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“Please stop,” Valerie whispered into the night and the woman drew herself back, leaving a soreness and an unbearable headache in her wake, “We cannot do this. Not tonight.”
Without the shape of Mircalla’s body, her own felt like an empty sack. She bent her limbs, drawing up to her stomach, and tried to button her chemise with unsteady hands. Blood had dried under her nails. Mircalla stirred, puckering her lips and fluttering her lashes, as though she was roused from her reverie. She sat stiffly beside her, her gaze flitting across the moonlit panes. The silence stretched between them, the only sound the dripping water from the roof.
“What is it?” Mircalla asked, sour-toned and strident, as she grew more languid and ill-tempered. Her hand was hovering in the air, inches from Valerie’s cheek.
“Who are you, Mircalla? Why can’t you confide in me when you confess how you love me? Why can’t you tell me the truth? Is it-is it because you fear I’ll banish you?”
“Valerie…”
“I don’t know who I am when you touch me and talk to me so. It rips my very being apart. You tell me I’m foolish for wanting the respect of the townspeople, yet I see no other path than this.”
“You cannot trade one curse with another, my dear Valerie.”
“I know. But if a part of you remains hidden, locked away from me, how can I surrender to your touch? How can I know if I am not running into the arms of another curse? One that is calamitous and insurmountable, for it pierces through my heart with love and lightness?” Valerie choked out, her voice trembling. “What else can I call you but a spark, a beam of light? That’s what you are to me. That’s when you come to me, in the darkest hour of my night. Yet, I cannot bring myself to lay bare in front of you, witnessing your surreptitious meetings and covert myths about yourself. I cannot help but feel that I am a target of treachery. Tell me, are you here to wreck my home and add your own mockery to my name?” asked Valerie through gritted teeth, gripping Mircalla’s shoulders. “This is precisely what I have been running away from, what I have been punished with. So, no. I will not trade one curse with another Mircalla. I will not bear another persecution.”
Valerie pressed her palms to her eyes, almost sobbing. “Valerie, my darling. Come here,” Mircalla said, her voice devoid of vehemence or the overpowering ardor, merely a hollow echo, irritated by the inconvenience of the moment. Then her voice gained strength, her breath gracing her forehead. She planted a kiss between her fingers and moved Valerie’s hands from her face.
“You bring me joy beyond measure,” Mircalla told her, in a voice as soft as a murmur. “My heart is wounded when you’re not near. I close my eyes to whisper your name—yes, call me a heathen—for I cannot see past the world without your welcoming arms. And it pains me to see you believe I’d ever betray you when I just love you so. I’ll show you what I have endured and risk my heart being broken.” She kissed the top of her head. “Tomorrow, we shall meet again.”
18
Crimson fog swirled, obscuringthe edges of her bed; shadows twisted on the floorboards. A chill seeped through the shredded tapestries, despite the roaring fire in the hearth across the room. Was it the firelight flickering or the charred remnants of her sanity slipping away? A hand, frigid and solid like a glacial lake, grasped hers, and untethered Valerie from the world like a great galleon, weathered yet sailing its voyage back home. The dampness spread from her burning forehead to her collarbones. She shivered, her clammy skin prickling as the fever tightened its grip. Through a coat of sweat, she glimpsed visions. A voice, familiar yet unraveling, murmured lullabies as she slept. She was there, she knew, somewhere in the dark corners of the room. Just out of reach, beyond the tendrils of rescue.
Valerie straightened to hear the voice, to feel the touch once more. Was that her laugh, echoing from the frosted panes, or was it a scream? Her heart hammered against her ribs and she was fading in and out of consciousness. Then, a flicker of movement at the doorway. A tall figure silhouetted against the flames, casting a shadow that stretched across her quilts. The flimsy boundary between dream and reality shifted, broke away from its lull and oblivion.
“Mircalla?” Valerie croaked, her voice a dry rasp.
The silhouette stepped closer, the firelight bathing the face in a warm, amber glow. In the liminal space between dreams and wakefulness, she saw her face, etched with compassion and worry, imposed on the fog that still swirled around her grotesquely. Mircalla appeared behind the fog, holding her hand, the furrow between her brows casting dark shadows over her countenance.
“My love,” Mircalla replied and Valerie felt her cheeks get wet, as though she was walking in the morning mist, but she did not know if she was crying. Mircalla settled onto the edge of the bed, the worn wooden frame groaning under her weight. She cradled Valerie’s hand in her own and the reeling world stopped for a moment. The blurred edges came into focus.
“You have been so sick, Valerie. But I’m here.”
“What happened? I can’t—” Valerie tried to sit upright, but Mircalla laid her down again, putting her head on the pillows. “Do not strain yourself, my dear. You’re still too weak.” She breathed deeply and sniffled. Was she crying? In her hand, Mircalla held a steaming cup, the scent of tea and lemon aroused her spirits. Valerie did not protest when Mircalla held the teacup to her lips. She took small sips, the sweet and sour taste soothing her parched throat. The silence in the room was only broken by her hoarse breathing and the crackling fire. She thought she was waiting for something to happen, the sudden releases of breath billowing out between them. Yet, in Mircalla’s company, Valerie did not want to untangle the world or face a revelation. She lapsed into another reverie that lasted until her guest spoke again.
“Valerie, I must tell you—” Mircalla said, but before she could finish her sentence, the doctor and Ethan barged in, loudly discussing something Valerie could not figure out. Mircalla jumped to her feet, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hands, and gave a curt bow to the gentlemen.
“I am certain it is the flu or fatigue!”
“She took to her bed with fever and frenzy, my friend. We have to evaluate every possibility.”
“Valerie,” Ethan gasped, his head low. The doctor was already by her side, rummaging through his bag of bottles and herbs and peculiar liquids. His vials clinked as he regarded her with Valerie thought to be pity. The glisten of perspiration on his upper lip, his tightened jaw, the vein pulsing on his temple lurched her stomach. He sat where Mircalla was sitting a moment ago. Where did she go?
Mircalla stroked her hair and said with a faint smile before leaving the room, “I haven’t forgotten about my promise. You rest well, my dear. I’ll come and see you later.”
“Now… let’s see what we have here. How do you do, Mrs. Vertigo?” He took her pulse. “We have been very worried about your health.”
Valerie did not wish to speak. She could feel her husband’s eyes on her, intent and solemn, but did not look up. “May I?” The doctor pointed at her chest. Valerie nodded. He loosened her nightgown to place a cold metal device on her heart, and pulled a glass thermometer and placed it in her mouth. Suddenly, Valerie was conscious of her body as one might be conscious of it in a free fall, seconds before a crush, a horripilation of dread tingling down the skull, warming the spine. Once everything was set, the physician cast a furtive glance at his friend, his nostrils flared, and whispered to Valerie, “I’m sorry to ask you this, madam, but is there any chance I can see your neck?”
Ethan was chewing on his lip, swaying on the heels of his boot, then said in a rather high voice, “I’ll be back in a minute. Please carry on.”
“Madam?”
The scorching, searing, freezing pain of her wound made Valerie wince. She knew what the doctor was looking for, what the outcome would be. Her heart almost catapulted out of her chest, but she was too consumed by fever to resist. The doctor braced her chin, tracing the jawline then turned her head to the side, exposing the throbbing neck. Valerie did not have to see her wound to know what it looked like: It was the mark of the plague.
The doctor grunted. “Mrs. Vertigo… Why haven’t you sent someone for me? Why did you hide it? Why?”
What could she say? Throwing herself into the belly of the disease seemed more tolerable than the judgment and isolation that the plague brought. Even if she confessed that it was a woman pacing in the woods, staring and piercing her soul with scarlet eyes, the doctor would not believe her.
