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Ah, Mircalla! She was the only person who was vexed at the sudden arrangement of these precarious affairs, once neglected rightfully, now delightfully tended as one did a garden once the roar of winter expired. Her pretty face became agitated, her manners strange, sulking in her room all day, looking quite heartbroken, and whispering her bitter words of longing, mentioning how wounded she was that Valerie was always away with a flash in her eyes.
“You’re always leaving. Away from home, away from me. I close my eyes and picture you, all that I can see is the back of your neck. Long and slender, the tousled curls on your shoulder. I hate looking at your back! I hardly see your face anymore—sockets without eyes, lips no longer mine.”
“It’s not true, Mircalla. Don’t you know that every night I run to your arms? You are my only repose.”
Mircalla stood, uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot, on the far side of her chamber, wrapping her arms around herself. “You abandoned me when your name was written all over my body, when you are everywhere present in me: at the root of my existence. Should I abase myself further? Tear my clothes? Sear my flesh? I will not settle for this, or sigh for a woman who never comes.”
“How can you speak so? What can you mean by this?” Valerie asked, crossing the room as she reached out for her. Mircalla sighed and dropped her hand.
“For you, I am but a warped desire.”
“Have I failed to show you that I am yours, that I bleed with you when you’re wounded? My lips haven’t known a tender spirit before yours, my hands have never held one quite as rapturous as you.” She exhaled. “Hold my hand.”
Mircalla gave a start, then hesitantly pressed her hand. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“There’s nothing in this world that will make you untrue. No amount of praise will ever replace your sweet whispers. You loved me as I am. And no matter where I go, in grief and horror, I will always find my way back to you. Always.”
Valerie wiped the tears from Mircalla’s face. It was surprising how, like a wilted rose, the woman before her melted into nothingness in the blink of her eye. She had shrunk smaller like when she was taken sick; her skin wan and robbed of its luscious glow, cold to the bone, her mouth scornful, her jaw trembling. Yet, it was still her Mircalla Karnstein, who found her in the moonlit garden after she was humiliated, wiping the rolling tears from her flushed cheeks, soothing her worries with the touch of her hand.
“Let’s leave the house tonight,” Valerie proposed. “I do not wish to see you distraught. Have you eaten today at all?”
“Have you not…noticed?” Mircalla raised a brow, the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips.
“I know.” Valerie giggled, her fingers laced at the back of Mircalla’s neck, pulling her closer.
“I don’t eat human food if I can help it.”
“I know.”
“I might need to taste you, though. For the sake of our decorum.”
Mircalla lowered her head, two rows of sharp teeth flashing, and Valerie threw her head back in anticipation. Instead, Mircalla kissed the spot under her ear then kissed it again. “I want to remember you this way,” she said, “in my arms and wild and full of life.”
Then her forehead creased with worry more and more with each passing second. Her hand wandered up Valerie’s neck, looking for the sharp swell on it, that fading blue, like an old friend. “How’s your wound?” she asked, a strand of silver glinting on her back.
Valerie bit her lips. She placed her hand over Mircalla’s and felt the bulge, the faint pulse beneath it, a regular pattern that somehow soothed her. The itch was fading from her memory, a sensation not unlike teeth closing around her flesh, ripping a mouthful. A persistent cold, instead, rushing and queasy, was settling between her limbs. The same languid feeling that possessed her lover. Her stomach was sunken and it made her sway like a burst of wind, yet she did not mind the looseness and the latent leap of her intellect and imagination. She had been dreaming the same dreams: Mircalla on her chest, pulsing between the crease of her thighs, streams of euphoria gushing from her mouth with a hunger for more.
Valerie told her that it was almost completely healed, sweating as she spoke, but did not mention any of her dreams.
That night, they sneaked out of Vertigo Peaks again. Valerie peered through the keyhole of her husband’s study, and though dim, she could see him pacing around the room, head buried in papers; an empty glass in one hand, a pen in the other, then moved slowly to her room and changed into her runaway clothes—starched chemise, one of her husband’s old trousers, and a long coat that clung to the soft curves of her body.
She realized she liked the assortment of clothes and draped layers: a tight corset laced under the chemise, trousers over the knit silk hose for extra warmth. The chilling touch of fabric against her back, the striking contrast of colors. She belonged to two worlds at once, radiant and rounder, slamming and dragging out the momentary and overtired.
Mircalla met her at the back door in the kitchen. Ethel was sleeping on a chair, arm propped under her chin, snoring lightly, and her cap squeezed in her fist. She had a skittish look about her, as though she was waiting for something to break loose, her eyes rolling in their sockets and fluttering the lids in swift motions. A wave of compassion and concern flooded Valerie while Mircalla pressed a finger against her lips and went ahead of her, pushing the door, already ajar, and disappeared into the starless night.
They passed through the woods fleetingly. Their feet did not falter, light and knowing, and soon they were at the clearing again. This time, however, Valerie did not hide in the shadows. She regarded the scene before her on a log, one hand on the side of a pine tree to keep her balance: the crackling of fire before a moment of silence; spotting her vision with ashes scattered to the wind, its dwindling glow reflecting an amber sheen that stung her eyes.
Valerie looked for Mircalla but she had already joined the small group, screaming and twirling around the flames with others; a lurch of bodies, shoving through each other’s limp shoulders to get to the essence—another body on the snow. She knew well the sensation that began to soar in the back of her throat. It made such a profound impression upon her mind that she realized escape was impossible. Her teeth were itching, eyes burning, tongue swollen and forcing its way out. It was an act of preservation, she told herself, nothing unlike the hunger for bread and wine.
She approached the scene, staring at the remnants of the body. Her heart was thumping and her hands felt weak. The group’s melody was strange to her ears, grating even, and she did not know anyone. There was only the shared thirst that parched their lips, the inhuman cry that almost split their skulls. She retreated a few steps, filled with a desire to go back, unsure of where to look, but then Mircalla appeared beside her, smiling. She did not need any invitations then. She would cross ruined lands and deep oceans if Mircalla held her hand and led the way. There was an entrenched comfort, perhaps a laughable eccentricity for most, woven into her personality that Mircalla ignited. Everything that flamed supposed her presence. Valerie could recite the way her breaths came shallow yet slow, and imagine the gap between her lips that pressed against hers like an ambitious student, for who could stand between this want of hers and this gift? It was all she was made of and Valerie had no desire for another resolution.
They approached the body together, tangled in a sea of crisp arms and bare thighs. A lot of eyes were fixed on her as she was slouching with her head pushed forward, her eyes riveted on the side of the woman’s half-eaten face. Her thirst for blood was visceral, exciting, violent; it clawed at her throat and nearly strangled her. She sniffed the woman, circling, treading her feet around the body like a vulture. The smell was sharp but pleasing; a bare, carnal incense that lingered.
She moved her hands, red and numb from the cold, on the uneaten side of the woman’s face. It was still warm and with a healthy hue. She would be wise to shut her eyes and sink her teeth, but as her mouth opened, she noticed the red boils on the side of the woman’s face, some erupted with scars, some still taut with pus. Her face, contorted and thinned, looked ready to wail. Her silver teeth stuck out, as if to disprove, and Valerie, in horror of recognizing the woman, froze.
It was Lady Catherine. They saw each other two days ago, all tucked in Cecilia’s carriage, riding to her cabin by the sea with champagne glasses in hand. They were roaring with laughter, as they were wont to do since the visit to Vertigo Peaks, and bursting into loud chatter, talking about nothing in particular, but having a great time. She was draped in a sage green dress and a hazel-colored muffin on her lap, displaying her luxuriant lashes and rose-tinted lips in the same manner. Lady Catherine whose previous glare had turned into a wary sideways glance. She had not welcomed Valerie with open arms, nor did she expect her to, but she had still left her demeaning attitude aside and engaged Valerie in conversation. But now, juxtaposed against the lingering sensation of friendship, she looked like nothing more than sagging eyes and a lusterless figure.
But the thirst took over. And with tears streaming down her face, Valerie bent over the body, pressing her lips to the horribly pallid and mangled breast, and her throat was bare, showing the two wide punctures which she had not noticed before. The sight of blood splattered over the snow in an enlarging pool, welling up between her teeth and staining her gums like marmalade, made her dizzy. Nothing made a sound except for the blood’s squelching on her fingers.
