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Famished into surrender, she let her creep closer. Her mouth sparked ominously. Valerie’s heart was beating against her chest like a drum. She gasped when the woman tipped her face back. Her back against a tree, she parted her lips to speak but could only give a little whimper.
She leaned in and gave her a kiss. First it was fleeting and glassy like a drizzle against the tall windows in her room; then, it was passionate and devotional like a song.
Soon they became entangled. The woman put her nose against her neck, breathing heavily, and Valerie wondered if she caught on fire. Her limbs seared with pain, where the lady’s mouth touched made her burn as blood slipped under her tongue. A tenacious warning. Yet she was soothed by the sensation.
The coppery taste made her wince, but she was too weak to separate herself from the woman. She was reminded of something—a fragment of midnight, words whispered in the dark that she did not want to think about anymore. Lately, her life had been morphing into resentment and aversion, crumbling around her like a broken promise. But this wanting, iridescent and direct, caught herself in between abundance and wanting more. It was her right to hold on to its wings, soar above the frozen wild poppies and leave the dry moors behind.
She ran her hand through the woman’s windswept hair and pressed her lips on hers again, slipping under the edge of her world and making a slit in the center. It wouldn’t dare to hold and she wouldn’t step back.
The woman pushed Valerie’s hair back and clawed at her throat until Valerie yelped at the sight of her blood. It wasn’t enough. She sank her teeth deep and the skin opened, as if two needles pierced her breast, but Valerie was still dreaming about the poppies. It was strange, having a self to protect and untether from the overgrown roots. But in the woods, her head thrown back and inviting this hungry woman deeper, she was at peace.
The woman drained her blood and she moaned with equal pain and pleasure. Her hands wandered up Valerie’s waist then and slipped under her nightgown, circling around her collarbones as though casting a spell. A numbing sensation overtook the pain and ran through her veins.
It devastated her when she pulled back, the back of her throat ached with an unfamiliar blaze, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep the lady’s warmth, the indentation of her body a little longer.
“I won’t hurt you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse against her ear and she was quiet again for a minute, but then she closed the distance between them and kissed her again, summoning all kinds of thoughts. Dangerous ones, luscious ones.
Valerie rekindled at once and parted her lips, half-awake and in anticipation, as the woman settled between her legs. The salt and blood on the woman’s lips mixed with her own blood and the sweet evening tea. Their bodies crashed and the wind whirled around them, reducing everything into a haze, and the woman’s loose golden hair whipped against her face.
An earthy smell filled her lungs and she smiled with the realization of this new awakening. What stood in front of her was barely a reflection, rather she took the woman as an omen, ravenous as she was, and a part of her soul. It was alarming and it was beautiful.
A cry ripped through the hush of the woods and the lady startled back, her eyes still fixed on Valerie, then pulled her up to her feet.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” A boy emerged behind the trees, through the hollow. The yellow light of his lantern revealed a long, slender neck. His beard was short and scruffy in a way that gave him a look of prematurity. He began to move swiftly among a grove of bushes, stopping every now and then to jump over thorns, the dry leaves crackling under his feet. “Are you deaf? I’m talking to you!”
Valerie pursed her lips, swaying on her feet as if in a trance, enveloped still in a warm, bright desire. The boy put his hand in the pocket of his long, shabby coat and pulled out something. Valerie could not see it at first then he turned it between his fingers. A handle of a knife. It glistened under the glow of the lantern as he hurried in their direction, leaping over branches and snow.
It was so sudden, and so unlike anything that she had ever witnessed, that Valerie could not even make a sound. The boy’s lantern slipped from his fingers and rolled on the ground as the young lady climbed on top of him, pinning his lean body with ease. She buried her face in the boy’s neck, like she did to Valerie, while he tried to wriggle from her grasp. He let out a scream, grabbing his throat as fresh blood gushed out, bubbling with foam, blanketing the frozen ground in a small pool of crimson. In his struggle, his eyes found Valerie then widened in shock. His blood-soaked hand extended in her direction, knowing and accusatory.
Valerie slowly became conscious of her surroundings—the austere simplicity of blood sprayed on the deep snow, the very air churning in a sickly odor, the cast of woman’s shadow standing over the convulsing boy’s bitten neck, the whistles of owls hovering over her head. She tried to keep her head still as she backed away, afraid of making a sudden movement. The woman was not distracted from her work, stiff and panting, so she ran until the rusty gates of Vertigo Peaks rose in front of her, its ornate letters arching high above, catching the silver light of the moon, the punctures on her throat pulsating.
7
The morning was violent.Valerie woke up with a terrible headache, a glossy fog over her brain, and a burning in the back of her throat. When only a dull soreness like a bruise remained, she sat up in the empty bed—she could hear the muffled voices coming through her husband’s study—and saw how bleak the day was. The snowfall obscured the peaks from view and made the empty fields indistinguishable from the forest that surrounded them. The wind sang its soft and thrilling tune, the flakes falling slowly, yet for Valerie the day had already faded, hushed and heavy. The hazy impression of the previous night was nothing more than a fickle thought.
Today, she was changed. She could never go back to those early days of timid anticipation and eager hopes, filled with unfamiliar desire and optimism, the likes of which Valerie only remembered from her childhood when she held no responsibilities and played as she wished with the children who lived next door. The cracked mirror above the basin showed her to herself—an old, weary face and the infinitesimal remnant of what she could have been. Her wound healed perfectly, the bulge had disappeared and the cut left a faint violet line on her forehead. Yet Valerie could still feel the dripping blood, the scratching fabric of her bandage when her eyes wandered to the spot the rock hit.
If she married a man of importance, she had thought once, she would be saved from her uncle’s wrath. But a husband’s hand was no different from the hands of an uncle. They were the same brute, hands still on her throat, despite love. She had fancifully believed love sheltered her, belonged to her. Yet, twisting and turning in front of the cracked mirror, Valerie was struggling to find, from inside her skin, a way out, and maybe be known.
“Why aren’t you dressed? Has not Ethel told you?”
The heavy door cracked open, Ethan was standing in the doorway, his eyes ablaze. He closed the distance between them and ran his palms over Valerie’s cheeks. She could feel the dampness of his skin against hers, cold and confining, wincing as his fingers ran over the throbbing puncture marks. She buried her chin in the high collar of her nightgown, hoping he did not notice the swell and heat of her scarlet skin. Glancing at the mirror, she noticed a splatter of dark blood and covered the spot with her matted hair in haste.
“What?” replied she, with what she hoped was a steady voice. He shot a worried glance at her, taking in a deep breath, then spoke so slowly it seemed like every word was vital to his existence.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harker expect us this evening for dinner! I suppose the success of our trip urged them to offer an olive branch—but think, dear! All the disturbances we’ve had, our standing in the society, my reputation…We can secure our future, darling.”
Her mind was far away, the memory of his clandestine arrangement with the doctor was still boiling in her stomach. She did not understand the reason behind his obsession with his standing or name; he was already a respectable, rich man, but she still managed to smile.
“I am most delighted,” she said, trying to arrange her facial features into a calm expression. Instead, she wanted to say, “I don’t understand you. I am horrified by your illicit ways. What secrets lie behind your facade? Why don’t you want me the way you want the favorable opinion of this forsaken town?”
He leaned over close, his slender neck bending like a reptile, and planted a kiss between her knuckles, beaming like a schoolboy. “They most kindly will send their carriage. Ours is not sturdy enough for this weather—” He looked out the window, a furrow of anxiety appearing on his forehead, but the spark in his greedy eyes quickly returned before he left the room without another glance at Valerie.
The horse-drawn carriage came to a sharp halt in front of the ivory manor’s drive. The click-clack of hooves against cobblestone echoed through the silent road, announcing their arrival. Valerie was sitting beside her husband. The lanterns were already lit, casting a warm, orange glow over his face, disfiguring his features into grimacing, sharp shadows. He had a gleam in his eyes that Valerie could not decide whether malicious or mischievous. Her gloved hands clutched onto the folds of her blue-laced dress. Its ruffled neckline was high, and the sleeves were long enough to cover the bruises thankfully. After Ethan left her room, she inspected herself like a detective, searching for minute details of hurt. She found herself not in a bad shape: a couple scratches from the bushes, splinters in the back of her leg, blooming bruises on her wrists, chest, and neck. They were not as bad as the sharp, swollen puncture marks, which were constantly itching and carved into her skin like knife wounds. The rash that erupted on the side of her neck and collarbone was the worst, yet Valerie was too afraid to ask for help.
Her heart pounding, she scratched a spot over the fabric just as Ethan leaned over and whispered in her ear, cracking his leather glove with the turn of his hand, “Please be courteous.” His voice was warm and sweet, yet Valerie could not help seeing the constraint on his complexion.
The smell of pine and rotten fish filled her lungs when she slid her hand into his. The house was situated at the skirts of the open sea where boats frequently moored and the seamen roared unintelligible orders at their subordinates. Snow hid them from view, but Valerie could imagine their frostbitten faces, furrowed by the wash of sea salt and pale light, the staff unfurling weeds and fish net from the ships’ sterns, wiping mist from their battered jackets and beads of sweat from their wool caps.
