by Alma Katsu
“Oh my dear, don’t be so sad. I know it’s scary. I was scared when it happened to me.”
“But, Alej, what are we?” I asked, hugging the pillow to my chest.
“You are yourself, Lanore. You are not part of the magic world. You can’t pass through walls like a ghost or visit God in his heaven like an angel. We sleep and wake, eat and drink, go through our day like anyone else. The only difference is that another person might ponder, from time to time, which day will be his last. But you and I, our days will never end. We go on, bearing witness to everything around us.” He said all this dispassionately, as though the endless shuffle of days had washed all the excitement out of him. “When Adair explained what he’d done to me, I wanted to escape from him, even if it meant killing myself—the one thing I couldn’t do.
“But to lose your baby on top of it … well, it is too terrible to contemplate. Poor Lanore. Your sadness will pass, you know,” he continued in his singsong English, accented with Spanish. He took a sip of tea and then looked at me through steam rising from the cup. “Every day your past drifts farther and farther away and life with Adair grows more and more familiar. You become part of this family. Then, one day, you will remember something from your other life—a brother or a sister, a holiday, the house where you used to live, a toy you used to cherish—and you realize you no longer mourn its loss. It will seem like something from long ago. That’s when you know the change is complete.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him. “How long does it take for the pain to go away?”
Alejandro lifted a lump of sugar from the bowl with a tiny pair of tongs and dropped it into his tea. “It depends on how sentimental you are. Me, I am very tenderhearted. I loved my family and missed them for ages after the change. But Dona, for instance, he probably never looked back. His family had abandoned him when he was a little boy, for being a catamite,” Alejandro said, dropping his voice to a whisper on the last few words, even though we were all sodomites in this house. “His life was full of deprivation and uncertainty. Lynchings. Starvation. Imprisonment. No, I don’t imagine he has any regrets.”
“I don’t think my pain will ever fade. My child is gone! I want my child back. I want my life back.”
“You can never have your child back, you know that,” he said gently, stroking my arm. “But why, my dear, would you want your old life back? From what you have told me, you have nothing to return to: your family threw you out. They abandoned you in your time of need. I see nothing to regret leaving behind.” Alejandro stared into me with his dark, gentle eyes, as though he could summon the answer from my heart. “In times of trouble, we often want to go back to the familiar. That will go away.”
“Well, there is one thing …,” I murmured.
He leaned forward, eager for my confession.
“A friend. I miss a particular friend.”
Alejandro was, as he’d said, a tender soul who loved nostalgia. He squeezed his eyes shut, like a cat sitting in the warmth of the sun on a windowsill, eager to drink in my story. “It’s always the people you miss the most. Tell me about this friend.”
Since I’d left St. Andrew, I tried as hard as possible not to think about Jonathan. It was beyond my ability not to think of him at all, so I allowed myself only short indulgences, such as a few minutes before falling asleep, when I’d recall the feel of his warm, flushed cheek pressed against mine, the way my spine tingled when he circled his hands around my corseted waist, claiming me for his own. It was hard enough to control my emotions when Jonathan was only a ghost on the fringes of my memory: to recall him directly was painful. “I can’t. I miss him too much,” I told Alejandro.
Alejandro leaned back. “This friend means everything to you, doesn’t he? He is the love of your life. He was the father of your child.”
“Yes,” I said. Alejandro waited for me to go on, his silence like a string tugging at me, until I obliged. “His name is Jonathan. I’ve been in love with him since we were children. Most people would say that he was too good to end up with me. His family owns the town where I lived—it’s not big or wealthy, but everyone there depends on Jonathan’s family to survive. And then there is his great beauty.” I blushed. “You must think me a terribly shallow person …”
“Not at all!” he said amicably. “No one is immune to the sway of beauty. But truly, Lanore, how beautiful could he be? Think of Dona, for instance. So striking that he enchanted one of the greatest artists in Italy. Is he more beautiful than Dona?”
“If you met Jonathan, you’d understand. He would make Dona look like a troll.”
That made Alejandro chuckle; none of us liked Dona very much—he was so vain he was nearly intolerable. “You must not let Dona hear you say that! Very well, then—what about Adair? Is he not a handsome fellow? Have you ever seen eyes like his? They are like a wolf ’s …”
“Adair has a certain charm.” An animal charm, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud. “But there is no comparison, Alej. Believe me. But—it’s of no consequence. I’ll never see him again.”
Alejandro patted my hand. “Don’t say that. You don’t know—you may.”
“I can’t imagine going home, not now. Isn’t it as Adair said in his story? How would I explain it to them?” I scoffed.
“There are ways … You couldn’t live among them again. No, that would be out of the question, but a brief visit … if you stayed only a short while …” He toyed with his lower lip, contemplative.
“Don’t raise my hopes. It’s too cruel.” Tears pressed at my eyes. “Please, Alejandro, I need to rest. I have a terrible headache.”
He pressed his fingers to my forehead briefly. “No fever … Tell me, this headache, does it feel like a constant prickling in the back of your mind?” I nodded. “Yes? Well, my dear, you’d best get used to it. That is not a headache: that is part of the gift. You are connected to Adair now.”
“Connected to Adair?” I repeated.
“There is a bond between you two, and that sensation is a reminder of that bond.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Remember how I said that you were changed only in one way, that you were not magical? Well, we are a bit magical, just a little bit. Sometimes I think we are like animals, you know? You must have noticed how everything seems a little brighter, how you can hear the tiniest noise, how every odor stings so sharply at your nose? That is part of the gift: the transformation makes us better. We are enhanced. You will hear a voice from a long way away and know who is coming to visit, you can detect the aroma of sealing wax and know a person has a letter hidden on them. You will cease to notice these powers in time, but to others it will seem like you are a mind reader, that you are magic!
“The second thing you must know is that you will no longer feel pain. It has to do with the ability not to die, I think. You will not feel the sharpness of hunger or thirst. Oh, it takes time for the reflex, the expectation that one must eat and drink, to go away … But you could fast for weeks and not feel hunger gnawing at your stomach, or become weak and faint. You could be run over by a charging horse and feel little more than slight discomfort where you might have a broken bone, but the pain will go away in minutes as the bone heals itself. It’s as though you are now made of earth and wind, and can repair yourself at will.” His words made me shiver with recognition. “And this connection to Adair, the needling in your brain, is a reminder of this power because only he can make you like a mortal again. At his hands, and only his hands, you feel pain. But any damage he causes you to suffer will be temporary, unless he chooses otherwise. He can will anything on you, pain, disfigurement, death. By his hand and intent. Those are the words he uses in the spell. Those are the words that bind you to him.”
I put a hand to my abdomen; he was right about pain. The muted throbbing I’d felt in my purged womb had disappeared entirely.
“He must have said as much to you. Believe him: he is your god now. You live or die at his whim. And”—his expression softened entirely for a m
oment, as though a shield was being lowered briefly—“you should be careful with Adair. He has given you everything a mortal could want, but only as long as you please him. He will not hesitate to take it away if you anger him. Never forget that.”
I quickly realized that whether I wanted it or not, I was part of this strange household now and it would be to my benefit to figure out my place in it. My life had changed irrevocably and I wasn’t at all sure how to survive. Adair, however, had hundreds of years of experience. The others he had chosen had all stayed with him, probably for good reason.
I also resolved to try to forget Jonathan. I believed I’d never see him again, despite what Alejandro had said. My old life was gone in every way: Boston was as different from St. Andrew as cream from water, and I was no longer a poor country girl with only a dreary future to look forward to. I’d lost the baby, the only thing that would have connected me to Jonathan. Better to put it behind me now, all at once.
Within a few days I saw that the house’s rhythms were unlike anything I’d experienced in my Puritan hometown. First of all, no one in the household besides the servants rose before noon. Even then, the courtiers and their guests remained in their rooms until two or three in the afternoon, though you could hear low sounds behind the doors, murmurs or a shriek of laughter or the scrape of a chair leg as it was dragged across the floor. Alejandro explained that it was the European way: evenings, the most important part of the day, were given over to socializing—dinners, balls, gaming tables—and days were spent getting ready, to be properly appointed, with hair coiffed and the most fetching ensemble donned. They’d brought a few key servants with them from Europe, those skilled in styling hair and maintaining the wardrobes. I thought it a decadent way to live, but Alejandro assured me this was only because I was a misguided puritanical American. There was a reason the Puritans left England in search of a new world, he pointed out.
Which brings me to the second strange thing about Adair’s household: no one seemed to have purpose to their lives. No business concerns or finances were ever discussed in front of me. No mention of the old country, no reminiscing about past lives (as Alejandro told me, “We let the dead sleep”). No letters arrived, only calling cards from members of Boston society eager to meet this mysterious European royal. The tray in the hall overflowed with invitations to parties and salons and teas.
The only subject that interested Adair and his entourage, the only endeavor they undertook with any seriousness, the preoccupation that filled their days, was sex. Each member of the entourage kept a playmate, whether for the evening or for a week; it could be a Brahmin met at a soiree or a comely footman co-opted for the night. There was a stream of women parading through the mansion, too, blowsy prostitutes, as well as daring society daughters. No one in the household ever slept alone. Neither Alejandro nor Donatello seemed interested in me at all, and when I asked Alej if he didn’t find me attractive, he laughed and told me not to be obtuse.
The family was given over to seeking and experiencing pleasure, it was as simple as that. Everything about my surroundings was the antithesis of how I was raised and eventually their lack of industry would disgust me, but at first I was seduced by luxuries I’d had no idea existed. St. Andrew had been a town of homespun linen clothing and raw pine furniture. Now I lived surrounded by finery, each new temptation better than the last. I ate food and drink I had never known existed, wore dresses and gowns made from exotic European fabrics by a professional tailor. I learned to dance and play cards, was given novels to read that would expose me to even more worlds.
Adair was fond of parties, and since he was still a sensation in Boston, we went to one almost every night. He took his entourage with him everywhere, letting Alejandro, Dona, and Tilde charm the Bostonians with their continental ways, outrageous fashions from Paris and Vienna and London, and tales of decadent European aristocracy.
What really stunned the Brahmins, though, was when Adair forced Uzra to accompany us. She would venture outdoors wrapped in a swath of burgundy cloth that covered her from head to toe. Once we had arrived among the partygoers, the wrapping would fall to the floor to reveal Uzra in one of her costumes, tight organza bodice and a skirt of veils, her eyes rimmed thickly in kohl, adornments of brass ringlets circling her bare waist, hands, and ankles. The richly colored silks were pretty, but sheer; she was practically naked compared with the rest of us women in layers of petticoats and corsets and stockings. Uzra jingled softly as she walked, eyes downcast, aware that she was being ogled and leered at like a carnival animal. The women clapped hands over their mouths, now fallen open in shock, and the men—the air would become thick with the musk of their desire, frock coats hastily rearranged to cover their clumsy erections. Adair would laugh later about the propositions he received, men offering huge sums of money for an hour with his odalisque. They would part with their souls if he gave them the chance, Adair would say later, when we had decamped to our house after the party and sat around the cook’s table in the kitchen, next to the still warm hearth, sharing a bottle.
“You could do the same,” Adair said to me in private, as we walked up the stairs to our bedchambers, his voice soft as velvet. “A man’s desire is a powerful thing. It can reduce a strong man to nothing. When he sees a woman who fascinates him, he will give up everything for her. Remember that, Lanore: everything.”
“Give up everything for me? You are mad. No man has ever given up anything for my company,” I scoffed, thinking of Jonathan’s inability to give himself wholly to me. Deep in self-pity, I wasn’t being fair to him, I know, but I had been stung by my faithless lover and was hurting.
Adair gave me a strangled look and said something I had never considered. “That is sad to hear said about any woman, but especially sad to hear said about you. Perhaps it’s because you have never asked for anything in exchange for your attention. You don’t know your own worth, Lanore.”
“My worth? I understand my worth only too well—I am a plain girl from a poor family.”
He took my arm and tucked it under his. “You are hardly plain. You have an appeal for certain men, the type of man who values a discreet freshness and disdains a vulgar display of womanly charms. Too much breast pouring out of a bodice, too prominent a bustle, too voluptuous—do you understand?” I didn’t follow him; in my experience men seemed bedazzled by these very parts, and the fact that I did not possess them had seemed a detriment my entire life.
“Your description of ‘vulgar’ womanly charms sounds an awful lot like Uzra to me, and she never fails to render any man who sees her agog. She and I are as opposite as two women can be,” I said, meaning to tease Adair.
“There is not only one measure of beauty, Lanore. Everyone adores the red rose, and yet it is a common sort of beauty. You are like a golden rose, a rare bloom but no less lovely,” he said, meaning to flatter, but I nearly laughed out loud at his attempt. I was thin as a boy and nearly as flat-chested. My curly blond hair was as unruly as a thistle. I could only think he was flattering me for some purpose of his own, but his sweet words were appealing all the same.
“So if you trust me, let me guide you. I will teach you how to have power over ordinary men. Like Tilde, like Alej and Dona,” he said, stroking my hand. Perhaps that was their purpose; maybe that was their industry. They did seem able to make most people—most men, and they were the ones with power—do what they wanted, and that seemed to be a good skill to have.
“It is not enough to be able to conquer your enemies; in order to control them, you must be able to seduce them as well.”
“Consider me your pupil,” I said, letting Adair lead me into his bedchamber.
“You will not regret it,” he promised.
TWENTY-SEVEN
And so began my schooling in the business of seduction. It started with evenings in Adair’s bed. After that night when Adair opened my eyes, he seemed determined to prove to me that I was worth a man’s attention: his. We continued to go to parties, where he cha
rmed the Bostonians, but he always returned home with me on his arm. He took me to his bed every night. He indulged me and gave me anything I asked for. I had beautiful undergarments made, corsets (though I hardly needed them to hold up my breasts, modest as they were) and stays of colored silks, trimmed with ribbon. Garters decorated with tiny silk roses. Delights for Adair to find when he peeled off my clothing. I devoted myself to becoming his golden rose.
I would be lying if I said I did not think of Jonathan during this time. He was my first lover, after all. Still, I tried to kill the love I felt for him by remembering the bad moments between us, the times he wounded me to the quick. The times I’d heard that he’d taken up with a new girl. Standing next to him on the hill as we looked down on Sophia’s funeral, knowing he was thinking of her. Kissing Evangeline in front of the entire congregation mere moments after I’d given him news of my pregnancy. I tried to see my love for Jonathan as a malady, a fever burning up my heart and brain, and these wrenching memories were the purgative, the cure.
And the attentions of my new lover would be my restorative. Comparing my experiences with the two men, it seemed that the act with Jonathan filled me with such happiness that I felt I would die. At those times, I was barely aware of my body, I could have floated to the ceiling in his arms. It was sublime. With Adair, it was all sensation, a neediness for flesh and the power to have that hunger satisfied. At the time, I wasn’t afraid of this newfound hunger Adair had created in me. I delighted in it, and Adair, instead of judging me indulgent and sluttish, seemed pleased that he brought this out in me.
Adair confirmed as much one evening in his bed, lighting up the hookah after an acrobatic session. “I judge that you have a natural disposition for the business of pleasure,” he said, grinning obscenely. “I’d daresay you enjoy your adventures in the bedroom. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, haven’t you? Nothing I have done has frightened you?” When I gave a little shake of my head, he continued, “Then it is time to expand your experiences, because the art of love is such that the more expert lovers one has, the more expert one becomes. Do you understand?” I greeted this statement with a frown, sensing that something was amiss. Had he tired of me already? Was the bond that had developed between us an illusion? “Don’t be cross,” he said, feeding the narcotic smoke from his mouth to mine in a kiss. “I’ve made you jealous, haven’t I? You must fight feelings like that, Lanore. They are beneath you now. You have a new life ahead of you, one filled with a richness of experience, if you aren’t afraid.”
