The Blood Confession, page 27
"Why do you live here?" I asked her.
"I thought here I would be left alone." She shuffled forward like an old woman, lifting the dirty hem of her veil from the floor.
"I can leave if you would like."
"No, I was hoping you would come back. I wanted to ask you again about the vision."
"Why do you wear that veil?" I asked.
"I told you," she said self-consciously. "I prefer not to be seen."
"I see." I turned back to the notes on her wall. "You look into your mirror for the people in the village?"
"They come to me wanting to hear from those who have died, or to ask about their own futures."
"Do you tell them what they want to hear?"
"I tell them only what I see or hear in dreams, or in visions. I tell them only the truth."
"You are confident that you know the truth?" She only shrugged beneath the black veil.
"How did you know that black-haired woman? Will you tell me that?" she asked abruptly.
"Wouldn't your mirror tell you?" I answered, sitting upon a low stool in the corner and lifting the Bible to my lap. As she seemed to have no intention of answering, I began reading aloud. I thought little about the words as I read them, but I could tell that the girl listened in rapt attention. She barely made a sound during the readings, but sat crouched on a stool across the table, melting into a corner of shadow. If not for the occasional sniff or sigh, I could have easily imagined I was alone in the room.
When I grew tired of reading I stood from the stool and placed my candle on one point of the painted pentagram. Patiently I waited as she mumbled her incantations over the glass, pressing her veiled face close to its shadowy surface.
Unfortunately, what designs fate had in store for me the mirror would not yield. I began to wonder if this was God's trickery, not wanting to reveal a fate He knew full well I would only attempt to circumvent with my own actions.
"I see a wedding—you are wearing a beautiful white satin gown," she told me.
"Rubbish!" I exclaimed.
"You are smiling happily," she told me the next day, a bit warily, "with a beautiful baby in your arms."
"Blasphemy!" I shouted. "Where do you get these ridiculous ideas? I could do better myself, gazing into the cook's ladle."
"I'm sorry," she said, and wavered for a moment, as if faint. "The mirror won't show me anything aside from what I've already told you: the woman with black hair." She sighed heavily, her shoulders hunched forward beneath her veil. "You did not want to hear the truth; I thought I would try to guess what you wanted to hear."
She took a step closer, her veiled face hovering over the candlelit table like a dark ghost.
"Won't you tell me about her, please?"
"I'm beginning to doubt your power," I told her angrily. "That angel who blessed you was nothing but a foolish child's dream." I clasped my cloak at my neck, preparing to leave.
"But I've seen her, the woman with the curling black hair. And I've seen you with her. That much is true, you can't deny it."
I paused for a moment, suddenly embarrassed. I turned away from her and faced the wall.
"She was a friend of mine, long ago," I told her. "A very dear friend."
"And then she died," she said.
"Did you see that in your mirror?" I asked.
"I can hear it in your voice," she said. "What else can you tell me about her?"
I opened my mouth to speak but instead caught a flicker of recognition, like a tiny lightning bolt striking in my head. Right before my face hung a particular piece of parchment on her wall. It was a drawing that I knew well, though I had not seen its likeness for years: a young woman's face rendered by the gentle strokes of an artist's pencil.
"What do you know about her?" the child asked again, petulant. Her voice had never sounded so young before.
"Perhaps I should ask you the same thing," I said, moving closer to the door. "You've seen her in your mirror before?"
"Many times," she told me, "and in dreams."
"Who asked you about her—did someone ask you to find her?"
"No, no one asked me. I've seen her all along." She lowered her head over the mirror but did not crouch over it to scry. "She was my first vision. I saw her on that white bed, and I saw the sheets turn red with blood. Not until now did I see you sitting beside her."
"Why are you telling me this?" I muttered angrily. "I was there, I don't need to know."
"I need to know," she stated, and stepped forward. "I need you to tell me—please."
"Perhaps your angel will reveal it for you," I told her. I slipped out the door and fled into the night.
***
But I did go back to visit her, though at the time I wouldn't admit to myself the reason why.
"How old are you?" I asked her, the Bible unopened upon my lap. "Does anyone know that you are here?"
"My father, he is traveling," she explained. "He knows where I am."
"And your mother?" I ventured.
"My mother is dead." She sighed, and the words made me shiver. "I think that is why I am this way. I think you're right, that I was cursed."
I could understand that, the feeling of something being wrong with you, living under an ill omen.
"Why do you think you were you cursed?"
"Because my mother is dead, and I think it was my fault," she told me.
It is your fault! The thoughts began screaming in my head, so loud that I could not ignore them. I squeezed my eyes shut, but all I found in that blackness was memory: the white bed covered in blood, the sound of an infant's strangled cries. Opening my eyes to see the child before me, I had the urge to lash out at her violently. For a moment I sat perched on my chair, unable to move, my fists clenched and my teeth gritted.
This is the sin of wrath, I thought, remembering Sinestra's words. Embrace its power; don't reject it. It tore through me with frightening force, the opening of an old wound.
Finally, I stood from my chair and turned to leave.
"You'll be back to read more tomorrow?" she asked me.
"Of course I will," I uttered, my throat too tight for speech.
But I didn't go back, and attempted to avoid any thought of the scryer. When I saw her again, the village would be seized by flames, and hysteria, and fear.
XLII
Seeing the scryer changed me. The ghosts of Anastasia and Ursula still paced the tower room while I tried to sleep at night, but I responded with rage instead of fear. I threw things at them—a string of pearls, a book, a wine goblet—until they scurried back into their hiding places. Though bathing my face in the blood of virgins each night continued to offer me some form of peace, the rituals themselves were lacking in something I desperately craved. I felt that my power, my rage, was being constricted inside of me, waiting to break free.
One night the girls—Mary, Althea, Elizabeth, Therese, and Sarah—lounged in the tower room just before our ritual. Therese lay with her head resting upon a velvet pillow beside me, and I petted her silken hair distractedly as she closed her eyes.
"Therese had better rest while she still can." Althea giggled, her eyes glassy with wine. "She may not have much of a chance, before long."
Therese's eyes opened, her neck stiffened against the velvet pillow.
"What was that, Althea?" I asked, but the conversation on the other side of the room had abruptly shifted to the comparing of jewelry; I had given Sarah a pearl pin that was the envy of all. Therese lifted her head slowly from the pillow and stood to take a sip of her wine.
"What was Althea talking about, Therese?" I asked her. Her eyes shifted away from me nervously. I had never known Therese to act so skittish around me before. She had long been the leader, the bravest and most accepting of all my girls.
"Countess, I've been your servant for five years now," she informed me.
"Yes, I know that, Therese."
"You promised that we would be released after five years."
"Of course, dear. I had no idea that you wanted to leave, if that is your decision."
"The decision has been made." She shrugged and smiled slightly. "I am getting married this summer. I hope that you approve, Countess."
"I simply don't see why you would want such a thing for yourself, Therese."
"My father has made arrangements with the village butcher. He seems like a kind man, and my father approves of the match," she explained, ever pragmatic.
"And that is enough for you to leave me?" I asked, my voice suddenly loud. All other talk in the room ceased; though only Sarah had been witness to my killing, all of the girls were familiar with my periodic rages.
"I saved your life here. And you will leave to be the servant of a man who will give you nothing but work, and children? You will be his slave, with none of this luxury," I told her, referring to the candlelit chamber, the wine goblets glistening red in the firelight.
"What I ask of you is comparatively little."
"I know, Countess, and I am sorry. But I'm afraid I must do this, for my family. It's what my father has long planned for me, once my years in your service were complete. I hope you can understand."
She was a dutiful daughter, I realized. I shouldn't have been surprised, for she had been a loyal servant to me. She would make this butcher a good, honest wife—would that he deserved her.
"Of course, dear, I understand," I told her, and smiled. She rested her head back upon the cushion and shut her eyes, her dark eyelashes curving against her cheeks. I nestled my hand in her golden curls to hide its trembling.
***
The desire came to you last night." Sinestra's voice rumbled in my ear, waking me from a deep sleep. "I saw it, as you looked at Therese. I could feel how it surged through you."
It was barely dawn and he was lying beside me in bed, my bedchamber lit with candles.
"What do you know of my desire?" I asked, but I could not conceal the hurt in my voice. He pulled me close to him and kissed me, deeply.
"Don't deny that you've thought of killing her—your favorite, no less." His voice lilted with admiration. I could not help but revel in it.
"Perhaps"—I sighed, realizing the futility of denial—"but it was only a thought."
"It doesn't need to be. It could be so much more than that. I know you, and I know what you are capable of."
"How is it that you know me so well?"
He placed his hands on either side of my face and forced me to look directly at him, his eyes reflecting the candlelight.
"Because you and I are the same," he told me. "We are the same mind, the same heart."
"If am your heart, then why don't you come to me when I need you—at night, when I can't sleep for thoughts of old ghosts."
"You give the dead too much power over you, Erzebet," he scolded, gripping my arms. "Your measly kills, your mother—and that friend of yours."
My eyes flew open at this, my back suddenly rigid.
"You never talk about her, but I can see her death still clinging to you, like a silk shroud."
"How dare you!" I shrieked, pushing him away from me. The ghosts were not the only thing that haunted me, I realized in shame—my days and nights were plagued by my desires for him. And here he was in the flesh, spurring me to anger. He gripped my arms in his, but I lashed out only more viciously, scratching him across the chest. As I grew tired of the fight, he pulled me close to him again.
"Let go of it, Erzebet," he murmured, his voice surprisingly compassionate. "Let go of her. She certainly let go of you, long ago, even before her death."
He knew all of it, then, all of my feelings of betrayal when Marianna had married, when she became swollen with child.
"She was not chosen," he reminded me, "but you are."
I felt the tears rise within me—stale tears, unshed over years of stifled grief. I pushed them down again, feeling them harden within my chest. Sinestra kissed me again, the heat of his kiss warming the coldness inside of me.
"Am I not enough for you?" he asked. "I will always be here for you, and I offer you everything—I offer you eternity."
"Of course you are enough for me." I responded in kind with a kiss.
I was not prepared to put myself at risk. This lesson had been hard learned after Marianna's death; I had only needed Sinestra to remind me. To love was an indiscretion that I dared not commit again.
***
I began a habit of calling Therese to the tower at odd hours for bleedings. I reasoned that I wanted to have my fill of her blood while she was still a virgin, and still mine. But both of us knew there was more to it than that.
By the time the spring buds had opened their hearts to the sun, Therese was merely a shadow of the girl she had been. Her skin was glaringly pale in the sunlight, her limbs skeletal and lacking the reliable, resourceful energy she generally exuded. Ever the brave acolyte, Therese told no one about the additional bleedings that I had been demanding, and hid her weakness with stunning efficiency. I continued to present her with gifts after each of these secret bleeding sessions, which she accepted with a solemn nod of gratitude.
"You could wear this on your wedding day," I told her after a bleeding, ushering her over to the mirror so I could clasp the circlet of pearls in her hair.
Her eyes appeared flat and glassy in the mirror, her face drawn. It was not unlike the transformation Anastasia had undergone before her death, but there was something more precious, more sacred about how it took its toll upon Therese. She was not naive about my intentions, and seemed to realize that I still held sway over her life, and that I might do with it as I pleased. She submitted to her death gracefully, with the full knowledge that she was still under my control. As the day of her wedding drew nearer, Therese's life waned to a close.
It was a day in early summer when we both knew the end was near. She gazed at me over the wooden bowl, her gray eyes glassy and solemn.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, but she seemed to know the answer already.
"Because you have faltered in your devotion," I told her, tightening my grip upon her hand. She sighed knowingly. Weary, she rested her head upon the table. She did not lift it again.
Once certain that her heart had ceased beating, I mused that I had saved her from a worse fate at the hands of a brutal husband. Still, the fact that she had rejected the life I offered her left a sour taste within my mouth, even as I inspected the motionless beauty of her bent white body, her honey-golden hair spilled over the wooden bowl. No one was safe, anymore, from my whims. No one was safe but me.
I called Mary, Althea, Elizabeth, and Sarah to the room, where we stood for a moment in silence over Therese's frozen form.
"There has been an accident," I explained, but they knew the truth. I left the task of Therese's burial to them, as a lesson to them all.
I feared I was losing what grip of power I held over these girls. It made me think back to another night in my past, and the far greater power that I had possessed, if only for a moment—the night of Ursula's murder. The memory awoke a craving within me that had been dormant for years.
That night I waited for Sinestra in the garden; Kyzoni paced around my legs as though circling prey. When Sinestra appeared, I fell into his embrace. The night was warm and he spun me around in a slow, sinuous dance.
"Tell me about the glory of hell," I whispered in his ear.
***
He took my hand and pulled me to the tower, breaking into a run in the middle of the dark hallway. By the time we reached the chamber we were both panting and laughing with excitement.
"Why are we here?" I asked him as he lit a fire in the hearth; it sprang to life with startling ease. He turned to me, his body outlined by the flames.
"Because this is where you will begin," he said, grasping my hand in his. "This is where you have created heaven, for you and for your victims."
"Victims—not my girls?" I asked. I filled a glass of red wine and took a sip, then passed it to him.
"That choice is entirely yours." He smiled. "Though you might need the assistance your girls could offer you. Those that you choose for killing should be girls easily disposed of."
"There are plenty of them here," I thought aloud, imagining the kitchen assistants and scullery maids sleeping side by side in the servants' quarters, beneath the shadow of this tower.
"You will choose them," Sinestra said, pulling me into a twirling dance around the tower room, "and you will invite them here to your haven—your heaven. Here they will taste the delights of music, and food, and laughter, and wine. Delicacies such as they have never tasted before." He grasped me by the waist and lifted me from the ground; I laughed, breathless. "You will dress them in fine clothes that will make their vanity bloom within them; you will cover them in your sparkling jewels, like goddesses."
"Like angels," I corrected him, my head spinning with the dance.
"What is heaven," he asked, staring into my eyes, "but freedom, and beauty, and comfort?"
"And salvation," I added.
"Yes, of course"—he smiled—"but what is heaven alone? It is a dream for these pitiful creatures blundering through their common lives, eager to see what lies in the world beyond in the hopes that it may be better than what they have here."
"That is greed," I told him, "and pride. The sins are a part of us all. I sometimes think that humans were made entirely of sin. No wonder they are so consumed with a fear of damnation."
"This idea of heaven is meant to show people the right path to walk, in order to end up sleeping in the arms of angels," he mused, lowering a candle over the flames of the fire; I heard the wax sizzle as it sparked a flame. "Heaven is a gift from God—or is it a gift from the Church?"
"That's blasphemy!" I laughed nervously. "And what of your fascination with hell? If heaven is not real, then most likely hell is a construct of imagination as well, to terrify people into behaving themselves."
