Jerome had gone out of his way to throw a banquet at the summit of the snow mountain, forcing me to crawl a hundred kilometers up the slope to atone and beg for forgiveness. All because, three years ago, an avalanche had occurred, and Jerome was convinced I'd been the one to cut the lifeline—the reason his first love, Zenobia, lost the use of both her legs. "Just one more kilometer to go. Strip off your parka and lay it under Zenobia's feet, then kneel down and lick the slush off her shoes clean. Do that, and I'll forgive you." A roar of laughter rose from the surrounding heirs and heiresses at Jerome's words. Bank cards came flying out as bets were placed. "I'll put ten million on it—she'd strip down to her underwear for a single word of forgiveness from Jerome!" Jerome looked down at me, his voice cold as ice. "You hear that? Just take it off, and out of consideration that this is your ninety-ninth time begging me, I'll show you mercy and grant you a proper place at my side." Everyone assumed I'd grovel and obey, just like all the times before. Instead, I rose unsteadily to my feet and hurled the bracelet Jerome had once given me off the cliff. "Jerome, I'm not asking for your forgiveness anymore." Because last night, my little brother—the one who'd sold his blood and contracted an infection just to scrape together the compensation money—had died. I had nothing left to live for. … "Oh? New angle this time? Throwing things now?" Laughter erupted again. "Jerome, I'll raise five million. I bet she's on her knees within ten minutes, begging you to fetch that bracelet back. After all, you gave it to her with your own hands. She's bound to regret it." "I'll raise five million too. I bet she still ends up kneeling. This is her ninety-ninth time begging, after all." The bets came flying, one after another. I stood at the edge of the cliff, both knees crusted over with scabs of dried blood. For three years, in the name of so-called "atonement," whenever Jerome and Zenobia wanted a show, I had to throw away every shred of pride and dignity, anywhere, anytime, and crawl on the ground. By now, I had crawled a total of nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine kilometers. Dignity had long since become a luxury. I'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to walk like a normal person. Zenobia sat in her wheelchair, tucking the cashmere blanket tighter over her knees, and spoke to me gently. "Leona, don't push yourself. The wind's so strong—if you actually freeze to death up here, what a damper that'd put on Jerome's mood." She paused, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. "After all, you haven't finished paying for your sins yet." The bitter wind hurled snow against my face. The blood-soaked legs of my pants had long since frozen stiff. Jerome stared at me. "Leona, after you climb the last kilometer, it'll be over." "I'll take you home and give you a proper title." I pulled my hand back into my sleeve. "No need." The red string my brother had braided around my wrist had snapped, leaving only a tiny stub of red thread. Jerome tucked the blanket closer around Zenobia. "Zenobia, are you cold? Maybe we should head back to the tent first?" Zenobia caught his cuff. "I'm not cold—I'm just worried about Leona." "Her brother's still waiting for her down at the foot of the mountain. Don't be too hard on her." My fist clenched tight inside my pocket. "He died last night." The laughter cut off for a beat. Then someone snickered. "Here we go again." "Last time it was her foster mother dying. Time before that, the orphanage running out of food." "Now she's gone and made up her brother's death too." "Jerome, her acting really is getting better and better." Jerome frowned. "Don't joke about family. That's not like you." I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my inside pocket and held it out. One corner of the death certificate had been softened by melted snow. Jerome glanced at it once, then flicked it back into my arms with a sneer. "Leona, you're really getting good at lying." "Wasn't it just yesterday that Zenobia's legs were hurting again? I held off on transferring you that money on purpose, just to make her feel a little better. One day. You expect me to believe he died in one day?" I looked at him, my throat clogged like it was stuffed with bloody cotton. Yes. Just one day. But in that one day, my brother Duncan had bled from every part of him, curled up on his hospital bed in agony, too weak even to cry out. To scrape together the medical bills, I'd knelt sobbing all over that hospital. I'd thrown away every last shred of pride. But Duncan had seen me. That little brother who'd treated me like the whole world ever since we were children, who could never bear to see me bow my head—he couldn't stand watching his sister beg on her knees. While the nurse was changing his dressings, he dragged his bleeding body to the rooftop of the hospital and threw himself off. And now, Jerome was looking at me as if granting me alms. "Enough. Your punishment ends here." "Once we're off this mountain, I'll arrange treatment for your brother abroad." Suddenly, I laughed. "No need. There's no point anymore." Jerome's face darkened. "Leona, stop this nonsense." "It's freezing up here, and Zenobia didn't bring enough layers. Take that parka off and put it under her feet." I lowered my eyes to the parka I was wearing. It was the birthday present Duncan had saved for three months to buy me. He'd told me the wind on the mountains was harsh, and as long as his sister had this on, she wouldn't be cold. But now, he was gone. This jacket couldn't protect me. It hadn't protected him. Better to trade it for an ending than to let it lie filthy beside me here. I crouched down and unzipped the parka. The crowd erupted again. "Here it comes! Here it comes! I want in on the bet!" Cold air rushed in against my skin. I walked up to the wheelchair, folded the jacket neatly, and laid it down at Zenobia's feet. "My brother bought this. Don't get it dirty." Few people knew that when Zenobia first arrived in the New York scene, I had been the one to bring her into Jerome's circle. When people sneered at her background, I was the one who'd stood in front of her, time and time again. Later, she became everyone's precious darling, cradled in their hands. And I became the sinner she named—the one who'd crippled her. Zenobia's fingers curled beneath the blanket. Jerome's gaze was cold and fixed on me. I took a step back, and a small slip of paper fell from the pocket of the parka. It landed on the snow and flipped over, revealing the writing inside. 【Leona, the wind on the mountain bites. Bundle up. Stop saying you're not cold. —Duncan】 I bent down to pick it up. But Zenobia suddenly jerked her feet back, as if I'd startled her. Jerome instinctively threw himself between us, seizing my wrist in his grip. "Leona, what do you think you're doing?" "You've already hurt Zenobia once. Now you're going to do it again, right in front of me?" I looked down at where his fingers were biting into my wrist. "Let go. What I'm picking up is the last thing Duncan left me." Jerome paused, then unconsciously released his grip. I plucked the slip of paper out of the slush. A flurry of hurried footsteps came from the entrance. The mountain caretaker was running toward us, an old, battered cloth bundle slung over his shoulder. "Excuse me—who's Leona?" "The funeral home down at the base asked me to deliver this. Said it's the deceased's belongings." Every gaze in the crowd snapped to that worn-out bundle. I reached out to take it. The instant my fingertips brushed the wrapping, a length of coarse rope poked out through the opening.
Jerome moved first, snatching the old length of knotted rope out of the bundle. The rope was worn, its fibers fraying loose, and the inner core was stained a deep, unwashable red. Three years ago, when Jerome, Zenobia, and I had gone climbing in the Alps, we'd been caught in an avalanche and swept down the ridge. When I came to, Zenobia's legs were ruined. Everyone said I'd cut the lifeline to save myself—that was how she'd ended up crippled. Zenobia spoke, her voice trembling. "Leona, why do you still have this?" Someone nearby let out a cold laugh. "What did I tell you? Only the guilty hold on to the evidence!" A few others chimed in. I ignored the jeering, my eyes locked on the rope. Back then, I'd been unconscious. It was Duncan who'd gone to the rescue station and collected everything that belonged to me. Everyone had been so eager to brand me guilty—everyone except Duncan. He'd kept this knotted length of rope all that time, saying he hoped that one day it would clear my name. "Give it back to me. That belongs to Duncan." Jerome's fingers paused for a heartbeat over the dark red staining the rope. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly—then he sneered again. "Don't keep using your brother as an excuse to lie. This is evidence. There's no way I'm handing it over to you." My eyes burned. "Didn't you say you'd already gotten to the bottom of this three years ago?" He shot me a glance. "Just because the matter's settled doesn't mean you have the right to touch it." I lunged for it. Jerome hadn't expected it. He stepped back and caught my cracked, frozen wrist in a reverse grip, the pressure light. "Stop it. The wound will split." "That was left to me by my brother." Jerome let go and tucked the knotted rope into the inner pocket of his coat. "It was left to make you face what you did, not so you could keep weaseling out of it." My hand fell to my side, the joints too stiff to bend. During the avalanche, a secondary rope had wound around Zenobia's left leg, and the bleeding wouldn't stop. What I'd cut was that secondary rope. But when she woke up, she'd cried and said it was my fault. All Jerome had said was, "Zenobia would never lie about her own legs." Then he turned and walked over to her. The wind sent ash from the bonfire drifting onto my arm. I went back to the bundle, crouched down, and started looking through my brother's belongings. A few worn pieces of clothing. A pair of sneakers with the soles worn smooth. A notebook with the words "Account Book" written across the cover. And a photograph. Duncan, standing in front of a blood donation van, giving a thumbs-up to the camera, grinning wide enough to flash his canines. He was thin to the point of being gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his chin sharp enough to hurt to look at—but the smile was the same as ever. I pressed the photo to my chest, my nails biting deep into my palm. Don't cry. My tears would only become their next punchline. I bound the bundle back up, gathered it against my chest, and stood. "Leona." Zenobia called after me. She glanced down at her own legs, then suddenly smiled. "Leona, do you know what I've hated most these past three years?" She lifted her head to look at me. There was no fragility in her eyes now—only a satisfaction she couldn't quite hide. "What I hated most was that you crippled me, and yet you still get to walk on those legs of yours, all the way over to Jerome." She lifted her chin, gesturing at the slush-soaked ground beneath her feet. "So today—you're going to kneel. Get down on the ground at my feet." "You owe me a pair of legs from three years ago. You're going to pay it back with your dignity." The bonfire lit up her innocent face. Jerome stood right behind her, and said nothing in protest.
A thin sheet of ice covered the gravel road, crunching beneath every step. I pushed Zenobia along it. Each time my knees bent, the old, broken-open wounds seeped fresh blood. For three years now, the injuries they'd inflicted on me had split open, scabbed over, and split again. My skin had long since lost its normal elasticity. Jerome followed two paces behind. He had someone bring me a pair of knee pads. "Don't push yourself. I didn't tell you to push her on your knees." Someone hooted from behind. "Jerome's gone soft. If it were me, I'd have made her crawl while she pushed." Jerome shot him a glance and replied, his tone neither sharp nor mild. "This is punishment, not torture. The point is to make her remember what she did wrong." Remember what I did wrong. I'd been hearing those words for three years. The wind picked up at the bend, and I lowered my head, putting more weight into pushing the chair. Zenobia didn't turn around. She lowered her voice. "That parka of yours—the fabric's pretty thick. How many times did your brother have to sell his blood to afford it?" My step faltered for a beat. Her tone stayed casual. "Enough to cover a pair of my shoes?" I stopped. It wasn't anger. My fingers were spasming. I couldn't keep a grip on the handles. Jerome came up beside me. "Why'd you stop?" Zenobia's eyes reddened, her voice fragile. "Jerome, it's my fault. I was just trying to comfort Leona, and I said it wrong, and now I've upset her…" Jerome looked between us and said evenly, "Leona, apologize to Zenobia." Apologize to her? For what? The words caught in my throat. I didn't say them. Not because I didn't want to. Because saying them wouldn't matter. For three years, Zenobia would always strike first, then play the wounded victim in front of Jerome, and the ending was always the same. The one apologizing was always me. "And if I don't?" Jerome was silent for a few seconds, as if seriously weighing some fair solution. "Then I'll have to reconsider next month's winter supplies for the orphanage." His tone carried a reprimand. Winter on the plateau dropped to thirty below. The orphanage had twenty-seven children. The youngest was only four. The blankets weren't thick enough. There weren't enough medicines. The coal they used for heating wouldn't last till spring. Over the years, in the name of atonement, Jerome had taken control of every resource connected to me. When he chose to loosen his grip depended entirely on his mood. I lowered my head. "I'm sorry." Zenobia tilted her head. "Leona, you're too quiet. The wind's loud—I didn't catch that." "I'm. So. Sorry!" I said it again, louder. Zenobia smiled, satisfied, as if she'd finally gotten me to bow my head. When she'd first arrived in New York, she hadn't even owned a decent coat. I was the one who'd given her my clothes, my contacts, every resource I had. But now—what she loved most was watching me kneel and apologize to her. She tucked the blanket closer and said softly, "Leona, if you'd only been this obedient from the start, wouldn't life have been easier?" Jerome's friends behind us were murmuring that I clearly still loved him, otherwise I wouldn't be this compliant. I pushed the chair forward another two steps. "Jerome." He gave a noncommittal hum. "All these years, all those apologies—did you ever, even once, actually hear them?" The wind howled. He didn't answer. "Forget it. It doesn't matter." I turned my head and kept pushing. By four in the afternoon, the light was already fading fast. The moment the high-altitude sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature plunged toward forty below. I wheeled Zenobia back to her tent. Just as she was about to go inside, she turned and looked at me, about to say something—but Jerome got there first. He stood at the tent's entrance, his tone as imperious as ever. "Leona." His gaze swept over my hands, blue with cold, and my scab-covered knees, as if doling out the last of his patience. "Stop throwing tantrums. If you behave, I'll let the matter with Zenobia drop, and you won't have to worry about your brother's medical bills anymore." My fingertips clenched tight at my sides. But he took it for hesitation, and his voice softened. "I'll send people to handle the hospital end of things. The best doctors, the best medication—we can even discuss treatment options abroad." "But only if you stop upsetting Zenobia." Snow blew into my throat, and I almost tasted blood. He said it so easily. He didn't know. Duncan didn't need doctors anymore. He didn't need medication. Zenobia, in her wheelchair, gave Jerome's sleeve a small tug. "Jerome, I'm a little cold. Let's go inside." The tent flap fell shut. I stood where I was, the snow pouring into my throat, like a dull blade slowly slicing open my chest. The phone in my pocket buzzed. The number for the funeral home at the foot of the mountain. "Hello, ma'am. Please come to collect your brother Duncan's ashes on time." I clutched the phone, my knuckles white. "He left instructions before he passed—that the ashes be handed to you personally. He said he still owed you a trip home." The line went dead. I looked out into the storm and whispered to myself: Duncan, wait for me. I'm coming to bring you home.
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