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“They will watch us and see the marriage consummated,” he breathed down her neck. “It’s tradition.” She wriggled under him as a worm might in the mud. It was not a tradition, but perversion and voyeurism, she thought as his hand climbed up her thigh, his sweaty chest against hers. Her gaze jumped between the myriad of people—the timid girl, the doctor, the women who bathed her—and the ceiling. Her fists were full with the crumpled sheets, and she laid still until the roar of people calmed a little, scathing tears making a path to her ears.
She usually weaved her movements slowly, without haste or much deliberation, encompassing nothing beyond her senses; a shiny slate of unprovoked thoughts and free flowing emotions. Yet, when people lurched toward their bed to snatch the blood-soaked sheet and wave it like a flag, she sprung to her feet and screeched like a hell-bound creature, not caring about the flush of her cheeks or the aching between her legs.
“Get out,” she screamed. “Stop it!”
She felt cumbered and nauseous. They swooned over their bed, chanting the same two words over and over again—Save us! Save us! Save us!—rubbing the silk against their teary eyes and wet cheeks where her thick, coppery blood began to dry already. She ripped it away from their brute hands and tossed it into the fire as they grumbled and stomped their feet. Some said, “Leave it be!” while others cried, “You’ll ruin us!”
“It’s tradition,” her husband kept saying, barely moving his lips. Valerie curled on the bed, breathless and trembling in fear, as dust fell from the ceiling, her back vibrating as if the house sighed in relief. What did she think would happen marrying a man of importance? She would adorn herself with rings and live content forevermore? She was a fool. Of course people would expect charity and attention. Of course they would demand reverence for orders and traditions and decorum.
She sat upright with a start when she heard Ethel, startled by the blur of her curtsy. Her hands were trembling. “You summoned me, my lady?”
“Have a seat, please.”
Ethel turned around, thinking Valerie was talking to someone else, and blushed when she realized she was being addressed. “I am afraid I cannot do that, Mrs. Vertigo.”
Valerie raised a brow. “Why?” Ethel started biting her lower lip, her gaze fixed on the red carpet. “I am your maid, madam. I cannot.”
This time. it was Valerie who blushed. But she gathered herself quickly and took on a somewhat firm tone. She needed answers and embarrassing her maid would not help get them. “Why is that wing of the house so neglected?” she asked, swallowing hard. If she had been more experienced and educated, she might find a way to frame her questions with quick wit. But she was just a naive peasant who had married a noble man, so all her ways had to be blunt.
Ethel twitched the folds of her apron. She searched the room and spoke quickly like a prisoner who had taken a plea bargain. “Mr. Vertigo’s father was accustomed to that wing when he was alive. After his demise, his sister moved her chambers there. But…Her tragic death was enough for Mr. Vertigo to abandon that wing entirely.”
A mix of shock and disbelief coursed through Valerie’s veins. Why hasn't Ethan mentioned her once before? Why did he keep such a secret? Why did everyone know this sister and her lost soul but her? Her heart was torn between anger and sadness. She had married into a web of deceit, a man who had kept his own flesh and blood hidden away like some shameful secret.
“Why have you concealed her from me then?” She was losing her control, her voice tinged with desperation. She felt the desperate loneliness creeping up on her, the uninterrupted isolation and bleak silence. Her eyes were so full of tears that she couldn’t see straight. “Why haven’t you uttered a single word?”
The maid’s hands trembled more violently, her voice barely above a whisper. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady, but I swear it on my soul that I thought Mr. Vertigo mentioned her to you. He was so fond of her before—”
“What?”
Ethel’s eyes darted to the painting hung above the fireplace. Valerie followed her gaze and there was her husband, young and fierce, sitting on a chair. His mother was sitting right next to him, a wistful smile illuminating her countenance, and his father’s wrist hung over his shoulder like an iron hand, his imposing stature not less frightening. Befitting for a house like this, she thought.
The maid looked up, meeting Valerie’s gaze. “There are whispers amongst the staff and in the town.” She hesitated for a moment. “There are those who claim she met her end in a most peculiar way, they say.”
Valerie held her breath and clenched her hands together until her knuckles turned white. Outside snow had begun to swirl round the peaks, drifting down in silence. The manor-house was perfectly quiet for once, the only sound coming from the embers of the log fire.
“But they never found the body, madam.”
6
The voice had beenbeating outside her heart for hours when one night she woke up with a start. She heard it call her name, yet she sensed it wanted her blood. Its callous cadence didn’t let Valerie drowse peacefully. She tossed in her bed like mist on crushed leaves.
“Keep looking at me Valerie,” the voice called out, “I’m near. Come closer.”
And in that moment, all she knew was her name, splashed in scarlet letters, followed by eyes in deeper crimson shade. The uncertainty of her frenzy and the restlessness disappeared. She was not frightened, for she found a quietly composed, sanguine face looking at herself from the side of her bed. It was a young lady, pretty and curious-looking, kneeling in front of her. Valerie’s chest suddenly rose and fell with mirth; she listened with rapture.
“Valerie, come near.”
She looked at the lady with calm composure as she caressed her, the delicate touch of her hand made Valerie shiver. Suddenly, the door flung open and she met the thrill of night, drawing towards the lady as a lover made their way to reverie. Its toil, its embrace, its mysticism, like a desperate kiss. That’s how she searched for her. Through an act of desperation, movements of sweet dependence upon recognition. To be wanted, to be needed in the exact bones she took shape.
The voice kept calling and she bent like a twig, barely conscious of her bare feet. Her nightgown was billowing up around her ankles; the auburn strands of hair curled up by the wind, brushing her cheeks. Her face quickly became wet from the snow as it cut her cheeks, yet Valerie marched on, treading the earth as lightly as she could for a quick release.
Her throat burned with thirst, her lips parched, tantalized by a breath of bewildering glimpses. Deep in the lush woods, beyond the reach of moonlit hills and wavering cries of owls, lurked a shadow. The intent was clear from the moment she laid eyes upon her crooked figure: to hunt, to gnaw, and satiate its feral ache.
“My dear,” it whispered and shot up.
The lady's face appeared again, it was cracked and sunken in places, gleaming in the dark. The white of her eyes were consumed; only a red spark lingered, but it still lit up her entire face and her drooping smile. She was reaching out, pale as the waning moon, but the limbs seemed as though they were cut off. The hue of them was sleek, dark and exuded a certain kind of warmth. Blood trailed through the folds of her dress like a river, sweeping up the weeds and moss.
She moved and Valerie moved.
