And I had.
ELEVEN
There she was, Sister Veronica, in her solemn black and white, her veil loosely slipping from that tender spot just above her brow. She pinned it to her wimple every morning, but by noon, it would begin to slip. She would struggle with it, but to no avail. Her feet or her hands would catch on the fabric and pull it askew.
The habit hung on her, as did her scapula, the fabric becoming an obsidian tent cocooning her frail features within. And that is how everyone but I saw her – Sister Veronica, a clumsy little girl who did not fit in her clothing; a mere child struggling to become a woman. I recalled those summers, those endless warm walks tiptoeing in dewy grasses, reading forbidden poetry, counting the stars, and believing we were impervious to harm.
The more I thought of her, the more real she seemed. There were moments I could reach her, touch her, and even smell her next to me. But, those moments were but fragments from my past.
Those bright sparks shooting from the fireplace, those were her soul escaping this earth. The shadows, as they crept about the house, were her slipping from me. Little reminders of her were everywhere.
The crucifix I had worn in the convent, that I was still wearing the night Wesley came for me, rested in a drawer wrapped in layers of protective cloth all these years. I kept it there, hidden, so that it would not remind me of her, of them, of that life I once lived. Now I held it in my hands, admiring how it glinted in the fire’s light. Its smooth edges worn from time, yet it was resilient and still alluring to me.
The cross was in my lap. That face was staring back at me. I could sense the agony in its eyes, and the rage that consumed the fire before me. The amber glow cast haunting shadows on the figure lying in my lap; it was hypnotic. I snatched the crucifix and held it tightly to my bosom. That life was gone now. And she with it.
"Can you imagine dying?" She had asked one day. We had been sitting on the bank of our pond, avoiding the others and their righteous glares. You get that treatment when you are the youngest, and when you cannot stop laughing when Sr. Claire falls asleep during morning prayers. The day had been hot and lingered on endlessly like so many Augusts before it. But, this had been our last August together.
"I try not to," I replied. "Neither should you."
"I cannot help it."
"What do think it will be like then, dying?" I asked her.
"Oh, it will be peaceful. Nothing like that cursed plague."
She tossed a pebbled into the pond rippling the still waters' surface.
"I hope mine will be peaceful, too," I said.
"You are going to live beyond this place, beyond death," she told me.
"What makes you say that?"
"I have seen it," she said, turning to me, “in a vision."
"You don’t have visions."
"I had this one," she said. "You are going to live beyond me, beyond the people here. I cannot even explain it, Bree, but you do. You are timeless."
"No one lives forever," I had whispered, half hoping it was true, that we could live forever.
"No, I guess they do not," she agreed. "It was just a dream after all. But it was such a pleasant dream – living forever."
"Was I still young, or had I grown all old and wrinkly like Sr. Margaret?" We both laughed.
"You were not a day older."
Three weeks later, Wesley came for me. Perhaps she knew all along, in her heart of hearts, that in some magical way, I had found a way to live forever.
If I had known she was calling for me, I would have gone to her. I would have delivered her from all that pain and all that suffering. That is what stung at me now, ate at me like a festering wound refusing to heal - that if I had known, I could have done something for my old friend. Maybe then, I could have found peace.
The touch of his hand lured me back. I would have been lost in the past, tumbling down that endless rabbit hole of memories with her face affixed to the sides, smiling at me, for an eternity had he not awoken me from myself. I would have lingered in nothingness, lost in a vat of turmoil, if it had not been for him pulling me out of the void.
"It has been four months, my sister. That is plenty self-wallowing for one lifetime," he said as he led me from the house one evening and into the moonlit streets of Tver. It was December, and snowing, and I could scarcely believe time had passed so quickly while I hid away from myself in a fog of thoughts and memories.
"December?"
"Yes," he replied to me as he kicked at the gathering snow on the stones below. "And much is changing. Viktor is taking a bride this week."
"What!" The falling snow... his words... they were making my mind ache.
"He is taking a bride, Bree," Wesley explained. "For the crown or for love, I have not ascertained. But he is to wed on the next full moon."
"Why?"
"He is mortal," Wesley chuckled. "That is what mortal men do."
"Wesley, do not belittle me!" I snapped. "Why now?"
"Perhaps it is because he thinks you have abandoned him, my sister?" Wesley replied as he turned his gaze toward the east, toward the direction of the castle.
A solitary window on the third floor remained lit. Those were Viktor's private chambers. I would have known that window from any window in Tver for it had haunted my mind for four months.
"Every night, Bree, those fires burn; his candles are not extinguished until dawn. He still has hopes that you will return to him."
"Then I must," I replied.
"And do what?" Wesley asked. "He is to be wed to an Austrian princess. This is a prosperous match for him, and for the royal line. What do you offer? Nothing. Let the world of mortals be. Let this one go. Come with me and let us leave this place."
"I can offer him myself, and that is all anyone can offer another person; mortal or immortal, Wesley. That is going to have to be enough! If you wish to leave, so be it. Farewell. But I cannot leave him."
I left Wesley standing in that darkened street, the crystalline snow glistening on his shoulders. Snow piled on the cobblestones, and people, huddled under layers of clothing, moved about in the slush from one building to the next in the cold night, oblivious to my presence.
I found myself underneath that familiar balcony once again. I could hear the fire crackling and his quill scratching at parchment. His thoughts were mundane and ordinary, so tiresome. There were documents to sign, papers for the upcoming wedding, none of which he wanted to concern himself with. He did not love her. He did not even know her.
It was my face swimming in his thoughts. When he slept, he dreamt of me. This pained him, though – sleeping and seeing my face. The more he dreamed, the more he hoped. And the more he hoped, the more his heart ached.
For nearly an hour, I stood at the base of the castle, concealed in darkness. Perhaps Wesley was right; I should leave the mortal world to itself. In time, he would forget me. In time, my power over him would diminish and he would fall in love with his Austrian bride. And in time, I would forget him, as well.
Then I heard his footsteps on the balcony above me and his voice whisper out into the night, "Bree? Are you out there? Come back to me." That is when his heartbeat began to thunder in my ears again, when I knew he had pulled me in.
I listened as he walked from the balcony, sat down at the desk, and began writing. I ascended to the snow-littered stones, my feet now covering his fresh footprints. Moving the cumbersome curtains aside, I spied him sitting at the maple desk, just inside near the fire. I watched as he worked, quill in hand, his fingers smeared with ink. His heart serenaded me, building into a crescendo as I watched. It needed me. I needed it.
"I am here, Viktor.”
He dropped the quill and swiveled in his seat. He looked at me as if seeing a ghost, and then he smiled. He stood, pushing the chair aside, rushing to embrace me. "Where have you been?" He asked as he held me tightly to him.
"Lost," I told him.
"Lost where?"
"Inside myself," I replied and then
caressed his lips. They were hot against my own, hot and soft.
I tried not to crush him as we held each other. His fingers grabbed at my hair, and then skimmed my cheek, his fingernails gently scratching at my skin as he moved to hold my neck in his palm.
"Do your thoughts still trouble you?" he asked, looking into my eyes as he pulled away.
"No, I have made peace with my demons.”
I told him of Elizabeth, of how she died. I told him of how I was not there, and how I should have been. I told him of my past, of the convent, of my former life that I sometimes long for. I told him many things, many sacred things, and still when dawn was soon due, and I had to bid him farewell, I did not want to leave. Not even for one night.
"Promise me you will come back," he demanded.
He refused to release my arm; and even though I could have broken free, I did not resist. I let him hold me there, hold me to him in that room, in that moment.
"Tomorrow night," I told him, "and the next night, and the next, and the night after that, I will always return to you. I promise."
"I will hold you to that promise," he whispered into my ear as I kissed his cheek.
His blood smelled familiar with its comforting sweetness, but I fought the temptation. If I ever drank from him again, I would surely kill him. I withdrew from his embrace slightly intoxicated by the rhythmic symphony his heartbeat played.
"I will need you to," I whispered to myself as I slipped away.
Wesley had yet to retire when I returned home. He sat comfortably in front of the fire, book in hand, waiting for me. The candles were nearly all down to their wicks in the spacious sitting room, all except the one nearest to him. The rest of my house was dark.
"How did it go with your prince, sweet sister?"
"I do not think I will ever leave Russia now."
"Ever?"
"Not until he does," I told him as I left the room, extinguishing the candle as I went by, bathing the room in darkness.
He followed behind as we crept up the stairs, not saying a word to each other. We both retired to our rooms. And this is how it went for centuries, him residing with me in Russia.
The next night, as promised, I returned to Viktor. He sat next to the fire, his feet drawn up. His mind was pensive, waiting to see my face. His ebony locks graced the edge of the chair. His eyelids were heavy. But, when he heard me draw back the velvet curtain, the bulky fabric rubbing at the stone floor, he turned in his chair; his eyes wide and alert, a broad smile gracing his eager face.
"You returned to me.”
"I promised I would."
I walked over to him as he stood up from his chair.
"I am to be married," he said as I put my arms around his shoulders. My lips caressed the smooth crease of his jaw, and then his stubbly cheek. His breath, warm and thick, caused tingly vibrations cascading down my neck.
"But you do not love her," I whispered as my fingers tousled his hair. The intoxicating aroma of his blood threatened to suffocate me and I struggled to resist it.
"No," he replied, pulling me away. "I believe I love you."
"Then marrying her will not change that," I explained to him. "Do what you must for the crown, for your family," I told him. "And I will be here for you."
His hand slid around the small of my back, and with a gentle tug, my cloak, the titian silk gathered in his grip, tumbled to the ground.
"There is no need to do that," I told him, and he stopped. "I feel no pleasure... in that way."
"Then how can we?" he asked but I interrupted him, placing my finger on his lips.
"The difference between you and me is that heartbeat," I told him.
"Then make it stop," he begged. "Make me what you are. We can be together forever. Then our hearts, they will be the same."
"No," I told him. I kissed the skin above his heart feeling the pulsation in my lips. "I can love you like this, but never like that."
"You say never, but never is a long time, Bree."
"You have no idea how long it is," I said. "I see time differently than you do. This moment, this one moment as we stand here face-to-face, embracing one another, it is so important to you. But this moment is just another moment to me, like so many moments from so many lifetimes that I have lived before and will live again once you are gone."
"Then why did you return to me?" he asked. "Why are you with me now if you cannot love me as I love you?"
"Because I need you," I told him. "I need to love you the way I love. It is different from how a human loves... deeper. In time, you will learn that. But, I need you. I have been so dead inside. So alone. So afraid of myself. But you, you make me feel alive."
"Alive?"
"You make me remember what it is like to be a human, and I… need that," I said as I kissed him. "I never want to forget what it means to be human again."
"Then I will not let you."
I spent that night in his arms, our bodies intertwined and pressed together. The moonlight and the stars fused us, by the vanilla and musk perfumes, by the raging firelight and the shadows that played on the walls. We laid our heads on feather pillows and fine satins, covered in fur. And from that night on, neither of us were lonely again.
Days passed like this, until the time came for his marriage to Mavra, Grand Duchess of Austria, and the nightmare grew into focus. She was but a child, a mere waif of sixteen. She was nothing more than a transaction, an exchange of property between two houses. Her father had sold her to the Russian Royal Court for amnesty. And she knew it. Behind her beauty, those pursed lips and genteel blue eyes, behind that smooth, fair skin, and lusciously combed hair the color of amber and gold fire with a spark of life all its own, was a mind so corrupt in jealousy and scandal that it spoiled what she could have been – a true goddess among men. At first, even Viktor fell under her spell.
"Be wary of her," I had told him on their wedding night. "Her mind is clouded and dark."
They had bedded, producing no heir. I never told him, but she had been relieved.
That is when her veil dropped— after that night, after she had met her marital obligation. That is when she allowed her true colors to shine. Her lies were plenty and a vile poison infecting Tver. She visited the men of the city, various men, and made no secret about it. She did not discriminate with her lovers, and once used, she discarded them as if they were bits of meaningless scrap.
To her, people were to be used, not loved.
Five years passed and the hatred between them grew to be a gaping chasm. In public, they were civil. In private, they were silent enemies.
The men she slept with talked, and people watched her. And the more they talked about her, the more they talked about Viktor. They talked of his weakness, of his inability to control her, but there was no controlling her insanity.
Then one night I came to him, as I did every night, but this night changed everything.
I found him sitting at the edge of the bed, his head resting in his hands. His mind was foggy, clouded and jumbled.
Terrible thoughts invaded my mind. I pushed them away. I had never seen him so consumed with darkness. The room was black, the fire dying. I entered and sat next to him on the bed, placing my arm around him, drawing him closer to me.
The moonlight filtered in from the balcony. His curtains were pulled back, the heavy oak doors to the outside world still open to the inviting July air. The warm staleness of the night clung to him, to his hair, making it stick to his brow; clung to his shirt - the fabric resembling thin, wet plaster against his chest.
"She is with child." His mouth quivered and the corners of his lips turned south as he spoke.
"Congratulations," I told him as I soothingly ran my fingers through his hair. "She will produce for you an heir."
"It is not mine."
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters!" he stammered. He stood from the bed, and began to pace about the room, his hands gripping his waist. "This child is not mine! Everyon
e knows it, Bree. She has made no secret of that fact."
"But it is already done, Viktor, you cannot undo it. You will just have to make the best of this." I went to his side and reached for him, but he shuffled away. He looked distant, vacant, too far to comfort.
"Who is the father?"
"My uncle, the tsar," he replied.
"She is a powerful seductress, Viktor," I said, putting an arm around him, and then leading him to a chair near the fire. "He stood no chance with her. No man does."
A heavy sigh escaped as he eased into the chair. The brown high back swallowed him and he leaned his face into the side trying to ease his worries. The fire had gone out, the room was nearly bathed in darkness save for a torch in the far side of the room by the door. I glanced at the fireplace, filling its dying hearth with a brilliant, caramel rainbow of color. A warm glow permeated the room and yet he did not even flinch.
"I am being punished," he whispered, looking away from me.
"For what?" I asked.
"For loving you," he said, his eyes not turning from the firelight. They held their haunting glare at those amber flames, those burning embers brightly licking at the stones in the fireplace. His voice was eerily calm.
"You will never be punished for loving me," I assured him. "Not now, not ever."
"What do I do about this child?" he asked, looking at me.
"What do I do?" he shouted.
I knelt down at his feet and took his hands in mine. His hands, his mortal hands with their ability to age and change – they were a miracle. I kissed those hands, each one, and held them to my cheek. Time could have paused in that moment and I would have been happy, truly happy. However, it did not. It continued on, as it had to.
"You let her have the baby," I told him. "You accept it as your own. And I will deal with the rumors."
TWELVE
On a Sunday evening, while the heavens poured forth a horrendous rainstorm of tears, Mavra delivered the child.
From birth, the male babe was destined to live an uncomfortable life. His left arm grew shorter than his right, and one eye deadened to the world. There were episodes of sickness, and the child had to be quarantined, unable to experience and grow as a normal child would. It knew little of sunlight or of its mother’s touch.
Descent Into Madness Page 11
