Sarah Hilary

Hibiscus

The Hibiscus was in full bloom, scarlet flowers trumpeting colour. Her hostess seated Alice in the shade. 'Such a complexion!' The woman touched her cheek. 'We must preserve it.'

Alice was young, but not young enough to be assured of success in this cut-throat arena. At the hill station half a mile away, half-caste girls as young as twelve, sloe-eyed and slender-hipped, found husbands.

At the horizon, a fierce sun sent back striped legions of light. Incense wove its woody trail from the neighbouring temple, sweet smell of burning on the breeze. There were white roses on the verandah, their petals like wax, without scent. The day felt hazy, heavy with heat. Alice folded her hands precisely in her lap.

The gravel crunched behind her. The chink of spurs like pennies. No, like sovereigns.

'Here come the gentlemen.' Her hostess plucked at the soft lace of Alice's gown, rearranging its folds. 'Smile, my dear.'

He wore the livery of an officer, dashing scarlet, buttons glaring like the sun. Alice smiled.

Twenty-one days passed. He took her hunting at night. The moon was eerie, waxen as the roses. She sat on an elephant, a great height above the hunt. In the white light, everything was unreal, the men moving like ghosts below her.

Rifle fire, pukka-pukka, scared the moths up into the trees.

Two of them laid the tiger in her lap. It had taken a long time to die. Its fur was gleaming still, with the fiery polish of copper and onyx. She drew off a glove and laid her hand on its flank. The elephant stirred under her, restless in the sand.

The hunting party was in high spirits, shouting, scuffing up dust. Alice, her palm warmed by the tiger's side, met the eyes of her lover. He was flushed, triumphant. She stroked the fine fur under her fingers and smiled.

Another month passed. Her husband sat smoking on the verandah of their new home, a little heap of ash at his feet, mimosa in a fragile, fluted glass.

Alice lay on the tiger rug, rosy and naked. The cat's glassy stare gave back her reflection, its teeth sharp enough to pierce.

Sometimes, when she was alone in the house, she would lie on her side on the floor and fit her throat between the tiger's jaws to feel the thin sting of the big incisors against her skin.

Sarah Hilary won the Fish Historical-Crime Contest with "Fall River, August 1892." Her story, "The Eyam Stones," was a runner-up in the Historical Fiction Contest. Both stories are published in the Fish Anthology 2008. MO: Crimes of Practice, the new Crime Writers' Association anthology, features Sarah's story, "One Last Pick-Up." Her work has appeared in Literary Fever, Every Day Fiction, Ranfurly Review, and Zygote in my Coffee. Sarah lives in the Cotswolds with her husband and daughter. Her website is www.writewords.org.uk/sarah_hilary/