“‘The Night Stair’ is one of those stories that started as no more than a title in search of a story. In 2012, I visited Battle Abbey where the Battle of Hastings had taken place, and one of the signs directing you around the ruins pointed out the night stair that the monks had taken when going to early services. I just loved that name and thought it sounded positively sinister. Where might it really lead?
“I carried that around in my head as a title for the better part of a year until I started thinking about a vampire tale for The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings collection. I could see Adlisa standing in the selection line, waiting, hoping to be chosen, not for a perceived better life, but so she could act, find the truth, and, with any luck at all, get revenge. But, as always, there’s a sting in the tale. She’s another character I want to revisit later, as Adlisa the Bloodless—she’s already got a mention in a new collection, The Tallow-Wife and Other Tales, and I hope to expand on that some time in the future.
“For a long while I chose not to write vampire fiction because it felt as if it had all been done, but then Adlisa came into my imagination. I hope she adds something to an impressive body of work.”
THE STEWARD IS a tall man, entirely bald, gaunt in the face, yet rotund in the belly. His legs in their loose fawn linen trews look like a scarecrow’s, sticking out under the awning of his gut—perpetually in shade, perhaps they don’t get enough light to grow. His tunic of padded green silk, his sable wool coat with its thick fur collar, are too warm even for the end of summer, but as marks of his office, must be seen, just like the yellow crystal hanging about his neck.
Called the “Steward’s Gaze,” it’s the size of the top joint of a man’s thumb, and has passed from incumbent to incumbent for as long as anyone has the will to recall. He puts it in his mouth and sucks hard when he thinks no one is watching. It’s worth a king’s ransom, and I’ll warrant the gold chatelaine belt around his waist could buy the city’s food for half a year.
His finery makes me aware of the state of my black dress—not that it’s poor or made shiny by age, but it belonged to others before me. Both my sisters—my only full-blood siblings—wore it to their own choosing. I am certain I can smell them, their scents imprinted into the warp and weft of the fabric despite washing. The color makes my skin paler, my eyes bluer, provides the perfect background for the tresses, which pour down my back like gold fresh from the smelter.
I was careful, so careful with my toilette: brushing my hair, one hundred strokes; rubbing the cream that was my mother’s (comfrey and rose to soften and plump, a little lemon balm for lightening) into my skin; drops of eyebright to ensure my gaze is clear. I refrained from pinching my cheeks—pale is best—but I did nip gently at my lips, to carmine them a little, so it seems as if all life is concentrated there. I will not be found wanting.
I stand in line with seven other girls who have been presented this day. We are of an age, none more than sixteen springs, and there is only one of them, perhaps two, who might outdo me. To my right is Essa, with her milky skin and eyes like the sky reflected in ice, hair bright platinum; even her nails seem to have a silvery sheen. She watches me from the corner of her eye, just as I watch her.
To my left is Dimity, whose eyes are bright green, her cheeks with the tiniest hint of pink. She keeps her regard firmly fixed upon her own feet. Our Lady best likes girls who resemble herself; that is not Dimity for all her snow-washed whiteness—the eyes are all wrong and the eyes count.
So, Essa. Essa is the one to beat—the Steward will surely select between the two of us.
Filling this large room in the city hall are parents, including my father, who’s left the running of the mine’s smelter to his deputies so he can see what deals might be struck. Behind him are three of my younger half-siblings, those not yet old enough to be exhibited, but deemed mature enough to watch proceedings in order to learn how to behave when—if—their time comes. Another ten still wait at home; not all will be offered, only those whose appearance is right, those whose behavior does not mark them out as more trouble than they’re worth.
My father has twice made a small fortune from this process, and I imagine he hopes to again—his tendency for taking new wives, sometimes before the old one is done, and his proclivity for procreation, his personal fecundity, constantly require more funds than his well-paid position provides.
Steward Oswain walks slowly up and down our line, as if inspecting troops. His brown eyes are considering, patient, although a little uncertain, as if offered several courses at a banquet and told he might only have one. He stops in front of the Toop girl and shakes his head (anyone can see she’s too fat), then the Ansible twins (hair too dark), and then Mistress Garran’s girl (whose neck is smudged by a red birthmark); a dismissal for each. At the back of the crowd I hear a woman crying; she is shushed and hustled out—I cannot tell if her weeping was of relief or despair. The desperate whirring of my own thoughts is far too loud.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my head a little higher, blink quickly so that tears of fear do not start and cause the coal-mascara on my lashes to run. The Steward takes one more pass; another. He stops in front of Dimity—Dimity!—puts a finger under her chin and makes her look at him. Her lips tremble; he smiles kindly and nods. Essa makes a noise, and this one I know for relief. The Steward steps back, turns away. All scrutiny has left us.
Parents mill around the tall stork of a man to strike bargains; Dimity’s mother to get the highest price, the others to find out when there might be another choosing—as if the Steward can predict Our Lady’s moods to a day and date! Only my siblings still watch, their eyes fastened onto me as if by hooks.
Dimity takes her first step forward as a chosen girl and I trip her. Essa’s intake of breath is sharp. The green-eyed maiden falls so fast, is so surprised, that she does not put her hands out to save herself. Her face meets the floor with a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage. There is that tiny broken moment when nothing happens, no one moves, when time is divided into before and after, then, as if a clock’s hands click over, everything starts again, and the girl on the floor wails. I do not move.
Dimity sits up, blood pouring from her ruined nose. She stares at me all uncomprehending, hands twitching as if to point me out, but she catches my glance and I can see her crumple inside. She sobs a little more quietly and when an adult asks what happened, she answers with “I fell.”
She will thank me; or rather, she would if she thought about it.
The Steward is displeased—she is no longer acceptable. He turns to Essa, and I glare for a few moments until her nerve breaks and she steps backward, in effect removing herself from the field. I am thankful for I have no more tricks.
“You then,” says the Steward, giving me a calculating glance. He looks at my father, who nods approvingly (what kind of fool thinks I do this for him?). “Perhaps you will do best. Your father’s blood runs strong.”
It is not the sort of compliment I wished for, but I duck my head in assent, then notice that my half-siblings still watch, mouths agape.
Never let it be said I’ve taught them nothing.
“Never speak first.”
The Steward had continued his litany of rules as we made our way from Caulder’s city hall to the hostelry where he’d left his tall gray horse. He mounted, then pulled me up to sit in front of him, perched uncomfortably on the saddle. “Do not ask questions that are not invited.”
Wear only the clothing you are assigned.
Eat and drink only that which is offered to you.
Always answer when Our Lady calls you “daughter.”
Do not enter the undercroft.
Do not enter our Lord and Lady’s chambers without invitation.
Do not correct our Lord and Lady.
Do not run along the corridors.
Do not take anything that has not been given to you.
Do not investigate locked doors.
Do not wish for more than is given.
>
Do not ask them to make you as they are.
Do not.
Do not.
Do not.
My head buzzed by the time we’d left behind the cobbled streets and begun to traverse fields yellow with wheat, pastures thick with cattle and sheep, enormous garden beds sown with all the things that can be stored in root cellars to tide the city over during winter.
By the time we’d ridden to the far end of the horseshoe-shaped valley, to the sweet spot where the manor house with its great hall and single lofty tower rested in the curve of the “u” … by the time we’d left the horse to the lad at the stables and entered the house … by the time I’d been led up to this very room … well, by then my head ached.
This bedchamber has windows that do not open, the shutters are nailed in place to keep the light out. If I feel the need for sun, I have been told, I may walk in the gardens, but for my own sake I should wear one of the muslin visages and a pair of gloves to protect my complexion, for even a light bronzing will ruin everything.
“That was your sister’s sin,” says the Steward.
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
Sophie always did like to play outside. She’d have darkened so fast.
The bed is enormous, with a mattress thick and high, a satin canopy of deepest crimson, a matching coverlet, and so many pillows I may well suffocate if I don’t remove them before I sleep. I think back to the bed I shared with my sisters when our mother would read to us in the evenings—before everything changed. It was barely big enough for all of us, sleeping like pups pressed against each other, breaths mingling, hearts beating in time; here we would lose each other. We shared a wardrobe, a washstand, a mirror, our clothes; we fought over hairbrushes and ribbons. Hardly a year apart, we were more like triplets, close enough to finish each other’s sentences, to know the others’ thoughts before they were spoken.
Here, there is a desk with a roll-top, a tall wardrobe, a long sofa with scarlet velvet bolsters, a tiny round table with mother-of-pearl inlay in a bird-and-girl pattern, and two wingback chairs set either side of it; all the furniture is a burnished mahogany. Through a door concealed by a trompe l’oeil design of a sunny sandstone courtyard packed with fruit trees and climbing vines, is a marble-floored bathroom, almost as big as the bedroom. There is a sunken pool, golden wash basins, and a corner where water flows in a continuous shower then runs out a cleverly decorated drain that looks like a posy of roses.
I was delighted when I saw it. All this space just for me, but there are no bookshelves and no books. It is said that all manner of tomes are kept in the tower. I wonder if I will be allowed there—I do not ask, for then I cannot be refused.
“And April?” I ask and he gives me a look so blank my heart aches. By the time her body was returned to us she’d had a good run compared to others, such as Sophie, who’d lasted but a month. “My other sister; she stayed here eighteen months.”
He shakes his head, quite sadly. “I cannot remember them all. Some infraction, some upset to Our Lady. Let it serve as a lesson to you, Adlisa, let all your steps be careful ones.” He plays with the crystal, almost popping it into his mouth—but he catches himself first and the slip makes him brusque. “Now, I suggest you bathe—I will send one of the women to do your hair. There is a selection of dresses so you will surely find one to fit; fold your old one up and leave it at the foot of the bed. It will be returned to your family. And have a nap if you can manage—from this day onward you live half in light and half in shadow. And I’m sure your mind is moving apace after the other candidate’s misfortune.”
I meet his eye steadily, do not flinch. The Steward grips my arm and whispers, “I have been here thirty years, girl. I have seen your kind come and go, the ambitious and the unassuming. None of them has survived.”
My expression does not change for I am neither one nor the other, although I am sure he must hear my heart clattering in my rib cage like one of the machines in the smelter that crushes chunks of rock and ore into smaller pieces. I raise my chin, just a fraction and he lets me go, straightening his coat before he leaves this room, which is mine however ephemerally.
“Call me ‘Mother,’ child,” says the alabaster woman.
Her voice is soft but the tone brooks no refusal. We are in the circular chamber that serves as her solar, its skylight open only at night. On her lap is a piece of embroidery, a fine stitching of black silk roses on snowy cambric.
That word has not crossed my lips in some years, not since my own mother disappeared in a night of shouting and rage after which my father ceased to speak of her. It was a title I’d refused to accord to any of Father’s subsequent wives or concubines, despite all the slaps and bruises that defiance brought. The term conjures a shadowy, slippery, precious memory—an ache—but that isn’t why I do not give it lightly. I keep it close, pristine and unused, for it has power; power for both she who gives and she who receives, and I must be careful about bestowing such potential. It is tricksy and dangerous, it can make one party think they are stronger than they are, when really it is a key to their heart. Our Lady would like to think it gains her the upper hand, but in this conferral I alone acquire the advantage.
“Mother,” I say. It slides the across my lips with barely a hiccup. And I smile, meeting her glacial blue gaze for the first time; I have kept my eyes downcast as a polite and chaste child should, addressing My Lady respectfully and shyly.
“Come closer, Adlisa,” she says and I step forward to where she reclines on a chaise longue; her watered silk gown in shades of oyster pink and dove gray drapes beautifully about her slender form, but she must lie on a slight angle to accommodate the beribboned bustle. Her hair is the same shade as mine, a good sign, gilded as the statues that stare down from the portico of the city hall. Her skin is so pale it’s almost transparent—I wonder if I stare hard enough might I see the skull beneath this bleached canvas?—and her forehead high and domed, eyebrows fine as golden pin feathers, cheekbones sharp, lips a petulant pout even in repose. Her chin is a little weak and it appears she is aware of this, for the tilt of her head seems a conscious combat against it. A thin hand with long digits reaches out and turns my head this way and that, not cruelly or painfully, but in a determined grip I could not break. If she wanted, she could shatter my jaw with the snap of her fingers.
“My, you are lovely. You do remind me of someone else, but I cannot think who.” Her lips lift at their corners. Her fingers toy with the soft curls the old woman Rikke left dangling by my cheeks when she swept the rest up in a great loose bun on top of my head.
I think of my sisters, wonder if she genuinely remembers them, but I do not say My Lady, you ate them. April and Sophie would have been afraid of her. They would have been scared and it would have finally got the better of them. At some point, she’d have called them to her and they would have shown reluctance; she with her predator’s instinct would have smelled their terror, and that would have meant death. Our mad Lady, who has sought across so many years, in the faces of so many others, a replacement for her lost daughter, and found them all wanting.
Sophie’s tanning would not have offended nearly so much as the sight of her nerve fracturing. The shaking and shattering of Our Lady’s happy illusions would have broken her mother’s heart anew. Like most folk, she loathes and destroys the things that make her see the truth, has done for three centuries or more. There is barely a family in Caulder that has been untouched; barely a family that hasn’t had an inert, empty body delivered back to them.
“Mother, will you show me how?” I point shyly at the embroidery in her bloodless hands and she beams, patting the seat next to her. Her delight in my interest is childlike, unalloyed. I know that my survival depends on the illusion I create for her being flawless. I am careful not to prick myself with the sharp golden needle—it would not do to either ruin this piece of work or tempt her with blood. We are there long enough that I am able to finish one black petal under her
instruction.
“Shall I begin another, Mother?” I ask.
She looks at the elaborate timepiece on the mantle—a thing of porcelain and bronze, which disgorges three dancing maids on the hour—and shakes her head. “No, no, I have let our time fly. Where is my sense? Come, we must to dinner.”
I walk a step behind her, but slip my fingers into the cold cocoon of her palm. She smiles down at me and leads me along corridors until we reach a narrow formal dining room with an extravagant fireplace, two magnificent chandeliers in crystal and gilt, and a terribly long table in polished ebony, with padded seats for fifty people—although how they would ever manage to find so many willing guests is anyone’s guess. At the far end, are three place settings and one man sitting at the head. He looks up and smiles at us, but his stare is cool—we are late. Behind him stand two plump girls with ruddy complexions and gowns of a better quality than the housemaids’: winepresses, these, being fed on one night, then rested for six while they themselves drink strong red wines and eat rare meats to build up their blood once again. They look at me with wary boredom. How many day-daughters have they seen come and go? How many girls whose privileges hardly seem worth the price they all ultimately pay? How much better to be one of these, these valued cattle—kept and preserved, not drained and thrown away on a whim, like an empty Jeroboam.
I can see they think themselves better than me, more permanent; there’s an arrogance yet a wariness, for the day-daughters are still favored if only for a short time. The day-daughters are family and no insolence will be tolerated from anyone, not even these precious casks.
So as we approach, the two ruddy girls bob curtsies, eyes hooded.
“Edward, my love. This is Adlisa.”
Our Lady hands me forward as the Lord pushes back his chair, but does not rise. He surveys me and I drop into a deep curtsey, mirroring that of the drinking vessels. I do not look up until he says, after proper pause, “Good evening, Adlisa.”
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women Page 65
