AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Mircalla,” Valerie gasped. Snow started to swirl around them again. It was getting dark. “Let’s go back.”
But Mircalla was stubborn. “Tell me this is not what you want,” she said, her lips brushing Valerie’s ear. “Tell me you’re not ravished with the same burning ache in your heart and I’ll walk away.” She reached out, her touch sending a ripple through the air, and caressed the back of her neck.
“Mircalla…I can’t…”
Hurt crept upon Mircalla’s face and she stared at the plants, scowling. Valerie wanted to say more, but another voice echoed behind them.
“Mrs. Vertigo? Is that you, madam?”
Valerie retreated a few steps back and stood as far from Mircalla as possible. She coughed into her palm, trying to keep her voice steady. “Yes, Mr. Faulkner. It’s me.”
The old Mr. Faulkner appeared behind the orchids. He was holding a garden trowel in one hand, a half-eaten cabbage in the other.
“Are you alright, madam? Are you sick?” He paused, his face closer than she’d like, and pointed a gnarled finger at her. “I can fetch Ethel if you like.”
Valerie looked at his weathered face, covered in freckles, as though someone scattered a handful of seeds. His cap was hanging from his belt, his sleeves were rolled up. Although his voice bore no sign of anger, Valerie could see that he wished her gone. Even the tip of his grayish mustache was vibrating with worry.
A faint smile passed her lips. “No, thank you. We were just leaving.”
Mircalla stood up next to her, ostensibly busying herself with brushing dead leaves from her coat and the man’s face changed. It took on a horrid ashen pallor. Before he did not seem to breathe, but now his chest rose and fell in small bursts and Valerie noticed his eyes turning red. He gulped and gasped like a fish stranded on sand, but in minutes, these shades faded and he gave them a curt nod before walking off, mumbling something, but Valerie heard what he said: “The crops are dying in town, and soon, the decay will reach here to its heart. This house is a sinkhole; it will suck us all in.”
Valerie rushed to the front of the greenhouse, her skirt swirling around her boots, the air escaping from her lungs all at once, before Mircalla could catch up with her.
17
Valerie did not sleepthat night. What was she thinking? Mircalla Karnstein was a mere guest she had saved from a snowstorm. She could not understand her mercurial twists of temper, the way she disappeared in the morning hours, and why she kept Valerie in the dark about the reason she was here and where she intended to go. Valerie was a married woman, the mistress of Vertigo Peaks for that matter, and this brazen and secret intimacy would ruin them both. The rawness of the feeling would not shelter them forever. She would be Mrs. Vertigo, even if she were stranded in this town, living in the credence of seclusion.
Sometimes, in those rare minutes that shattered her perception, she was convinced that it was she that never existed. She had been merely hurled into this room. She was born in this room, crawled in this room, grew up and bled in this room, and God cut her web of fate with an indifference that grew larger every day.
But even as Mircalla headed to the woods, her white nightgown billowing white against the night, somehow, Valerie could only picture her lips brushing hers, her soft caress etched on her skin, making her heart jump and skin blush with anticipation for more. She shook her head and drew the curtains. They were two souls caught up in the thrill of the moment, such an act would never be repeated again. It didn’t matter what she wanted. She had already made her choice. The aching would be forgotten, the shards of her heart would mend, but betrayal would never.
The next day, she found herself in the greenhouse again. The moonlight streamed through the windows as she sat on the same bench, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She had not caught a glimpse of Mircalla since yesterday after she disappeared in the forest and she remained indifferent to Ethel’s knocks on her door. There was no word from her husband or the doctor and Valerie spent the day alone, wishing to wail in agony, yet her limbs were stiff. She knew she had not wandered off her path, that she was true to her vow, but in the deepest corners of her soul, there arose the pang, even in the back of her eyes, of envy and longing, coursing through her like an icy river.
A clicking sound, the snow crunching, distant sobbing sounds. Valerie hid behind a barrel, frantically searching for something she might use to protect herself from this intruder, and pressed a hand over her mouth to not scream. Was it someone from the town, furious yet again, and ready to attack? She tried to catch a glimpse of the person. It sounded like a woman’s voice, mingling with the whir of the wind, sobbing for breath. Valerie found an empty can of paint. The intruder was moving closer, tripping on the gravel, and still crying, and thus Valerie raised the can and threw herself in front of the stranger with a cry.
It was Mircalla. But it was not who she had met at that party. The bright, altogether blithesome, and spiritless, heavenly creature was gone. This was a phantom, a restless apparition, shoulders jerking with each motion, wailing into the cold night. She did not even give a start when Valerie faced her, only removed one hand from her face and Valerie thought about all the stone angels she had seen in mossy churchyards. She had not noticed the crimson of her hands, her gown, her stomach before. Hunched over her knees, her eyes opaque, she seemed to shrink into herself, the outline of her body wavering under the pale moon.
“Mircalla…” Valerie’s voice sounded strange to herself, weak and hoarse. “What happened?” She could not look at her face, for there was so much crimson that it burned her eyes. Near the door where she stood was slick with that hue, a small pool reflecting her limp figure.
Mircalla’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Valerie saw the sadness and confusion flit across her face, and she drew back against the iron-wrought door, effacing herself before Valerie could reach out. She was a bolt of lightning one could only see through the corner of their eyes and if she didn’t look at her close enough, she might miss her, just like she was now. Valerie crossed the aisles of plants with heavy footsteps, overcome with fear, trying not to look at the trail of blood, and took Mircalla’s hand.
“Tell me,” Valerie insisted. “Are you hurt?” At the same time, she was checking if her guest was injured. The vacant look on her face had dissipated yet she was still gasping for breath.
“I…I don’t…” Mircalla replied, stammering to a halt. She gave her hand a squeeze and Mircalla looked at her unknowingly, her lip trembling. It was a sad sight that brought tears to Valerie’s eyes, like standing in front of a burning house. There was no one else lingering outside, only the constant tap of melting snow from the roofs. Tap, tap, tap. Valerie carried Mircalla to the bench.
Valerie watched her breathing slow down, her shoulders relax, her lips form again. The creases around her eyes disappeared, the knowing glimmer returned to her eye, and the quiver of her brow smoothed. Her own hands were covered in blood and she had this intense desire to wash it off. Yet, Valerie had not expected to find the rustling, the undulating of her nightgown, every time Mircalla’s chest rose and fell, so peaceful. The sheer lack of absoluteness in her temperament was engaging, more than she was willing to admit. She scratched her neck, brushing the faint swell of her wound.
“I don’t remember,” Mircalla breathed out, swaying a little, lost in her own thoughts. “I was running in the forest. Then I heard a voice, thinking it was you, I ran after it. But I don’t remember…” She went quiet for a moment, then squinted, as though she was seeing Valerie for the first time. “If I am a little bit ill at ease, it is because I am without resolution, without strength.”
She pressed Valerie in a tight embrace, murmuring soft words into her ear, her lips trailing down her cheeks, and although Valerie wished to tear herself apart from this frenzied encounter, her body failed her. All her emotional properties slipped in the same trace that she had felt when that woman lured her into the forest and bit her on that sinister night.
“Come with me. To the woods, to a dark alley, away from this rotting house. It’s maddening to watch you from afar, hear your breath but not feel your beating heart. I’ve never chosen a thing before, and here I am, bewildered and out of mind, choosing you.”
She placed her hands about Valerie’s neck, and drew her nearer. A shiver ran through her spine, not from the cold, but from Mircalla’s gaze that burned into her back. Then, with the deliberate tenderness of a predator claiming its prey, Mircalla’s mouth found hers.
Her lips were cold and hungry. They parted slightly and Valerie, her body awakened by the familiar intimacy, slipped her tongue inside. It was intense, so intense that she felt irrevocably lost and sore in the bitter January winds. This time was different. The movement of their lips was imbued with a sense of imminence. It was rough and waxy, as if peeling layers of tissues from her skin, unraveling all the muscles and veins and nerves. Valerie sank on Mircalla’s shoulder, throwing her head back. The last thing she remembered was the alarming closeness of her guest, her chest crushing against hers; one hand laced with her undone hair, the other fumbling to take off her chemise. A lethargy settled on her; part desire, part aching.
Mircalla pushed her against the bench, one thigh tentatively between her legs, the soft tickle of her breath under her nose. The metallic, biting smell of blood filled Valerie’s lungs as they struggled to be closer. Mircalla stooped over and kissed her breast over the tight corset, only her eyes visible, and when she raised her head, Valerie saw the dark red on her skin where Mircalla’s mouth left its mark. One of Mircalla’s hands moved down slowly, circling around her stomach, and found the buttons of her trousers, then her lips followed, leaning the side of her face against the loose cloth. Her body was convulsing, straining, pinned to the bench, the cold metal digging into her back. She tried to move her arms around, her body a feverish lump, and a deep sigh escaped from her lips.
