The Legacy 03 by Gemma Malley

Author:Gemma Malley [Malley, Gemma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2010-04-19T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Margaret Pincent sat very still. She could feel the dryness of her clasped hands, could feel the overwhelming fatigue begin to take hold. It was all she deserved and she welcomed it – welcomed death with its release, its finality. Other convicted murderers were taken off Longevity quickly – a short, sharp shock – but not her. For her they’d strung it out bit by bit, little by little, supposedly because being Richard Pincent’s daughter bought certain privileges. But Margaret suspected that this was yet another punishment. Her decline was so gradual that she was hardly aware of it and questioned every symptom, not sure whether it was in her head, whether she’d lost her mind, whether it was ever going to end.

But now, now she could feel it. She was an old woman. Twelve months ago she’d been the House Matron of Grange Hall – feared, respected, obeyed unquestioningly. Now she was slowly decaying. Rotting flesh, collapsing organs, inevitable death – these were the things that lay ahead. These were her future.

She’d do it again if she had the chance – she’d kill him again and again. Stephen, her former husband, had taken their child from her, made him a Surplus. He’d made her believe Peter was dead – her little boy, the older boy she’d tortured unknowingly, like all the others she’d punished for not being him, for not being her baby. For that, Stephen had deserved more than just death; she regretted that she hadn’t made him suffer more.

But her own decay still revolted her. In a world where death had been averted, mortal, frail flesh was feared and despised. Margaret felt the same abhorrence for her condition that she saw on the faces of her guards, their eyes squinting, their lips curled as though they were facing a plate of rancid food. She was vile, disgusting. She smelt of decay – something that the grey walls surrounding her seemed only to enhance. Death was a revolting spectacle, a vile concept. Even her doctor found it hard to look at her, as though her symptoms might be catching, as though she might tarnish him with her weakness.

She deserved it all, she knew. It was this knowledge that stopped her from curling up in a ball and howling inconsolably. It was this knowledge that gave her the smallest sense of control, for she had brought it on herself. She was no victim.

In a notebook that Margaret kept by her bed, she kept a running list of all the changes she’d experienced since being imprisoned, since her Longevity dosage had gradually been reduced. First had been her skin – dry and rough to the touch, then sagging, as though it had given up any pretence at being fit for purpose. Cuts wouldn’t heal, sores appeared out of nowhere, her eyelids hung heavy over her eyes.

Her hair was the next most obvious symptom. Undyed, her roots were growing through white as snow – such a contrast to the black she was accustomed to, the black strands which she pulled into a bun each morning.

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