Page 2 of Vertigo Peaks

Ethan handed her a handkerchief with the steady composure with which he seemed to do everything. The noble, defiant look returned to his face, despite the ongoing turmoil outside. The mob was still mumbling, pounding on their door, and cursing while her husband sat next to her and smiled scornfully. A gleam of certainty had returned to his eyes and Valerie forgot herself for a moment, feeling intrigued by the intensity of his tranquil mood. What was he thinking? Was he in pain as she was, infuriated by the grand failure of their short town visit, and filled with a desire to reproach this marriage?

She shook her head. No, this was not fair. They had a rocky start; their hand was not dealt fairly. They would not be ridden with regret or tormented by the memories of their first night at Vertigo Peaks. Soon, they would be happy, find their footing, and nurture a cozy routine. They would spend the early hours of the morning in bed together, whispering stories about nothing in particular. Then they would have breakfast in their bright drawing room, with scalding hot tea that would seep through their noses and porridges and bacon and eggs. Then children. Surely, they would have children, who would fill their days with unspeakable joy and mirth. The wedding night did not matter; they could try again.

She jumped when a woman shouted her name and kicked the door. In that fleeting moment, she was captured by her dream, which left a gaping hole in her chest. She did not know which hurt her the most: the wound on her forehead or the aching of her heart? She had no idea she was so empty.

With trembling fingers, she crossed the room and stood in front of the dirty mirror. She wiped the wound clean, panting heavily, and as she caught her face in the mirror, she realized she looked ghastly and wan. Her skin had taken on a grayish, sickly pallor, and her chest heaved up and down forcefully. She looked away, pursing her lips in discomfort.

The doctor handed her the vial and gestured towards the sofa. Valerie followed, unintentionally scanning the cold chamber where the shabby but soft, red carpets, the velvet sofa, and an assortment of chairs filled the room. Several shelves lined the walls—which were otherwise empty—and Valerie saw the dusty medical kits, a variety of tools, and piles of books laying around. His desk was overflowing with scraps of paper and unused ink, and a thick seal of crimson wax protruded amidst the chaos. It was obvious that this was a place reserved solely for work, but Valerie could not help but think of the streak of light slanting on the carpets when she saw the faded line.

She had just sat down on the sofa, gulping the foul-smelling mixture in the vial as fast as she could, and the doctor started bandaging her wound when the door shook on its hinges once more. She jumped to her feet, almost dropping the bottle, and Ethan rushed to peer through one of the windows. He pulled a watch from his pocket with the initials E.V. His eyes darted across the street for a moment. She wondered what he was thinking. She always felt she was barred entrance to his thoughts, only moving in his periphery like a spirit, waiting and listening.

“The police should arrive at any moment,” he said. His voice was steady and low, and Valerie would not know the difference unless she saw his flared nostrils and the beads of sweat rolling down his temple. He was angry and perplexed.

“They’ll tire themselves out soon enough,” said the doctor, sitting on a chair across from her, his hands miraculously tending her wound. Valerie swallowed hard and fidgeted with her wedding ring until he was done. The throbbing was worse, but she let the room spin in a tight web with a surprising amount of resilience. It suddenly became unbearably hot, but she could not move to loosen her collar. Any sudden movement seared her limbs, so she sat motionless and averted her face from the bodice of her dress, which was mottled with blood stains. Instead, she looked at her husband who, twirling the tip of his mustache rather too quickly, stared at the crowd outside.

He straightened his back when the boom of batons rushed through the air and connected with the mob. The blows were incessant; Valerie imagined the police swinging their arms as the cries of the people pierced Valerie’s ears, but Ethan turned to her slowly and said, “It’s time to go home.”

2

A few days afterthe farce of their violent trip in the town, the doctor paid Ethan and Valerie a visit at Vertigo Peaks. It was a crisp, November morning. The grass along the gravel road was withering and frosted, and the white sunlight settled onto the peaks and shone over the branches. Every now and then, a squirrel darted across their yard, mouth full of acorns, dancing up and down the trees, chattering and scurrying through the leaves, and hiding its nuts before it got too cold. Valerie could see the smoke billowing over the rooftops, but the steamed window of their parlor blocked her view of the harbor and the gray stillness of the sea. It almost seemed to blend with the rippled sky, stroking the surface the way an artist’s brush would touch the canvas.

Her heart was heavy. She had her cross-stitch to keep her company while her husband bent over his letters on his desk, his finger trailing the edge of the curved letter opener. His countenance was dark and distant, and a grave reflection pervaded his features. One of his eyes winked at intervals, lending an unkind likeness to the portrait above. She perceived the man’s rigid long limbs, the same proud arch of his brow, the same dark glare in his eyes. The way Valerie’s pulse sped up terrified her. All she saw in the man’s features was Ethan Vertigo, so grand and so distinct, and it did not help that he bore the nature of his father, Emery Vertigo, like a proof of his everlasting legacy. The Vertigo Legacy.My legacy, Valerie thought.

Then why did Mrs. Harker scream about a curse upon this house, as if something ominous in the waiting drew near? What did she see in her face that called for a lingering, angry look or that vicious attack? Who was this poor soul that was lost because of her husband?

Valerie sighed. She had tried, in vain, to engage him in conversation, but there was no answer. But she needed to know before she could put the matter to rest. She raised her eyes, got up, and walked to her husband’s desk as he furiously scrawled on thick sheets of paper. Black ink began to bleed on to the page, but Ethan did not take notice. Valerie did not know what made him scribble this fervently, but the questions pounding her head kept her away from asking. Once the ink was dry, he folded the letter in half and slipped it into an old envelope. He cleaned his stained fingers with cloth before he raised his head, and all the while, she waited expectantly like a child.

“How may I help you?” he asked. His eyebrows were still furrowed with concern and fury, but in the depths of his eyes, something glowed faintly. Valerie cleared her throat and played with her ring, as if the aloof tone of his voice did not offend her. She could walk into a store right now and receive the same treatment or hear the same words from a clerk.

“That day…what was Mrs. Harker talking about?” she inquired. “She did not speak in earnest, did she?”

Her voice faltered and, for a second, she thought she might collapse. Ethan leaned back in his chair and blinked slowly. His silence was becoming painful, though Valerie did not know why.

She asked, “What about the girl…Mrs. Harker said they found another girl on the docks. Who was she?” He continued twirling the letter opener, faster and faster, and his pale face furrowed deeper. His eyes seemed to fix on the wall behind her, staring so intently that Valerie felt herself blushing.

“It was a very tiring day for all of us. I would advise you not to heed Mrs. Harker’s words.” He gave her a knowing smile that did not quite reach his eyes, then quietly dropped the letter opener. “Don’t you fret now, Mrs. Vertigo. Do not be under the illusion that this is your duty as my wife. You shall endure harsher words and tongues will rise against you. However, conversations are nothing more than a frivolous pastime in this town. Love me and honor my house, for this alone will bring you comfort and inspire absolute confidence.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, bending his neck to meet her eye. Valerie stood in front of him, motionless, not knowing what to do with his words. She was perplexed, however, as to why her husband spoke so assuredly, when she so vividly remembered Mrs. Harker’s wild eyes and that bloodthirsty mob. They were certain their fate was tied by him, walking day and night under a curse of Ethan Vertigo’s creation. How could he be so careless and unreserved when she was constantly reminded and tormented by the weight of their accusations and the doubt that followed?

But she became nervous that some turn in the conversation would bring that expression of frustration back to his face again. Thus, she turned aside and hid her face, trying to grow calmer and repeating his words over and over. If she could, she would keep his voice in her head forever. It was an instinct to soothe, to relieve the pressure. Yes, those people were bitter. Why? Because Valerie had refused to partake in their dubious interests on her wedding night. That’s why they were running from alley to alley, spreading unspeakable rumors about her and her husband. They were jealous of her being the mistress of Vertigo Peaks, and so they attacked, seeing the breath of life they would never fathom written on her face, as the brutes they were.

“I must make haste. But—ah! My dear friend will take great pleasure in accompanying you. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

Ethel—the housekeeper, maid, or cook, Valerie was not sure—entered the room, followed by the doctor. Ethan had already put on his coat and strode out of the parlor when the doctor approached her with a shy smile.

“Yes, sir,” he said as he took off his hat and sank into a fancy curtsy. “Good day, madam.”

Valerie thought he was glad to see her. She smiled back. A nervous, yet gentle smile. She liked the ease of his manner. Perhaps it was because he was not like her husband. He seemed collected, correct, and cordial.

“Good day, doctor. You must be very cold,” she muttered. “Please, have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?”

He nodded and took a seat near the crackling fire. “Yes, thank you very much.”

She threw her cross-stitch aside, hesitating for a moment. Then she rang the bell. The suspense and agony of that pealing sound stirred something inside her. She was not used to ringing bells for tea, giving orders, or approving the menus. She did not know what to say. She could not help it. It was morbid and stifling, and it did not help that she was lacking subtleties and nicety of speech, sitting in a sweat of uncertainty. Valerie had not experienced or observed the niceties of living. It was the first time she had ever encountered such a lavish display, and these things disturbed her. She felt dull at once, her hands on her lap, a set anxiety in her eyes.

They sat for a while in silence. Then the doctor addressed her with deference. “How are you doing on this gloomy morning?”

“I’m quite well, thank you. How fortunate I am to see you in such fine spirits today as well!”

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