No matter what it cost her, she had to risk it. She couldn't stay away.
She watched her fingers touch the entrance flap, astonished at her own audacity. She hesitated just a moment more, and then slipped inside D’Arbignal’s tent.
Chapter 16
At first, she saw nothing in the darkness. She heard only the sound of the blood as it pulsed in her ears. She feared she’d stumble and awaken him. How would he react to find such a monstrous intruder? Would he think her an assassin? Or worse, would he think her a pathetic shadow of a seductress, one whose hideousness made her desire for him ludicrous instead of erotic?
As her senses became accustomed to the darkness within, she heard his normal sleep sounds, and saw his sleeping form on his cot with his back to her. She hesitated, and then took a step towards him. Then another.
But she was being too bold! Her courage gave out. She felt the urge to flee his tent, stealth be damned. Instead, she forced herself to turn as slowly as she could, heading back towards the exit.
She saw a light heading her way.
She froze in absolute terror. Her mouth gaped in a scream to which she dared not give voice. Her heart felt like it would burst.
She couldn’t just stand there; she’d be discovered. She had to do something … fast!
She spun in place, searching for a place to hide, but her mind had frozen. In desperation, she ducked behind D’Arbignal’s long coat, which hung from an improvised hook attached to the tent frame.
The flap opened and a dim cone of light spread upon the tent’s dirt floor. A figure entered, and the Cyclops smelled perfume: something feminine, with notes of vanilla and … almond perhaps?
It had to be Conchinara, of course. Only she would be so brazen, with her smoldering gazes at D’Arbignal and her flirtatious banter with her husband mere feet away.
Conchinara entered the tent.
Now the Cyclops was trapped. There was no way she could reach the tent opening. And the humiliation of being discovered by Conchinara … of all people! Of course, Conchinara would not dare to expose the Cyclops; by doing so, she’d implicitly be admitting her own presence in D’Arbignal’s tent. However, that wouldn’t stop her from torturing the Cyclops in subtler, far crueler ways.
So the Cyclops remained as still as a statue and hoped the sound of her breathing wouldn’t reveal her.
The cone of light narrowed, and the Cyclops heard the clank of Conchinara’s lantern as she placed it on the ground. Then she heard a rustle of cloth, and the sound of Conchinara’s dress falling to her feet. Peeking under the coat’s arm, the Cyclops spied a sliver of naked flesh.
Please don’t make me see this!
She expected Conchinara to whisper to D’Arbignal, but instead she eased into his cot with him. The cot creaked beneath her weight, and D’Arbignal grunted and tried to adjust his position again.
The Cyclops heard the whisper of Conchinara’s fingers moving through D’Arbignal’s hair. She imagined the tickle of her breath on D’Arbignal’s neck.
The cot creaked as D’Arbignal turned again. There were more sounds: fingernails along fabric, fingertips brushing across skin. A woman’s sharp inhalation of pleasure. A man’s slightly drowsy moan.
“Yes,” whispered Conchinara, arousal making her voice husky. “Yes.”
“Mmmm…” D’Arbignal sounded like he was smiling. The Cyclops could almost picture the devilish gleam in his eyes. She wished she were dead.
Then suddenly, there was a thump and a yelp of surprise and indignation from Conchinara as she landed on the dirt floor. From her vantage point, the Cyclops saw a flash of confusing motion.
“What—?” D’Arbignal said, confused. “Conchinara? Is that you?”
“Who did you think it was?” she said, and she tried to climb back in with him.
“What … no. You … can’t do that!”
She laughed softly, a seductive sound that was part moan. “Give me a minute, lover, and I’ll prove that I can.”
She heard a sharp creaking as D’Arbignal sat up in his cot.
“You’ll have to prove it with someone else,” he said. “Your husband’s my friend!”
The way he said it, it was almost as though it wasn’t the fact that she was married that bothered him, but that she was married to someone he knew…
“I’m your friend, too,” she purred. “My husband shows you his friendship by playing with swords with you, but I have a much better way of showing you my friendship…”
The Cyclops watched as Conchinara took D’Arbignal’s hand and led it to her breast. He gasped, and for a moment, it seemed like he had succumbed, but then he withdrew his hand. When he spoke next, his voice was firm.
“No, Conchinara,” he said. “Go now, before this turns ugly.”
Ugly. The word hit the Cyclops in her heart even though it hadn’t been aimed at her.
“You want to see ugly,” Conchinara said, her voice turning cold, “try rejecting me. Then I’ll show you ugly.”
“I think you’re doing a more than passable job of that now,” D’Arbignal said. He stood before Conchinara, apparently oblivious to her nude perfection. “Now are you going to leave of your own volition or need I jettison you?”
“Why, you—!” Conchinara raked her nails at D’Arbignal’s face. There was a blur of motion, and Conchinara had spun to face the exit.
“I’ve had a lovely time, Conchinara,” D’Arbignal said as he ushered her to the tent exit with a hand pressed against the small of her back. “Let’s do it again, soon. Oh, and thank you for being naked!”
He put a foot against her perfect buttocks and shoved her, staggering, outside the tent. D’Arbignal flipped Conchinara’s dress into his hand with the tip of his toes, and tossed it out after her. Strangled cries of indignation and rage came across as the mewling of a sickly cat.
“And a goodnight to you, too, milady,” he said. “I pray you sleep well tonight.”
“I’ll sleep well tonight, all right,” she hissed. “I’ll dream of my husband cutting you to ribbons!”
“Sounds lovely,” D’Arbignal said, dismissively. “I myself now always dream of elephants for some reason.”
He climbed back into his cot and lay there as though nothing had happened.
There was a deadly few minutes of silence, and then the Cyclops heard Conchinara storm off into the night. Calm restored, D’Arbignal went back to sleep.
Or at least, that was what the Cyclops thought until D’Arbignal said in a sleepy voice: “Maria, if you want to be stealthy, you can’t wear perfume.”
D’Arbignal sniffed once, then twice.
“I like the citrus on you,” he said, “but when sneaking through the night it’s about as subtle as cowbells.”
He rolled over in his cot, and she saw the gleam of his eyes in the light cast by Conchinara’s abandoned lantern.
“If you’re interested, I can show you a few tricks sometime, but not tonight. I have a big performance tomorrow. I need my sleep. Some other time?”
He seemed to be awaiting an answer, but the Cyclops couldn’t speak. She wanted to flee, hide, and die of shame.
She stood frozen for a few moments. Then she bolted from his tent like a startled deer.
She collided head-on with Conchinara, who was fastening the buttons on her dress.
“Oh,” Conchinara said, “you have got to be kidding me.”
Chapter 17
She avoided D’Arbignal and Conchinara the next day. Shame and humiliation clung to her like a nauseous odor. She felt marked and obvious. A strumpet.
Pahula watched her while they were getting dressed for the late afternoon show. Her eyes were caring and questioning.
“You are well?” she said. She seemed unsatisfied with the phrase, and tried again. “You are sick?”
The Cyclops forced a weak smile. “I’m all right.”
Pahula frowned, crossing her illustrated arms over her ample bosom. She shook her head.
“You
are not well,” she stated. “Is it that man? Is it that D’Arbignal?” She pronounced the name dour-bee-neel.
The Cyclops’s heart beat a little faster. She met Pahula’s gaze.
“Ah! I knows it!” Pahula said, looking angry. “He says something to you, yes? About your face? He should not. We help him, yes? We give him job. Shows him how to be acroobat.”
The Cyclops wanted to defend D’Arbignal from this undeserved attack on his character, but she was too exhausted, too ashamed, too frightened. Instead, she stared at her feet.
“I’m all right,” she said again, thinking how feeble a response it was.
“I don’t like him,” Pahula said, definitively. “He’s—how you say it?—low.”
She leaned in closer, her expression conspiratorial.
“And I think he’s done it with the tart,” she whispered. “You know: the sex.”
Again, the Cyclops knew for a fact that Pahula was wrong about D’Arbignal, but there was no way to correct her without revealing her nighttime misadventures.
Marco poked his head into the tent, looking worried.
“Anyone seen D’Arbignal?”
The Cyclops felt certain that her guilt and shame were visible to all. Pahula was looking at her oddly.
“No,” the Cyclops said. Her voice sounded almost like a whimper.
“Damn him!”
“Why you look for him?” Pahula said, glancing at the Cyclops out of the corner of her eye.
“Nobody’s seen him all day. Half the tickets we sell’re because o’ him and Alfredo. If he’s abandoned us, I’ll wring his neck!”
“I haven’t seen him,” the Cyclops said.
Marco and Pahula just stared at her for a moment. Once again, she wished she could just disappear.
“Hey, Pahula,” Marco said. His shoulders were hunched and his head hung like a beaten dog’s. “Can ye give the Cyclops and me a moment in private?”
Chapter 18
Marco began to fidget once they were alone together.
“There’s no way to break it to ye gently,” he said, not looking her in the eye. “After we finish up here in Per, I’m afraid ye’ll have to find yer own way.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but it sounded ominous.
“Find my way where?” she asked.
Marco coughed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Nobody’s coming to the Freak Show anymore,” he explained, his voice apologetic. “Word of the fencing is what’s drawing the marks now. It’s costing more to house and feed you freaks than it’s bringing in. The Players are going to have to do without ye.”
“You’re … you’re kicking me out?” The Cyclops felt numb. Surely, she was misinterpreting what Marco was saying.
“It’s not like that, Cyclops. It’s just business.” He fidgeted some more, looking guilty. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll pay ye a month’s wages when ye leave. Something to hold ye over.”
“Hold me over until what?” she said. Where else could she go, looking as she did? If she couldn’t earn a living as a freak, there was nothing left for her. She’d starve!
Marco had no answer for that one. He moved to leave the tent.
“Can I … can I do more work or something?” she said, desperate. “I could help put up the tents. I could clean up after the animals. Alfredo’s always wanted to do a knife-throwing act; I could try to be his target…” This last offer was almost suicide, but what other choice did she have?
“I’ll … consider it,” Marco said, but he was shaking his head as he said it. He edged towards the exit. “If there’s nothing else …”
He waited for some kind of response from her, but she had nothing left to say. After an awkward silence, he left.
The Cyclops sat at her dressing table for a while, stunned. Then at last, the realization began to sink in. An enormous sob of anguish welled up from the core of her being. Her lips quivered, and her single eye filled with tears. She fought them off as best as she could, because she knew that once she started crying, she’d never stop.
Her face contorted in a grimace as she strained to keep from falling apart. Pahula might return at any moment. Her cheeks were wet, and she dabbed at them with her handkerchief.
D’Arbignal popped his head into her tent and eyed her critically.
“I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go very well,” he said, his face all cheer, his eyes shining. “But I’m betting that what I have in this bag will bring a smile back to that face!”
Chapter 19
The Cyclops burst into tears. A waterfall of misery poured out of her single eye to break upon soul-wrenching, body-shaking sobs. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to comfort herself as best she could.
The worst part of this was that she was doing this in front of D’Arbignal. She wanted so much for him to like her, and all she had done was get caught sneaking in his tent and then to cry like a baby in front of him the very next day.
“That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting,” D’Arbignal said, looking nonplussed. “Let’s try that again.”
He ducked out of the tent. She stared at where he had been in open-mouthed astonishment.
Then he reappeared at the open tent-flap.
“I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go very well.” His voice was resonant and theatrical, his arms akimbo. “But I’m betting that what I have in this bag” —and here, he waved his hand over the sack like a magician—“will bring a smile back to that face!”
He presented his hands in a mime’s appeal for applause.
The Cyclops blinked in surprise, her sorrow momentarily forgotten in the bizarre moment. She could have imagined a number of reactions D’Arbignal might have had to her misery. This would not have been one of them.
“There, that’s better!” he said. He entered the tent, and spun around, his arms spread expansively. “Yes, this place will be perfectly suitable. Lock the door, will you, Maria?”
She started to get up, and then sat again, blinking.
“Um,” she said, “we’re in a tent.”
D’Arbignal had already moved passed her to her dressing table, and was shoving Pahula's cosmetics and beauty tools aside.
“Never mind,” he said, a whirlwind of activity. “It was joke; it’s not important. What’s important is that you trust me. Do you trust me, Maria?”
It took her a moment to realize that he was expecting a response. She shrugged, hesitant, unsure what he wanted from her.
“I guess that’ll have to do,” he said with a theatrical sigh.
He reached forward and gently cupped the sides of her face with his hands. She inhaled sharply at the unexpected sensation, and shuddered in near-orgasmic pleasure.
“Now close your eye,” he said, “and I’ll work my magic on you.”
Chapter 20
“I don’t know if I ever mentioned it,” D’Arbignal said, “but I once did a fairly long stint with the Ardoxy Royal Theater Troupe.”
She heard the rustle of his canvas bag. The sounds of items being placed upon her wooden dressing table. Next, she heard the various, slight scrapes as D’Arbignal moved the items about on the table.
D’Arbignal grasped her face in a gentle grip. She gasped, recoiling and averting her face out of habit. D’Arbignal shushed her and took hold of her face, even more gently this time.
She felt the sensation of a downy-soft brush against her cheek.
“Despite the formidable-sounding name, we were a modest band of thespians. We were our own stagehands, and of course, our own makeup artists.”
He stopped speaking for a minute as he passed the brush over her skin and neck.
“Now, I’ll be the first to admit that you perhaps aren’t the most beautiful woman in the world—that honor of course belonging to my mother—but methinks you’ve gone out of your way to hide all that is beautiful within you to accentuate that which is not. I do admit it is a refreshing change from the preening found
in most women, but any virtue taken too far becomes a vice.”
He continued applying makeup to her face. He turned her head this way and that, up and then down, tsking, hmmming, and making adjustments. She felt like a kite buffeted in a gale.
She felt his arms under hers. They gently but firmly guided her to her feet.
“Now keep your eyes closed,” he said. “I mean eye.”
She heard the rustle of large amounts of fabric, like a bed sheet perhaps. His finger pressed against her lips and she gasped softly.
“Now,” he whispered, his voice moving behind her, “here’s where you’re really going to have to trust me. You’ll have to take my word that I’m not looking.”
“Not looking at what?” she said.
Suddenly, she felt him undoing the ties of her gown. She inhaled sharply, her mouth a round O.
“Easy,” he said. “I promise: I’m not looking, and I never break my promises.”
Her gown dropped to the floor, leaving her naked before him.
“Well, rarely, anyway …” he said.
More rustling of fabric. It had a slight whistle to it as it moved, whatever it was. An unusual sound in fabric.
She was feeling a warmth, an unaccustomed moisture in a part of her body she rarely thought about. Worse, the cold had caused her nipples to stand fully erect. She fought the urge to squirm, and she fervently hoped D’Arbignal would not notice her current state.
“I had to guess your size,” he said, “but I’m usually pretty good at that. Just don’t ask me how…”
Then the fabric enveloped her, glided over her. At last, she realized it was a dress. But the fabric was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Its warm sensual nature caressed her skin.
“Hmm,” said D’Arbignal, sounding pleased with himself. “That looks stunning on you! Now for the final touch …”
He caressed her face, and then she felt something soft and warm settle upon her head. She heard the scrape of him picking up another item from her dressing table. She felt a brush against what must have been a wig.
A Lesson for the Cyclops Page 5
