The Blood Confession, page 15
"Why have I not been called to trial?" I demanded.
"I don't know that you will be called to trial, Countess. The prince thought you would be safer here." The round-cheeked girl says her words carefully. She pretends to be calm, but I think she is afraid. I smile at her.
"Will I be asked to confess?"
"We don't know that, Countess. You will have to wait for the prince to call upon you."
"It's just as well. I don't know why I should have to confess." I sigh, moving to the mirror again, watching their expressions reflected in the glass. "After all, I don't see that I did much of anything wrong."
At night, the ghosts come to the tower to disagree with this notion.
We didn't want you to be alone. They laugh.
I try to recall the moments of peace and power I experienced in their death in order to keep my calm.
"I've won, you see," I remind them. "I'm here and you are gone. You are nothing but shadows."
Still, my hand trembles as I grip the quill to write.
***
I stood before the artist in a chamber draped with black velvet curtains and lit golden by a roaring fire. The moment I stepped into the room, I could see my beauty reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. The gown shimmered in the firelight. Konrad fumbled with pleasantries and took my hand, showing me where to stand before the black velvet, which kept out the light of the sun.
"Firelight creates a special warmth, for a portrait," he explained. "And that dress—the red and gold are the color of the flames."
Despite the persistent ache in my belly, I could not help but think about the blood of the servant upon my hand. I meditated not merely upon the satisfying sound of my palm colliding with the face of the young maid, but on the warmth and vivid redness of the blood itself, and how it felt against my skin. He will be so proud of me, I thought, and I realized I was thinking about Sinestra. I reveled in the feeling of his pride. Then Marianna's visage rose before me: reproachful, injured. The memory of her gaze wiped these thoughts away.
"Is the light quite right for you, Konrad?" I asked coyly.
"Of course, Erzebet. It's perfect. You look perfect," he stammered.
Ignoring the heavy ache in my back and belly, I enjoyed how his eyes flickered nervously as he perfected my pose, tilting my chin in the light. I smiled as I watched the way he tugged at the loose collar of his shirt and patted a dry cloth to his forehead. Meanwhile, I stood still, austere, like a sculpture in the garden, the firelight glowing golden upon my skin. He arranged the pots of paint before the canvas with awkward, clumsy fingers. He tipped over one jar and scattered a handful of slim paintbrushes upon the floor.
"You're not nervous, are you?" I teased. "You have painted a live model before?"
"None quite so impressive, my lady, forgive me," he said, with a hasty bow.
In the years I had spent awaiting this portrait, I had long fantasized that the gaze of an artist was much like the gaze of a lover, drinking in each detail of his inspiration from my face, my limbs, my slim waist. As the hour progressed, Konrad grew quiet and focused on his work, and something in his face changed.
"It's been many years since my last portrait was painted," I prattled, continuing my flirtation. "I'm certain I've changed a great deal."
"I need the right expression," he murmured, more to his canvas than to me. He ruffled his hand through his hair for a moment, thinking. When he turned to me I saw a smudge of red paint on his face. He might have said something to me, but I didn't hear it; I was distracted by the red paint, like a smear of blood across his face. I remembered again the sound of my hand against the servant's face, the feel of her blood on my skin. I felt that I had been granted a secret in this, a secret that not all humans are privy to. It made me feel more than human somehow. I could not help but smile.
"Don't move," he told me. The clumsiness of a first lover disappeared and only the penetrating gaze of the artist was left behind.
My romantic notions about art were untrue. I learned that the soul of art is not love or lust, but creation. The artist's passion is not for the subject arrayed before him—a young woman laced into the constrictions of her finest gown—but for the creation of the art itself.
***
By the time I reached my bedchamber that evening, I felt drained.
"Erzebet, are you well?" Rowena walked toward me as soon as I entered. I saw that a white silk nightshift was already spread upon the bed and I sighed with relief.
"Let me help you undress. You need your rest."
I stood still and allowed her to release me from the confines of the opulent gown. When I stood in my underclothes, I was careful to close my eyes when the bloodied bandage was removed from between my legs. It was as though I was wounded, I thought, suddenly dizzy at the smell of blood.
"You looked beautiful today," Rowena murmured, urging me into bed.
I thought distantly of the face I had seen in the mirror only hours before: harsh, beautiful angles reflected in the glass. I did not feel like that girl anymore. It was not just the blood that drained me of life, but the eyes of the artist as well. I felt as though a living part of me had been removed, to be rendered in oils upon the canvas and made immortal.
"Where is Marianna?" I asked, my voice weak.
"She's in the tower, asleep. Don't worry," Rowena said, piling a heavy fur upon the bed. "You're chilled to the bone, Erzebet. I hope you're not unwell."
"I'm not unwell," I told her, but it was not merely the cold that had made me shiver. Time scurries about at night like a rat, feasts on you in sleep... My mother's voice echoed in my head, magnified, as if part of a hideous dream.
XXI
I woke early the next morning, hours before Rowena's visit. It was surprisingly chilly, a portent of the cold winter already on its way. I pulled a dressing gown tightly around my shoulders and poked at the embers in the fireplace, urging the flames to warm my skin. In the steel-gray light of dawn I lit a candle and sat before the mirror to contemplate my reflection. Despite the cold I slipped the cloak from my shoulders, then pulled down my nightshift to inspect all of my curves and angles in the glass. While part of me thrilled at the glow and softness of my young skin in the candlelight, a dark cloud hovered over my enjoyment. I was a woman now, and according to the prophecy, death could come to me at any time, without hesitation, despite the soft white curves of my new breasts or the unblemished skin of my face and throat.
I thought, of course, about the blood. The gold-and-emerald ring that had sliced the flesh of the servant's face the night before now glinted darkly in the candlelight. I rifled through the sundry items on the table before me—pearl necklaces, ribbons, rings—and found a sapphire brooch and unfastened the crooked clasp. Delicately, I pierced the flesh of my thumb with the pin and watched as a bead of blood rose to the surface.
This was so different from my monthly blood, pulled from me by unseen forces, beyond my control. This blood seemed clean and pure, like a sacrament. I patted the spot dry with a wad of muslin until the bleeding ceased. I looked at the stains the blood had left behind upon the swatch of cotton: red roses blooming on a field of white.
It was clear that I needed blood for my next experiment. Piercing my own flesh would not produce nearly enough, and I was loath to risk scarring my own flawless skin. Clearly I needed the help of a servant, much as I had required their help in the past to offer me the necessary leaves and herbs for my potions. Blood was simply a new ingredient that I required.
I could make this argument quite convincingly to my own reflection in the glass. As soon as I remembered the look upon Marianna's face the night before—reproachful, a bit frightened—my own courage faltered. I swallowed my misgivings, resigned to keep the experiment a secret.
After dressing in a blue satin gown, I went to visit Marianna in the tower, carrying a tray of tea, bread, and jam: a peace offering. I set the tray upon a low table and rallied the fire in the hearth as she sat up upon the divan, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
"Good morning, Mari," I said, as sweetly as I could. Marianna smiled, her eyes brightening when she saw the thick white bread slathered with jam.
"Such dutiful service," she said. "It's lovely, Erzebet. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure. I thought I would visit with you briefly, before my lesson. I know that you're restless when I'm away."
She made ready to bite into a piece of bread when she paused, gazing at it for a long moment.
"There is something I feel I should talk to you about, Erzebet, but I feel sorry to say anything, as you've always been so kind to me."
"You can talk to me about anything, Mari." I smiled to hide my apprehension.
"It's about last night, when you were readying for your portrait. I know it's not my place to say, but you had no right to treat that young woman as you did."
"I wasn't feeling well—you know that," I uttered vainly, to suppress my guilt. "I don't think it was as terrible as you make it out to be."
Her eyes flashed at me reproachfully, her lips parted to speak.
"You must understand, there are nobles who treat their servants far more harshly than I do. That's how they deal with their servants, to make sure they know their place."
"Their place?" she cried. "Do you realize that it could very well have been me? That girl is probably from the same village in which I was born."
"Your parents never sent you into service, Marianna."
"But don't you think they would have, if it hadn't been for you?"
Her eyes blurred with tears and she sighed angrily, averting her gaze from mine.
"Some people don't have much choice in the matter," she murmured. "Where you are born is where you are born; God gives you a life and you must make do." She looked up at me warily. "That life may not be easy for many people."
"Life is not easy for anyone," I told her, putting my hand upon hers. "Not for you, or for me. I'm sorry, Mari," I sighed, softening. "I'm sorry that you saw it at all."
***
Later that morning, after Pugrue's endless lecture about sin and salvation, I learned the whereabouts of the count.
"He has been in the village of late, with his soldiers. He will make a voyage to court before long, before the weather turns," Pugrue explained. "He plans to take your portrait, when it is done, and make a gift of it to Emperor Rudolf."
"Am I to be betrothed, Father?" I asked, most innocently. Pugrue responded well to innocence.
"That seems to be his plan, of course. He has long been set upon a match between you and Rudolf, though I confess I think it unlikely."
"Why is that?"
"The emperor is not well, has never been well from what I've heard, and seems to have no intention of marrying anybody. He was engaged to his cousin Isabel for years before she finally got tired of waiting and married his younger brother. Now that the count— your father..." He paused for a moment, feeling abashed at having revealed so much. He scratched his balding head, making the white strands of hair stand up like reeds.
"Your honesty is much appreciated, Father," I reassured him. "I'm afraid I hear very little honesty, least of all from the count."
"Over the past few years, the scourge of Protestantism has infected the nobility," he grunted, disgusted. "Your father will wed you only to a Catholic, of course, but those options are dwindling, I'm afraid."
"I'm not afraid, Father," I told him, and bowed most regally. "Please do not fear for my sake."
***
I was glad to hear that the count would soon be back at court and unable to meddle in my affairs. I had spent so many years of my childhood concerned with how I would impress him upon his return, and now the thought of him only filled me with anger and disgust. He was a coward who made deals with the enemy just to retain the illusion of his power. I sought real power, and his weakness sickened me. But in spite of my bitterness, I still remembered the pain caused by his neglect: no one should be made to feel so insignificant. These thoughts pulled me gradually to my mother's bedchamber.
The countess was lavishly dressed, lying upon her bed.
"You again," she announced upon my entrance. The servants turned and looked at me with wide eyes; one nearly dropped a pitcher of wine. I lifted my hand to silence their concerns.
"Good morning, Countess," I said, bowing. "I thought I would pay you a visit; I hope you don't mind."
I waved a hand to the servants, and they retreated to the hearth, the wardrobe, giving us some semblance of privacy. I lifted the wine pitcher from a table and filled a glass for the countess. When I held it out to her, she shook her head.
"Try it first," she insisted. "You try it first."
I sipped the wine, and when she saw that it was safe, she took the goblet from me and drank.
"I remember you," she croaked, her voice thick. "You were here asking about my daughter, about the prophecy."
"You're right, I did. In fact, I've been thinking about that prophecy."
"Here, sit," she said, patting the side of her bed. As she lay back, the skin of her face and neck fell slack; her eyes were glassy. She smelled of wine.
"Do you really think the prophecy was true?" I asked.
"What do you mean, do I think it was true? She died, didn't she?"
"Did she?" I asked, but the countess only shook her head. I decided not to press the matter; perhaps she would not be so willing to let me visit her if she knew I was her daughter. She seemed more comfortable believing that I had died.
"The prophecy was unclear," I explained. "It said she would either die young or that she would never die."
At this she laughed loudly, the sound of it making me jump from her in fear. Her eyes gleamed as though bright with fever.
"What if there was a way to stay young forever?" I suggested.
"I would bless you if you could find it," she said, snorting, "though God may think differently. Mark me"—she leaned forward and whispered close to my face, her sour breath reeking of wine—"He is a vindictive God, who does not look kindly upon the perfection of his poor, pitiful creatures upon this earth. I know."
"Careful, my lady, it's blasphemy to say such things." I shifted my eyes, wary the servants might be able to overhear.
"It's too late for me anyhow." She waved me off the edge of the bed and pulled herself up from it, suddenly seeming agitated, wringing the fabric of her gown. She stood and smoothed the silk with the palms of her hands, but I could see that her fingers were trembling.
"Why would I want to live forever like this? No"—she frowned and shook her head—"eternal beauty comes with eternal life. No one would choose one without the other, because the first makes life worth living." The countess laughed, a harsh, barking sound that degenerated into a fit of coughing. She waved her arms frantically as I tried, in vain, to calm her. A young servant girl shuffled forward, but the countess stood and backed into her dressing table to avoid the girl's touch.
"Who are you?" she croaked viciously.
"What's wrong?" I asked, but the countess could only point at the girl before her. The servant was a bit younger than I was, and even slighter and paler in complexion. Her hair was braided into a golden rope that hung down her back.
"I'm sorry, Countess," the girl, curtsying, said miserably. "I am Anastasia."
"Is she a ghost?" the countess asked me. "Are you a ghost?" she shouted, lunging at the girl and pinching her harshly on the breast.
The girl shrieked in pain and fear. The other servants ran forward and snatched her away.
"You must lie down, Countess," they said to her. "You're not well, you must rest."
"None of you are well!" she shrieked. "Not a single one of you!" Then she turned her glassy eyes to me. "You saw her, didn't you?"
A servant urged a goblet of wine into her hand; the countess gulped, dutifully.
"You saw her," she repeated to me, her voice thick. "It was Illyana—the girl I used to be. She's climbed out of the mirror to mock me. That mirror is playing tricks on me," she hissed. "You watch her, will you? You must watch her for me."
"Of course I will." I stepped back, horrified at the sight of the bloated countess muttering under her breath. I turned and walked out of the room with my head down, aware of the servants' eyes upon me. Once in the hallway and free from their gazes, I broke into a run. When I was halfway down the hall, with the staircase to the tower in view, a cold hand grasped my arm and pulled me into a dark room. Before I realized what had happened, I heard the door slam shut behind me.
"I've missed you, Erzebet," said a familiar voice.
XXII
We were in one of the countess's chambers, the walls lined with her collection of mirrors. Sunlight streamed in through the puckered windows. For a moment I was dizzied by the sight of everything multiplied: his rich velvet cloak, his hands, his face, all stretching into eternity around me. And there I was in the room with him.
It occurred to me that I had never seen him so clearly, either in my dreams or the dimly lit tower. He was not much older than I, with high, sharp cheekbones, a long narrow nose (to rival my marble Athenus), fashionably long and curling brown hair, a square chin, and dark brows arched over glittering black eyes. The cloak was fastened at his throat by a golden clasp. Though my heart raced, I realized that I didn't feel surprised to see him. I had been expecting that he would find me again soon, especially after I slapped the servant in the face. I knew that he would know about that, as if he had been there to watch it happen.
"You're an awfully sweet child"—he smiled, grasping my hand and pressing it to his lips—"to visit a mother who will not claim you as her own."
I pulled back at his insolence. "I don't want to talk about her," I told him, surprised by my desire to defend her. "She may be mad, but at least she's not completely made of lies."
