Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 30

by eds. Kelly Link

  Brigid sees me staring at the flowers and thinks, I guess, that I am afraid to go inside, afraid of the operation. She doesn’t know that it’s the flowers that scare me.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she says. She is more scared than I am. “We can go home.” I just keep staring at the pansies and she says, “You could call Dr. Ruxin. Maybe it would be a good idea to ask for advice.”

  At this I turn and look her square in her fake goddess eyes.

  “Don’t you talk to me about him,” I say and I leave her there, I walk inside where I am met by Dr. Arr and his battery of tests.

  Then, a week has passed, and I have been subjected to all manner of proddings and am at last certified healthy enough for surgery and someone, maybe the French Twist from the plane, or maybe just some other blonde, attaches a cone to my face, fits it over nose and mouth and peers down at me so that I am forced to inspect the deepest reaches of her nostrils. It takes me a few beats to remember that my eyes can close, I can shut out the nostrils. They’ll still be there, but I don’t have to look.

  A different me, the me from before, would’ve grunted and pointedly eyed the nostrils until French Twist realized how unpleasant she was making things. She would have been embarrassed, and maybe even angry with me, but she would have found a mask and covered up and things would have been better for me. But now I guess now I’m someone who closes her eyes instead of saying something.

  I want to blame the twin, she has weakened me, ruined me; she has made me into something else.

  I want to yell at her and tell her it’s her fault. And maybe when she’s growing in her state of the art mechanical womb, when I can press my face up against a piece of translucent living plastic and see her, really actually see her, I’ll be able to do just that, to yell and tell her about all the things I’ve missed out on because of her, all the things I’ve lost.

  When she is out everything will change. I will be me again and my mother will fold me into her floury arms and I will not be twisting in pain anymore. I look at the nurse and she blinks back at me. My eyes are watering now and something icy is climbing up the inside of my arm. The blinking eyes change.

  “Shelly?” I say.

  She blinks. Change.

  “Mom?”

  Outside, I can hear Brigid yelling at someone—“Let me see her. I want to see her”—and the twin is spinning now, furious. She can feel the cold climbing toward her. She knows what is coming. She hates me and I hate her and this is finally going to happen. I can feel my insides shattering with the desire to be out, to be free. This is what she wants, too. She’s ready now.

  “It’s time,” I say. “It’s time.”

  * * * *

  With His Head in His Hand

  Robert E. Stutts

  Winter is tiptoeing its way into the city, Morgan notes, raising his jacket collar. He tugs the knit cap down a little farther over his dark red hair, and sticks his ungloved hands as deep as they’ll go inside his jacket pockets. Of course, he should have just taken a cab, but when Dave and Penelope kept teasing him about how they were together because he wouldn’t commit to either of them, he just stalked off and didn’t look back. Morgan had dated both of them once upon a time, ended as friends more or less, and when Penelope and Dave finally met they’d gotten on so brilliantly, how could Morgan begrudge them going out together? Trouble is, they both know him too well, know his triggers, how he was always running off. When they started debating what he was running from and to where, he’d had enough, told them to fuck off, and left. But he knows he protects his heart too carefully. Love is a dangerous game, and he’s afraid of losing.

  After cooling down, he doubts they meant to rile him so much he’d leave. “Stupid git,” he mutters at himself.

  A faint melody reaches his ears under the traffic noise, something familiar but that Morgan can’t place, something sad. He feels on edge, ready for something to happen. As he walks, shoulders a little more hunched against a sudden gust of icy breath, the music grows louder, makes his palms tingle. Neither of the two men walking towards him seems to notice,even though it’s a curious song to be playing loud enough for passersby to hear. After the men pass, Morgan stops at the mouth of an alley, where the music swells even louder. What an odd spot for an alley, Morgan thinks, but the song drifts languidly to him, calling with its sad, soft ache. What the hell, he thinks. Let’s have a look.

  The alley is nondescript, but long, and seems to go on much farther than is possible. He shakes his head, frowns, but continues, following the music, which has faded considerably. By the time he reaches the next street over—the alley at least wasn’t a dead end—the song has stopped. The traffic sounds are muffled, as if he’s miles from the city instead of in its heart. This street is unusual: no cars, no buses, no pedestrians. And the buildings on either side of him are just worn brick, no windows or doors or graffiti or anything. On the other side of the street is a wrought iron fence, its bars at least fourteen feet high and ending in wicked-looking spikes. Inside the fence are high bushes and trees, fully green even at this time of the year, and clustered so close together it’s impossible to see what the fence is keeping in.

  Left or right? he wonders, and decides to go left, the direction he was walking before he entered the alley. I can always cut over at the next block. He walks, keeping his eyes on the fence and the incongruously green trees, and as he rounds a curve in the street, he sees the house, a huge, sprawling mansion. Ivy covers most of its surface, interrupted only by windows, the occasional door, and surreptitious flashes of red brick underneath. Morgan whistles in appreciation as he begins to understand the staggering size of the house, at least a city block in length.

  He continues walking and spies what must be the front gate. The gate’s spikes reach even higher than the fence. At least I’ll get a better look at the house through the gate, Morgan thinks, and then he spies something hanging inside the gate, between two of its bars. He wonders if it’s something sculptural, something to advertise the owner’s wealth and station—as if any more advertisement is needed than the house itself. But it’s not; it’s a human head.

  “Fuck.”

  Morgan feels sick, and for a minute he’s sure he’s going to throw up. But he shakes his head firmly, shuts his eyes tight, breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose. He looks behind him, but the streetlamps have each gone out and the night has rushed in. Ahead of him is darkness, the last lit streetlamp flickering its yellow gaze across the gate, which Morgan approaches slowly. The head of a young man suspended in the air without the aid of wires. Morgan smells bitter copper, something both sweet and rank like honeysuckle. The face’s expression is one of surprise.

  Morgan looks at his phone, but there’s no signal. “Damn it.” Looks up and down the street, nothing now but darkness, like a wall. No—the darkness is a wall. He presses his hand against the dark. Solid. No one’s going to hear him call for help. His breath quickens.

  The gate—the one not holding the guy’s head—opens on its own, not even a creak. The path leading up to the front door is not paved but only tamped golden sand. Morgan feels pressure against his back, which propels him forward onto the path. He looks around, but he keeps walking toward the house.

  The front door is enormous, probably twice the size of Morgan, who’s six foot. The doorknocker is the head of a green man—elaborately carved leaf-hair with acorns scattered throughout—and a thick iron ring hangs from his nose. Morgan raps the ring three times on the green man’s chin and hears the echoes dully inside the house.

  Finally, Morgan hears the scrape of locks turning, and one of the heavy doors opens slightly. There stands a tall woman in a sleek black sheath dress, a lovely woman with creamy skin and dark hair, dark eyes, and with the most perfect mouth . . .

  Morgan shakes his head sharply, pulling himself out of reverie, and says, “There’s a—there’s a head . . . in the gate. . . .”

  She opens the door wider and steps out, peering p
ast Morgan. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, I am sorry to see it.” She looks back at Morgan. He shudders a little beneath the intensity of her gaze. She brushes past him, back into the house, and he smells, faintly, flowers, and is disturbed to find himself a little excited.

  “What’s going on here?”

  She stares at him, saying nothing. Then something flashes across her face—alarm? dismay? anger? Morgan can’t decide which. His gut clenches, and the muscles in his shoulders and neck tighten.

  At long last, she says, “I wish you wouldn’t ask. You should go.”

  “I don’t think I can leave. The dark won’t let me.” He’s sweating now, the nausea creeping back. Breathing deeply, trying to focus, he says, “Or you won’t.”

  “The house won’t let you, I’m afraid.” She looks a little sad when she says it.

  The floral smell drifts past him again, and he inhales more than he means to. And his muscles begin to loosen. Morgan frowns. A drug? he wonders. Or a spell.

  She lowers her eyes and says, “Enter, and welcome to Hautdesert.” She opens the door wider for him. He steps into the cool dark of the foyer. The door closes behind him with a heavy thud.

  “Hautdesert?”

  “The name of the house. My husband is . . .”

  “French?”

  “A tad pretentious.”

  “So he is French,” he says, more lightly than how he feels.

  She opens the door to the left and he follows her into a parlor, simply but lavishly decorated with a carved giltwood chaise in the center and the walls covered in embroidered velvet drapes and Baroque framed mirrors. “I am Vivian Chasse,” she says.

  “Eh?”

  “I said, ‘I am Vivian Chasse.’ I believe the etiquette is to respond with your own name.”

  “Askmore. Morgan Askmore.”

  “Oh. An old family, and a clever one.”

  “You know the Askmores?” Morgan’s surprise is evident in his voice.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He sees a phone, an antique, on a side table near the chaise. He lifts the handset and brings it to his head, but there’s no dial tone. He clicks the switch hook several times, but nothing.

  “It’s dead,” he says.

  “Everything dies,” she says with a sigh. With emphasis more melodramatic than Morgan cares for, she runs her delicate fingers along the underside of some white lilies that have begun to droop, the table beneath already littered with the fine gold of their fading stamens.

  Morgan frowns. “Is it just this phone, or are all the phones in this monster of a house dead, too?”

  She looks up from the lilies. “Hm? Oh. There are no other phones, only that one. Service is . . . intermittent.”

  Shaking his head sharply, Morgan heads for the front door. “I’m getting out of here.” He can’t open the door; he rattles it, gives it another fierce tug and it opens, and then there’s the afternoon sunshine, falling fast. Morgan knows he’s in trouble; night has become afternoon. Down the steps and onto the path, he’s straining to keep his cool. At the gate, a couple of flies lazily circle the hanging head, and even more gather at the pooled blood on the pavement. He looks back at the house as he steps through the gate. The woman stands on the steps, hugging herself.

  He turns his head to the street, and sees instead the house. He looks over his shoulder, sees the street, steps back towards it, through the gate, and finds himself facing the house again. “Fuck,” he says.

  By the time Morgan reaches the front door again, the woman is smiling a little sadly, but what does he know? “The house wants you to stay,” the woman says.

  “Ha fucking ha,” he says. He sounds a little crazy, even to his own ears.

  Now she frowns. “There’s no need for coarseness.”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  She looks at him appraisingly. Morgan feels self-conscious, a bit like a side of beef being sized up by a chef.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Morgan asks again, crossing his arms. Vivian doesn’t answer but steps back inside the house, holding the door open for him. He doesn’t want to go in, but what choice does he have? He follows her.

  She opens the first door on the right, which leads to a gallery hallway, with huge French doors to the outside every few feet. The doors are open, and the sheer curtains billow softly, although there was no breeze earlier. In fact, the sunlight is different here, too—bright as morning light, not the warm gold of the afternoon.

  The woman is very calm, collected. Proper. Although he doesn’t think she knew about the severed head until he pointed it out, Morgan feels sure she knows something. She was surprised, but she wasn’t shocked. Or upset.

  “Were you expecting me?” he asks.

  “No, not exactly. I never know who the house will call.” Her pace quickens, but Morgan steps in front of her. She stops, but she looks out the open doors instead of at him.

  “What am I doing here?” He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake the answers out of her, but instead he crosses his arms.

  “Oh. I thought it would be best if I let Bern explain that to you.”

  Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Bern?”

  “Bern, my husband. You’re to meet him at dinner.”

  “Fucking great.”

  “Coarseness, Mr. Askmore,” Vivian says, and steps around him.

  He nods and follows. He’s afraid to uncross his arms, afraid he’ll start trembling so violently he won’t be able to stop.

  The gallery goes on and on, but eventually they reach the end and Vivian opens a pair of mirrored French doors leading into another room. Through yet another door is a large dining room, opulent in gold and verdigris and sparkling crystal. A ponderous chandelier hangs in the center of a skylight that encompasses most of the ceiling. How is that skylight possible on the first floor, the sky showing through it a full-on night replete with faint stars?

  “There are only two settings at the table,” he says, touching the highly polished silverware. The china is pale green with a border of intertwined burgundy and silver leaves.

  “Yes. I won’t be joining you for dinner.”

  “No?”

  She tilts her head shyly to the side. “The rules don’t allow it, I’m afraid. But I’ll see you in the morning.” She points to the sideboard in the far right corner. “Please,” she says, her hand on the glass door knob, “help yourself to something. My husband keeps quite a large stock at the ready.”

  Morgan sizes up the room. Knives are set beside each plate; he considers pocketing one. The light from the chandelier is beginning to give him a headache, and he figures a drink might be just the thing. He goes to the sideboard—Vivian wasn’t having him on; they really are well stocked, and then some—and pours himself a scotch, downs it, then pours and downs another. He pours a third and walks around the room, looking at the elaborate reliefs in the corners and around the doors. More green men, leaves, nuts, berries, some squirrels.

  “It’s Laphroaig. ”

  Morgan whirls around. Standing at the sideboard is a man, broad-shouldered, obviously muscular, with short brown hair and a well-kept beard. He smiles broadly, and Morgan can’t help but smile back.

  “You must be Bern Chasse,” Morgan says.

  The man laughs, a huge, joyful laugh. “Yes, I must be, mustn’t I?” He comes forward, hand extended, and Morgan takes it. Bern’s grip is strong, but he doesn’t try to assert his dominance. They are the same height, and Morgan’s in good shape, athletic, but those are serious muscles his host has. Even so, he doesn’t shrink back from the broader man, and Bern nods approvingly.

  “Come, let’s eat and talk,” Bern says and claps Morgan good-naturedly on the shoulder. On the table are platters of extravagant food that arrived . . . how? Some food Morgan recognizes—seared foie gras, wine-poached salmon with white truffles—but most of it he doesn’t. He can’t believe how good everything smells.

  The conversation over dinner is rather one-sided, B
ern regaling Morgan with hunting stories, or tales about traveling abroad in India and Africa when he was younger. Morgan feels relaxed and tense in turn.

  After they’ve eaten—though Morgan hasn’t much of an appetite—Bern sits back in his chair and regards Morgan seriously. “You can ask your questions, Morgan.”

  “Right, then.” He leans forward. “What the fuck is going on around here? Whose head is that in the gate? Why can’t I leave the grounds? What—”

  Bern raises his hand and nods his head. “I’ll tell you what I can, my friend. I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into a rather old story that binds us to this house and to what we must do here.”

  Morgan stares at his host. “Old story?”

  “Indeed. A story told again and again, complete with its own magic.”

  “You mean, I’ve walked into a fairy tale?”

  More of that huge laughter. “Yes, for lack of a better word. You’ve crossed over into another . . . world. We’re as much prisoners of the house as you are now. And then, of course,” his brows furrow, “there’s the Game.”

  “The game?”

  “Capitalize that ‘G,’ Morgan. This is damned serious stuff.” But there’s a wink for Morgan.

  “All right, then. Tell me the rules of this Game.”

  “For the next three days, I will go out into the grounds and whatever I win there I will give to you in the evening at dinner. For the next three days, you will have free rein over the house, and whatever you win here you must likewise give to me.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Morgan says.