The Amaranthine Law, page 14
“You’re certain?” Now it’s Tristan’s turn to sound out of breath. And even shocked?
“Yes. Please.”
“Then turn around.” Tristan moves to the side as Olivia clumsily rolls over.
“And spread your legs for me.” Tristan runs a finger down Olivia’s right leg.
Hearing how Tristan repeats Olivia’s words from when she dried her off makes her moan as she complies.
Tristan moves back in between Olivia’s legs. She draws circles with her fingertips along the inside of Olivia’s thighs, bypasses her folds, and continues up to her trembling stomach. Olivia tries not to show how desperate she is, but of course, Tristan knows. She smiles down at Olivia as she slowly slides two fingers into the wetness. Her smile fades and her mouth opens. “Oh, fuck. You’re so…wet. Where do you need me?”
“In-inside.” Olivia gasps.
Tristan doesn’t hesitate. She slips at least two fingers into Olivia and immediately curls her fingertips up toward Olivia’s stomach. Picking up a steady pace, she firmly caresses that elusive spot. Shocked at how fast her orgasm begins, first as small waves and soon like full-blown convulsions, Olivia fumbles for Tristan.
Tristan, leaning against her elbow, starts to rub herself against Olivia’s hip at the same pace as she pushes her fingers. She keeps the same tempo, and the first orgasm morphs into the second.
“Olivia! Oh!” Tristan cries out and pushes her pubic bone hard against Olivia, undulating as she arches. “God…”
Olivia’s heart is hammering so hard she can barely hear anything else, but she has her arms around Tristan as the fingers that took her so well slowly withdraw. Olivia pushes the damp, white hair from Tristan’s face and kisses her with all the tenderness she feels.
“I don’t know about you,” Tristan says after clearing her throat, “but I didn’t expect that.”
“Which part?” Olivia nuzzles Tristan’s temple.
“I mean, I thought there’d be passion. I knew that. I didn’t know I’d feel as if I’d been dropped into a volcano.”
“Is that your way of saying we were on fire?” Olivia smiles.
“Fire is not enough. Lava.”
“You have a point. I knew there’d be passion too, but the lava was…a surprise.”
“Exactly.” Tristan shifts and groans again. “So was finding muscle groups I haven’t tapped into before.”
Olivia’s own muscles ache too. “Mm-hmm.”
They settle into an exhausted, content silence, and after a while, Tristan pulls the duvet around them without letting go of Olivia, exhaustion getting the better of them. Olivia closes her eyes and hears Tristan turn off the last lamp.
As Olivia is nearly asleep, she feels Tristan move to lie behind her. Now comfortable, she wraps an arm around Olivia and nuzzles her neck. “Sleep well, Olivia.”
“You too.” Olivia slurs the words before she falls asleep.
Chapter Thirty
Walking into the vast library on Promenade des Bastions 1 with Olivia, Tristan finds herself doing yet another double take when looking in Olivia’s direction. She can’t get over the change in her appearance. Gone is the young woman she has made love with repeatedly during the night, as they both completely disregarded how tired they were. Tristan easily confesses that, on her part, it was also both because of a deeply felt need and a knowledge that the night in Olivia’s arms will be the only one.
Now, in the early afternoon, after all their errands and a beeline back to the hotel to change into their new clothes, Olivia looks nothing like the girl who applied for an internship a while back. Next to her, dressed in an expensive trouser suit over an emerald-green blouse, carrying a bougie-looking tote bag, walks this auburn-haired beauty, wearing impeccable smoky-eyes makeup.
“You’re staring.” Olivia smiles but doesn’t turn her head.
“Can you blame me? I barely recognize you.” Tristan stops by an information board and begins to look for the newspaper archives.
“That’s the point, right? And you should talk.”
Olivia has a point. Tristan hasn’t colored her hair but wears it in an austere, combed-back do. For her clothes, she has changed her style to a more conservative look. Gone are her boots and leather messenger bag. Instead, she too wears a suit and carries a Samsonite briefcase. Where Olivia holds a high-end-brand poncho over her arm, Tristan has settled for merely unbuttoning her trench coat.
A librarian guides them to the area that holds computers and even some of the older microfilm scanners, and they sit down together in the booth, Olivia by the computer and Tristan next to her. She pulls out the ledger and places it next to the computer. Opening the page to the Carmichael page, she turns to Olivia, who has used their temporary guest card to log in.
“This is the latest name I have for Iris. Anneliese Manz.” She taps the page.
“When did she die?” Olivia pulls up a list of newspapers.
“When Rosalee told me, it had been twelve days, according to her. Why don’t you set the date parameters to between five to three weeks ago?”
Olivia typed fast. “Done. She said an accident, right?”
“A vehicle pileup in the Swiss Alps. She could be mistaken. It might have been a skiing accident for all we know.”
“All right. Let’s cast a wide net and see what we find.” Olivia kept typing and then pressed enter. “Not much reported about skiing, but I would imagine they can’t report every time someone breaks a leg. Several vehicular accidents during this time. And…oh. Here. Fifteen days ago there was an avalanche. It surprised the drivers coming out of a tunnel and caused a pileup. Let’s check that out.”
Tristan leaned closer as Olivia pulled up articles describing the accident that took two lives and injured several others. “Two women died. Does it say what ages? Anything?”
“Hang tight.” Scrolling down, Olivia murmured, “One lady was a backseat passenger and a mother of small children. God. The other was alone in her car.”
“That could be her.” Tristan rubbed her neck.
“Let’s look at the obituaries,” Olivia said, typing in new commands. “She must’ve had someone who misses her.”
“One would hope.” Tristan grips the backrest of Olivia’s chair, flooded with unwelcome thoughts of how many times in her life she has wondered if anyone would ever truly miss her—and why. She shakes them off when Olivia stops scrolling and taps the screen.
“Anneliese Manz. The date is correct if it was twelve days ago, plus the four since Rosalee told you. Her burial was…hey, is tomorrow.” Wide-eyed, Olivia turned to Tristan. “Which we should attend.”
Tristan blinks. Her mind has stalled on details in the obituary, and she’s not quite able to follow. The obituary speaks of a husband…and a daughter? Iris had a child? It lists several family members and friends. How can this be? How can Iris, sweet and soft as far as Tristan remembered her, have broken the Amaranthine Law like this?
“Tristan?”
“What? Oh. Yes. You’re right, of course.”
“What’s going on in your mind right now? You’re pale.” Olivia takes Tristan’s hand, which is resting on the Carmichael page of the ledger, in hers.
“The details sidetracked me. Her blatant disregard for the rules…the law…we set. Makes me wonder what happened to the timid young girl who was the last to protest or stand her ground. See? Married. Family.” Realizing she sounds stark and offended, Tristan squeezes Olivia’s hand too hard, but Olivia doesn’t even blink.
“She may have fallen head over heels. Or she may have felt enough time had passed. That she felt safe enough.”
“And clearly that was an error in judgment.” Tristan lets go of Olivia. “I’m sorry.”
Olivia captures Tristan’s hand and kisses it gently. “This is hard for you.”
Tristan nearly chuckles at the understatement but settles for nodding. “You’re right. Is there a number for the funeral home?”
Olivia holds her gaze for a moment but then finds the phone number at the bottom of the obituary. Tristan finds her burner cell and dials. A male voice answers politely in German. Tristan replies in the same language, telling him her name and that she would like to attend the services.
The man in charge of the funeral arrangements is polite and asks a few follow-up questions about how many are in Tristan’s party and if they will take part in the gathering after the funeral, which is taking place at the Manz residence. Tristan tells him there will be two of them and that they indeed want to join the family gathering. She takes notes of the time and the addresses to the church and Iris’s home, feeling a pang of guilt while doing so, but tells herself that Iris would have understood.
“I don’t speak much German, but I got the gist of it,” Olivia says after Tristan disconnects.
“We are expected tomorrow and are welcome to the reception at the Manz estate.” Tristan puts down her pen before her trembling fingers send it to the floor.
“Feels weird to crash a funeral like this, but I don’t see what other choice we have.” Leaning back in her chair, Olivia sighs. “I can tell you feel the same way.”
Tristan merely nods.
“I do think there was foul play behind her death.” Olivia chews her lower lip. “I mean, the timing is suspect, if nothing else.”
“I do. Not sure how, or why, or even if this idea of Trudy and Caroline somehow surviving the hanging can be applied to this situation, but we have to figure it out.”
“It makes my head spin to even contemplate them being alive—and carrying on with their evil ways all this time. I hope I’m wrong. I really do. After my reckless years, I did turn my life around, but if Trudy and Caroline are alive…I doubt they have.”
“What changed for you?” Olivia asks quietly. “You never quite said.”
“It wasn’t just one thing. It started when I found out my sister had passed at the age of eighty-three. She had lived a full life and left four children, sixteen grandchildren, and fifty-two great-grandchildren. This information made me take stock. What did I have to show for my eternal youth? I was seventy-five and looked twenty. I attended her funeral, and her oldest son, Laurence, somehow realized who I was. I was ready to bolt, but his reaction wasn’t based on fear, anger, or hatred, but rooted in compassion. He pulled me aside and told me how much Corinne had protested how the village treated me—and the rest of the girls—everything that took place when it became obvious we weren’t aging. Among her children, he was the one she had confided in, trusted him to know the truth, I suppose. He begged me to stay in touch.” Tristan swallows, hating the tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over. “I did until he passed away, eighteen years later. He was my last link to my family.”
Olivia’s tears are even less obedient than Tristan’s, flowing freely down her cheeks as she patiently waits for the rest of the story.
“Those decades, corresponding with Laurence, confirmed and became the basis for how I’ve lived my different lives since then. Carefully, consistently, and always looking over my shoulder.”
Olivia doesn’t offer any platitudes or sticky comments of attempted comfort, which is a relief. She merely runs gentle fingertips against the back of Tristan’s hand, showing she’s listening intently.
“I don’t know the exact inner journey for the other girls from the ship, but it is safe to say that for Trudy and Caroline, they never considered their own safety nor that of others. They notoriously flaunted their eternal youth, and there should be old newspaper articles about them because of that type of behavior.”
“But do you really think they can have survived the hangings? It sounds impossible. But so does a lot when it comes to your life, so who am I to argue? It clearly isn’t impossible.” Olivia wipes her own tears away, and then she gently brushes her thumbs against Tristan’s cheekbones. “So, we have to dig deeper when we return to the US.” Olivia lowers her leg and then presses her lips to Tristan’s cheek. Lingers. Warmth spreads from that caress to the deep niches of Tristan’s chest. Before Olivia, she was always cold. Now, all Olivia has to do is touch her, even in the most innocent of ways, and this happens.
Tristan understands fully now that Olivia won’t back down when they go home to New York. She’s adamant about seeing this through with Tristan. Looking down at her ledger, Tristan reminds herself of the Amaranthine Law. She’s managed to heed it for so many years by never straying from it, and when it comes to Olivia, she has to become even stronger in her resolve. For centuries, she has abided by it to save herself from unspeakable pain, but now, nothing is more important to her than protecting this woman.
Chapter Thirty-one
That evening, Liv immerses herself in the ledger. She merely places her hand on the embossed leather cover and looks over at Tristan, who doesn’t even hesitate, but nods. Tristan is by the small table, poring over a map that she got from the hotel concierge and going online on her burner phone. Watching Tristan squint at the phone, Liv stops on her way to the couch.
“Tristan, I’m an idiot.”
Tristan snaps her head up, frowning. “Excuse me?”
“You’re killing your eyes trying to read everything off the phone. Why don’t you log onto the hotel Wi-Fi—”
“It’s not safe, darling.”
The term of endearment nearly makes Liv lose her train of thought, but she manages to remain collected. “I realize that. But you can borrow my VPN server. It’s one of the best. Anyway, that means you can use your tablet without the hassle of using your phone as a hotspot.”
Tristan smiles now. “I’ll gladly accept.” She pulls out her ten-inch tablet and boots it. Liv walks over and enters her password.
“There. You should automatically be logged in as soon as you have Wi-Fi access.”
“Oh, this is better.” Tristan goes into a browser and seems to forget about Liv standing right next to her. As Liv picks up the ledger again, Tristan’s hand shoots out and takes Liv’s by the wrist. “Thank you.”
Liv bends and kisses the top of Tristan’s head before walking over to the couch. Curling up in the corner closest to the window, she opens the ledger to the journal section. The handwriting changes slowly as the narrative progresses, and when Liv reaches the time during the hanging of Trudy and Caroline, it is far easier to read. She only skims over the passages about Caroline and Trudy’s executions, as she has already reviewed that event, but as she turns the fragile pages, she comes upon another entry that catches her eye. Here, the ink is smudged in some places. Liv’s chest caves in. Perhaps Tristan cried while writing.
Philadelphia, December 24, 1888
I picture them, my nieces and nephews, and their children and grandchildren, especially the small ones, as they eagerly look forward to Christmas Day. Many of my memories of childhood are hazy, or distant, as if they belong to someone else who kindly retold them to me. I do, however, remember my excitement on this day, Christmas Eve, when I knew my parents were being deliberately secretive to heighten my and Corinne’s anticipation. I could barely sleep, even if I tried very hard, to make the night go faster. I listened to every footstep making the floorboards creak, as one of my parents put them out during the night. This was before the tradition of Christmas stockings or the Christmas tree, of course. My parents placed our presents beside the fireplace, and that’s where Corinne and I sat in the morning and opened them, while having our oatmeal and hot tea. Mother would, on this special morning, put extra sugar in our oatmeal and, if she could find it in the mercantile, some cinnamon sticks, for flavor.
My most precious present as a little girl, and this was our first Christmas in the log cabin our father built with the help of neighbors, was a doll my mother made. Her body was sewn of scrap fabric and, I found out later, one of Mother’s blouses that she cut to pieces for the doll’s dress and undergarments. Her hair was made of yarn, which I believe came from one of my father’s old socks that she pulled apart, attached to the doll’s head, and combed until it looked like angel hair. Mother worked on the doll, whom I named Clarice, in the poor light from the candles as soon as I was in bed. At the same time, she sewed a new dress for Corinne, also from an old dress of her own.
I loved Clarice. She proved to me that my strict and sarcastically inclined mother loved me. Not that I truly doubted it, but after the incident with the illness on the ship, I harbored a fear that my parents’ feelings toward me would change. They did, to a degree, but not in a way that truly mattered. They never berated me for the slow progression of my aging. They defended me against anyone who ventured a hostile opinion. And it was because of that attitude, as they grew older, that I had to leave. I had to protect them from the onslaught of accusations and questions about me, their youngest daughter.
I didn’t tell anyone except Mother of my plans. She gave me money she had set aside for this purpose, which she claimed she always knew would come. Together with my own savings, I had enough to take the stagecoach to New York, where I planned to disappear into the anonymous crowd. I left Father and Corinne a letter each—I’m afraid rather lengthy and nostalgic letters that might have upset, rather than reassured, them. I hoped Mother would be able to explain why it had to be this way.
Now the only family member who knew the truth about me has been dead and gone for more than a quarter of a century. Why does it strike me tonight, this year when so much time has gone by? Is it because, for the first time since we arrived in America, to our supposedly new and bright shining future, two of us girls have died? The sisters, Trudy and Caroline, were hanged earlier this year, only weeks apart, and I was there, far back in the crowd, to witness their hanging. Now here I sit on Christmas Eve, coming close to wishing it was me who was laid to rest next to my parents, my sister, and her oldest, Laurence. I do, however, leave that up to my maker. This is a private vow that I’ve once and for all made. I will not take my own life.
Again, my thoughts drift to the small group of families that protect Corinne’s loved ones. They’re hardworking, good people, but I don’t know them. If they come across any of my letters to Laurence, though I implored him to burn them, I hope they think they’re the ramblings of some stranger. I doubt anyone in that small Massachusetts town remembers me, or the rumors about me.
