That’s because Emma was never actually on the Powered Path. She’d just accepted an illusory version of it, and when that failed her, she was totally adrift. If Emma had had to work for any of the things she’d attained, she would have had the Titanium Core we talked about in chapter four, but she didn’t. That’s why you should never regret the hard work you do on yourselves! Otherwise, you can end up an Emma （repeat after me: Don’t. Be. An Emma）。
Despite my anger, a horrified laugh bursts out from me at that last line.
Holy fuck, this bitch is going to sell T-shirts that say “Don’t Be an Emma.”
This is what Chess thinks of me, then. As a woman who never worked for anything and who, when things fell apart, fell apart with them. That’s all this vacation has been, probably, a chance to observe me in the wild, to get a few more anecdotes of Sad Sack Emily—sorry, Emma—for her fucking book.
I scroll down further, bizarrely, sickly hoping there’s more. I want to read all of it, to suck down every bit of poison, an impulse I barely understand, but can’t resist.
There’s nothing, though. Just white space. Then I get to the bottom of the page.
When most people think of Villa Rosato—if they think of it at all—they think about the murder of Pierce Sheldon in 1974.
In a way, it hurts more, but at the same time, an almost dizzying wave of relief sweeps through me. I was right. I’m not crazy. Oh, she was smart, hiding it inside this document, but I knew it, I fucking knew it, and the satisfaction may be bitter, but it’s still real.
I keep reading, my breathing loud in my ears. The first paragraph is just the basics, the story of the murder, who was there that summer, how they were all connected. It’s fairly boring, really, a dry recounting, followed by a series of bullet points with dates. There’s nothing coherent yet, nothing that actually feels like a book.
But I keep scrolling, and two paragraphs on the next page catch my eye.
The summer at Villa Rosato was supposed to relaunch Noel Gordon’s music career while bringing Pierce Sheldon along for the ride. The women who came with them were only there to look at them adoringly, tell them how talented they were, and provide the sex part of the “sex drugs and rock ’n’ roll” equation. The ever-powerful myth of the muse, right? But instead, it’s those women, Mari Godwick and Lara Larchmont, who left us with two truly iconic pieces of art. Is that tragic irony or poetic justice?
Maybe Lara Larchmont herself had the answer. If you’ve ever had a broken heart, you’ve listened to Aestas, I’m sure! But look closely at the lyrics of the final track, “Sunset.” Boring title, killer song, and the last verse goes like this:
Your light has faded/but you still think that it shines
Your once-silver tongue/tangles over worn-out lines
You think the sun is rising/as it sinks closer to the sea
Boy, don’t you know? The brightest stars that lit your sky/were the ones you couldn’t see
How often are we bright stars in someone else’s sky, but they couldn’t find us with a fucking telescope, huh? And how do we not only find ourselves a new galaxy, but become supernovas?
It’s a different approach than I’ve taken. It’s definitely still a Chess Book, and I wonder if she just doesn’t know any other way to write after all this time.
But …
I missed that line in Aestas. I’ve been so focused on Mari and Lilith Rising that I hadn’t even thought to look more closely at Lara’s writing. But Chess had found this, a lyric clearly referencing Noel or Pierce or—most likely—both of them. What other connections were there between the album and what happened that summer?
Beyond that, the bigger idea that Chess has identified—it’s good. By zooming out to include Lara and Mari, Chess has hit on something I hadn’t been thinking about, how the muses became creators. I want to keep reading, no longer to satisfy some dark urge, but because I’m interested in where she’s going with this.
But the Word doc ends there.
Which just pisses me off even more.
I get up from the computer on shaky legs, turning away before I remember to scroll back to where she had been working in the document. I can be sneaky, too, I congratulate myself, even as I wander out of the dining room in a daze.
Chess thinks I’m a loser.
Chess is stealing my book idea.
But also … I really liked what I read.
I’m trembling as I walk upstairs, and when I pass one of the hallway mirrors, my face doesn’t even look like mine. My skin is pale except for two bright spots of color on my cheeks, and my eyes are shining, my lips pressed together in a tight line.
If I raised one hand and covered myself in blood, I’d look just like Victoria on the cover of Lilith Rising, and the image stays with me, intense, visceral.
And then, suddenly, I know where to find the rest of Mari’s pages.
MARI, 1974—ORVIETO
After a brief reprieve, the rain has moved back in, but for once, Mari doesn’t mind.
She’s claimed this little spot of the bedroom to write, and write she does, sitting at the desk every day as downstairs, Pierce and Noel get into petty arguments about music that still isn’t written, Johnnie broods and strums his guitar, and Lara merely drifts through it all.
But Mari is with Victoria and Somerton house and Father Colin, and she can sense the final web drawing tighter and tighter.
She’s going to call it Lilith Rising, she’s decided, already imagining how the title might look on a book jacket. A tribute to her mother, yes, but also a fitting title for a book about women, power, betrayal.
Survival.
The only thing left is the bloody and cathartic climax, Victoria laying waste to all those who’ve wronged her. Mari can see it like a movie in her head, but she feels herself putting it off, almost like she’s not quite ready yet.
Rain patters against the window as she puts her pen down and stands, her hands pressed to her lower back. She’s getting thinner again, forgetting lunch, sometimes skipping dinner altogether, and her stomach growls now, reminding her that it’s been awhile since she’s eaten.
Mari hopes she can grab a quick sandwich and then get back to her desk without having to see anyone, but when she reaches the foyer, she’s startled to see Johnnie standing there.
He’s hovering, almost like he was waiting for her, and Mari smiles at him, a little bemused.
“Hiya, Johnnie,” she says, and he steps forward, jittery.
“I was hoping you might come down. I feel like I never see you anymore.”
“I’ve been working,” she tells him, gesturing vaguely upstairs, and he nods again, his movement a little too jerky.
This is the reason she’s been avoiding Johnnie for the past week or so. Lately, it seems that he’s always high, and Mari finds that both boring and annoying. She occasionally puts up with it from Pierce, but she won’t from anyone else, Johnnie included, and now she hopes she can just scoot past him, get her lunch, and get back to work.
But he’s blocking her path, his dark eyes pleading and liquid. “I’ve really missed you these past weeks,” he says, and it’s so plaintive that it touches her a little bit. She remembers that first day with him by the pond, when she’d thought how nice it was to have a boy with a crush on her.