold on to the cool, chequered floor. Baroque pillars ran to a huge glass dome, ornate with gold, and weeping religious figures. ‘This is where chapel is held in the morning,’ said Madame Aubert. Through that space they emerged into a giant courtyard—’La Cour Henri Jaurès’—which was marked with white and red lines and a vertical pole at each end that was capped with a net. The surrounding structures were high and arched and, above, through little square windows, excited squeals could be heard drifting from the dormitories, against a blast of music. Up a set of winding stairs, Madame Aubert led her down a corridor and pushed open the farthest door.

‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Your home from home.’

The room had ten beds, five down each side, each pristinely made with the sheets pulled tight, and with an accompanying side cabinet and closet. Madame Aubert informed her that supper was at six in the dining room and left her to unpack.

It was eerily quiet. Tess went to the window, which faced away from the courtyard and towards the rest of the school: a collection of grey-slate rooftops, still slick from the morning’s rain. She removed the items from her trunk and laid them on the shelves, like someone else’s belongings. With a jolt, she realised she had left behind the diary she’d been keeping, tucked behind the bed at Simone’s mansion.

The diary had become her steadfast friend, and she had spilled into it her innermost emotions—about Julia, about Calida, about the life she’d left behind; about her regrets and hopes and the strange land she now found herself in, unsure which way was forward, afraid of her own powers because she had implored the gods for this providence and somehow they had answered. She fingered the locket around her neck. Every time she went to take it off, something stopped her. She wanted to rip it from its chain, stamp on it, toss it from a cliff, but somehow she was unable to.

She was distracted by a burst of giggles at the door.

A clique of girls tumbled in. They stopped when they saw her. Leading the pack was, of course, Emily Chilcott, resplendent in her power zone, and at her side stood the redhead Tess had seen at the gates. The redhead had the most incredible-coloured hair Teresa had ever seen—bright, flaming orange, with golden highlights around the top like a halo. Emily said something in English—Simone had explained she was ‘too thick to get a handle on French’—and they all laughed again, but not in a way you could join in with. Tess decided they could bitch and laugh at her all they liked. She had been through worse than anything Emily could throw at her.

The group paraded down the aisle between the beds, showing off lithe, tanned legs and releasing a mist of musky scent. With a sinking feeling, Tess realised they were her roommates. Madame Aubert had probably arranged it, thinking she would want to be with her family. Emily, her family? That was some joke.

‘I’m Tess,’ she told the redhead, deciding to ignore her stepsister. But Emily was having none of it. She charged forward, blue eyes flashing, and like a magnet drew the others into formation. She smiled openly and said:

‘They don’t care who you are. They’re my friends, and you’re the impostor. Rest assured, Teresa, you won’t survive here. I’ll make sure of it.’

As the redhead passed, her slanted green eyes narrowed in malice. Tess felt a sharp yank at the back of her neck, so quick as to be unsure whether it had happened. Her locks were scarcely mended after the attack. Despite Simone’s efforts, Emily’s scissors had triumphed. ‘Nice hair,’ said the redhead unkindly, and closed the door.

It was easy enough to stay away from Emily during the day—Tess spent most of her time in Fast-Track French and was scheduled to join the main curriculum at the end of spring term—but, at night, there was no escape. Emily’s clique clustered into one another’s beds after lights-out and giggled and tittered under the sheets, sucking on illicit squares of bitter chocolate and sipping from bottles of Orangina, which Emily’s outside contact had supplemented with vodka. Sometimes they would throw things at her in the dark—nothing that hurt, just a sock that one of them had worn in Games, or a balled-up note written in French that she couldn’t understand and, sometimes, Emily’s favourite, a tampon or a sanitary towel from the supply under her bed.

The redhead’s name was Fifine Bissette, but everyone called her Fifi. She was the only daughter of France’s premier power couple; her father was a renowned surgeon whose services graced only the affluent, while her mother was an ex-model-turned-socialite. A running joke at Sainte-Marthe was that Fifi’s papi had once borrowed cold-blooded Fifi’s heart for another patient and forgotten to replace it.

She and Emily made the perfect match.

Through it all, Tess forged her vendetta. Slowly but surely, her plan took shape, and became the fuel that kept her going. She used her hatred for Emily as a way to endure the monotony and loneliness of the days at Sainte-Marthe, in which she got up alone, dressed alone, and ate breakfast alone; in which she withstood her solo French classes with Madame Fontaine and saw no other girls, then when she did felt too unsure of the language to attempt a friendship, and the longer she left it the more difficult it became and the stranger they decided she was. She used her anger as a passage through the emptiness of the night, the moonlight and the taunting laughs, as she lay still as a corpse because then they might leave her alone.

Every moment, she was thinking. She was plotting.

It was risky, but the risk was worth it. Tess had no fear. She had nothing. In the days and weeks since the adoption revelation, she had shut out the world. It had been necessary, a method of reassembly, of digging inside herself and cancelling out all those weak parts, the parts that cried for her twin and longed to be held by her.

She had wiped the slate clean and started again—with the person she wanted to be: strong, intrepid, powerful. Emily deserved it. She deserved her revenge.

The following week, before chapel, Tess approached Fifi in the waiting line. The other girls backed away: breaking rank was the ultimate offence.

‘Where’s Emily?’ Tess asked in French.

‘None of your business.’

‘I wanted to wish her luck.’

Fifi was sceptical. ‘With what?’

‘The song,’ Tess widened her eyes, ‘for Monsieur Géroux? Oh, no, don’t tell me she forgot. Aubert will go crazy—she told us about this ages ago!’

‘Told you about what?’ Fifi was impatient, but Tess detected a sliver of anxiety, of wanting—no, needing—to do right by Emily. Not to mess up.

Tess sighed. ‘Look, I know Emily’s been skipping Fontaine’s classes.’

‘She doesn’t need to speak French,’ Fifi jumped in, and the clique nodded in agreement. ‘She’s going to Hollywood to become an actress. So it’s irrelevant.’

‘I know,’ Tess was all sympathy, ‘but you know what our mother’s like …’

It felt weird saying it, but she had to remind Fifi of their allegiance. That she did have a connection with Emily, and it might stand to reason, despite Emily’s bullying, that she should wish to help her. Anyway, it was true. Emily was meant to attend Madame Fontaine’s lessons. Instead she spent the entire time smoking around the back of the music block. What wasn’t true was that Tess actually gave a shit.

‘Aubert told us weeks back that Géroux was leaving,’ Tess went on. Monsieur Géroux was their music teacher. He caused quite a stir among the pupils, due to being thirty-six, inoffensive looking, and in possession of all his own hair. He was moving to Switzerland to take up another position. ‘She asked us to prepare a song,’ she lied, ‘with Fontaine’s help, to perform for Monsieur today. As in now, in chapel.’

Fifi looked horrified.

‘Oh dear,’ said Tess. ‘I worried this would happen. She hasn’t done it, has she? Aubert will go mad! Not to mention Simone … Emily really is going to get it for this. Like, big time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was suspended.’

Fifi stumbled. ‘I don’t think she’s done any song—she hasn’t said anything …’

‘Alors,’ said Tess, handing over a piece of paper, ‘just give her this, OK?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the piece I wrote.’ She waved her hand, as if it were no big deal. ‘I don’t mind if Emily shares it. We can pretend we arranged it together. I’ll go tell Aubert now. Just make sure she gets it, OK? Or it’s going to be majorly embarrassing for her in there.’ Oh, she’ll get it. She’ll get it all right.

Fifi clutched the paper. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked suspiciously.

Tess lifted her shoulders. ‘Fifi, we’re family. Haven’t you heard of loyalty?’

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and went inside. Quickly, she located Madame Aubert and tied up her ploy. Tess explained that she had wished to perform a farewell song for Monsieur, and would it be OK if she and Emily interrupted morning service for a few moments to do so? Aubert thought it was a wonderful idea, and no doubt couldn’t wait to report back to Simone on how well her girls were getting along. Ha, Tess thought as she took her place in the pews, if only you knew.

Minutes later, the assembly was called into chapel. Tess spotted Emily looking suitably worried. She was frantically reading through the sheet of handwriting, and each time Fifi or one of the others attempted to peek over her shoulder, she swiped them away, unwilling to admit she hadn’t a clue what words were written there. Emily could barely introduce herself in French, let alone tackle the complex structures Tess had toiled hard on, looked up in the library, and double-checked with a bunch of geeks in an online forum. Excitement surged in her chest.

She didn’t have to wait long. After the school refrain had been sung in its usual dispassionate drone—’Aujourd’hui, nous sommes graines; demain, nous sommes des arbres’—and an announcement had been made about the forthcoming hockey tournament against the rival girls’ academy, L’École de Françoise Barbeau, it was time for Tess and Emily’s performance. Across the pews, Tess shot her a sweet smile.

‘Beloved Monsieur Géroux,’ crooned Madame Aubert from the lectern, as there was a general expectant shuffling in the ranks, ‘our girls in Special French wished to say goodbye to you in the way you taught them best. I think this is a lovely gesture and proves how much you mean to them—and to everybody here. So, without further ado, please welcome them to the stage: Tess Geddes and Emily Chilcott!’

Emily hesitated and, for a horrible moment, Tess thought she wasn’t going to fall for it—but, at the last moment, she shuffled up to the front. She shot Tess a strange look, half gratitude and half loathing. It serves you right, Tess thought, remembering how her hair had been slashed, and every cruelty and unkindness she had suffered at Emily’s hands. You underestimated me. You all did.

Tess saw Monsieur Géroux in the pews, his expression open with happy surprise. The piano struck up a lively tune. The song began.

The first verse went without a hitch. The teachers beamed through all Tess’s carefully constructed sentences, praising Monsieur’s delightful teaching style and prowess on the instruments, and Emily mumbled alongside her, finally falling into the tune. Then something strange happened. As they hit verse two, Tess’s voice gradually receded. She turned to stare at Emily, a practised mask of disbelief on her face, as Emily continued to belt out the words, her cheeks flaming with the effort of her botched—but still, lamentably, understandable—pronunciation, and when she realised she was singing out of kilter with Tess she sang even louder to make up for it.

‘Emily …!’

An elfin blonde named Claudette squeaked from the ranks, as Emily’s clique, including Fifi, turned ashen, along with the professeurs. Emily, thinking the shout had been some show of support, continued to sing as clear as a bell, her voice ringing out above the music, before suddenly, at Madame Aubert’s signal, the piano stopped. Emily’s voice travelled alone to the end of the refrain, and then fizzled out.

The congregation was staring, appalled. A few nervous laughs rose up from the chapel. Madame Aubert rushed over, red and flustered. Without a word she snatched Emily by the elbow and led her off the stage. Tess followed. On the way down they passed Monsieur Géroux, whose eyes were trained on the floor. The tips of his ears were bright red. Tess could sense the gaze of every girl boring into her.

‘Vous horrible fille!’ Madame Aubert lambasted Emily when they reached the courtyard. ‘What were you thinking? Was that some kind of joke? Allez au bureau de la directrice, immédiatement! Until then, consider yourself a month in detention!’

‘But—’

‘No buts, young lady.’

‘I don’t—’ Emily turned to Tess, but Tess gave her nothing. ‘But she … I—’

‘Go. Now!’

When Emily had scurried off, Tess said, ‘I’m sorry about that, Madame. I don’t know what got into her. It must have been some prank she and Fifi thought up. I mean,’ she blushed, ‘not to wrongly implicate anyone, it’s just I saw them talking outside and giggling over something. Emily was fine in rehearsal.’

Madame Aubert, who hadn’t been sure whether or not to be cross with Tess, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, ma chérie,