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“Mircalla, will you forgive me if I ask you a question?”
Her imploring eyes gave Mircalla a pause. It was still cold in the room, the frost on the windows, and Valerie was grateful that Mircalla had kindled the fire to keep her warm. But she, leaning dejectedly on her lover’s arm as she smoothed her hair, was perplexed by this incurable coldness that overshadowed everything. A great vapor of her tea swirled beside the bed like a string and she had tried to warm her swollen fingertips with the cup. But it was all in vain.
“Was this the sensation that possessed you—prickling, bruising aching in the heart? Were you this far from well when you came to us? Do you think me very ill?”
She looked at her, Mircalla’s smile faded.
“I was lost. I have nothing left of those days but a terrible dream and it demands, most certainly, a desire for silence. But my love, my dear Valerie, I came here with the same feelings that disturb you now. I-I think you not ill, the recovery will be quick, quick. Your heart will ease. I am sure.”
It was, perhaps, far easier to bring the memory of Mircalla’s illness to mind and plunge herself into abject misery than seeking remedy for herself. Yet, Valerie couldn’t find it in her heart to turn away from Mircalla and invite others to crowd the room with their narrowed eyes and uncertain words. She did not want recovery unless it came from Mircalla, who knew her heart and soul and all its anxieties. A minute later, her throat closed with a stifling sensation—as if her heart were larger than her chest, frozen and queasy. It produced in her a feeling of unquenchable thirst: a ragged mouth and distressed, shaking hands; a similar languor which once possessed her dear guest.
Mircalla, on the contrary, was glowing. Her face was radiant and charming in the muted winter light, bursts of sparks covered last night’s lust but Valerie felt she could ignite it if she held her close. Her wild hair was disheveled in places and her lips looked so plump that it turned almost a deep maroon color.
“I wonder if this will keep you warm.” Mircalla shifted and pulled Valerie on top of her. She pouted, as if in deep thought, then a wide smile flitted across her face. “My findings tell me it will, based on how rosy-cheeked you were yesterday.”
“Mircalla—” She gasped, words stuck in her throat. She dug her nails into Mircalla’s round shoulders, trying to balance herself, then leaned on her elbows. Their lashes almost touched, and she studied the violent circles under her eyes, traced the faint tremble of her lips, and heard air leaving her mouth. Mircalla lifted her hips a little bit and they looked at each other for a moment. Must she remember her mistakes, or hold deep inside her a piece of lacking? She wanted to let Mircalla catch her in her arms, settle between her legs, and keep her awake. She wanted happiness, eventually, and to never miss a moment again. She dipped her chin to kiss Mircalla on the side of her mouth and Mircalla tilted her head and kissed her softly, cold and salty, like the sea. She never belonged to herself before this moment.
Valerie was licking the gap on her former guest’s chest when Ethan’s voice echoed through the hallway. They exchanged glances with the precision of a couple, and the realization of which made her almost smile, yet her husband’s voice kept her away from the fondness of her thoughts.
“Valerie, where the hell are you? Valerie!”
Mircalla pushed her off the bed and she stumbled toward where Mircalla’s nightgown laid on top of the heap their clothes made last night. Thankfully, the dress seemed at least decent enough to put on. It was not spotless, yet crusted blood stains were easy to hide if she let her hair down her shoulders.
She peeked out the keyhole but the hall was completely dark. It occurred to her that he might be waiting by the door, ready to spit on her face and shake his fist. Her hand froze on the knob, and there was a loud click as she turned it. She held her breath, keeping it turned, waiting to see if there was any sound—a sharp breath, feet stomping, a squeak of vengeance. Nothing.
“Ethan? Where are you?” she called in the dark and walked for a while, feeling the damp walls and peeling wallpaper to find her way.
“Where were you? I checked your chambers two times already and have been screaming your name at the top of my lungs like a damned fisherman.”
Valerie could not see anything, but heard the sound of rasping, labored breathing and smelled the taint of smoke on the walls.
“I haven’t been up for long, Ethan. I was just chatting with Miss Karnstein, wishing the lady a good day.”
If she could see, she would swear that a cloud of disbelief passed his face, yet he said nothing, only stood before her as if unsure of what to do, the whites of his eye gleaming like rotten eggs, then pulled her into the dappled light on the landing. He was shaking his head, and then pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking.
“Yes, fine. Well done. Brilliant work as a hostess, much better than the last time people were in our house, if I may. But…that’s not the point.” He shook his head again, his bushy mustache also rippling. Valerie noticed how he bent his neck like a hook, as he usually did in the pursuit of a zealous occasion. It was difficult to keep her face straight. “Cecilia and her little group want to stop by for tea this afternoon.”
Valerie scoffed. “What for? To taunt me or to flaunt their unmatched brilliance?”
“Do not be childish, it’s very unbecoming of you.” He shifted his weight from one leg to another, apparently thinking about the same possibility himself. “Besides, their butler was not as morose as usual, Ethel said. He even tugged the corners of his mouth into a smile, apparently, which petrified her, poor thing.”
Seeing Valerie unmoved by the news, Ethan cleared his throat and assumed an air of overexcitement to justify the proposal. His eyes almost bulged out of his sockets and his shoulders trembled under the weight of his bouncing head. “It’s an olive branch, a peace treaty, or whatever you call it, you see? I’m most confident we’ll see some progress.”
“On what exactly?” Valerie folded her arms.
“Cecilia has not been very supportive of our marriage and my power, but this is a step forward. She knows she made a mistake and that no matter what happens, what calamity befalls us, people cherish what I’ve done for them. They know I devoted my life for their prosperity and I think Cecilia understands this now.”
He grabbed her hand with a slip of fever, like he had never touched her before—loutishly, without affection or need. He always had a tendency to take and claim, with a precise aversion to what he could not possess, and Valerie always stood beside him crestfallen and waxy. She drew her hand back.
“If you believe so,” she said in a weak voice. His presence was draining the life force out of her. “I’ll let Miss Karnstein know.”
The ticking heart of Vertigo Peaks was calm as a sparrow. Valerie did not know what to make of this stillness; it was strange, like a cut on the lip, standing in the middle of a room without the quakes of the manor-house under her feet, the gruff noises and exhalations, as though something crucial had disappeared and its absence left the scene disappointing.
She had been informed by Ethel, who carried a tiny scribbled note with burnt edges, that she was to meet with Cecilia and her cohort alone. “This is a special occasion. Visiting female friends would be bored out of their minds if I were there. Make the most of it.”
Valerie smoothed a crease on her champagne gold tea gown, adjusting the ruffles on the lace of her bodice and sleeve cuffs, pushing back the coiling longer train trimmed in black velvet. Getting rid of the dried blood under her nails proved to be a disaster. Likewise, she had to wash her mouth over and over again to erase any trace of crusty skin and tissues. The morbid fascination of the night had disappeared and left a grotesque form in its wake, riddled with the remains of her hunger. Nevertheless, she still looked lavishly feminine in her dress, and like her husband wanted, with a disposition ever amiable.
“Have they arrived?”
