Quiver (19 page)

By four o’clock I’ve finished the week’s residual paperwork and reorganized my office. I’ve still heard nothing from anyone, unless you count an email from Kelly, who tells me she’s moved all of my patient appointments to next week on Sloane’s suggestion, in light of the “media troubles.”

Henry’s not home when I get in. I dump my shoulder bag by the door, step out of my shoes and chuck them in the closet. I wiggle out of my dress pants and blouse, put on a T-shirt and yoga pants, and flop in front of the TV. I pour myself an end-of-the-bad-day beer. Another hour later, I call Henry’s mobile. No answer. I leave a message, make some tea and watch reruns. Half an hour later, I call again.

“Hello?” The line is crackly.

“Henry? Where are you?”

“Hey, tootsie.”

“Where are you? Are you coming home for dinner?”

“Hey, yeah, I just—”

The line goes dead. I try again, and get a “This customer is not in service” message. Two minutes later my mobile beeps. Text from Henry:
On tube home.

Twenty minutes after that he comes through the door. “Hey, pixie!” He scoops me into a bear hug and gives me a big kiss.

“Where were you?” I say.

“Out for drinks.” He smiles and tousles my hair.

“Don’t.” I hold his hand still. “I’ve had a really bad day.”

“Sorry to hear that, sweet pea.” He half-hugs me, then opens the fridge. “Want a beer? Hey, there’s only three left—did you drink one?”

“Um, yeah.” I want to tell him all about the horrible meeting this morning, how confused I am about everything. “Do you want to go out for dinner or something?”

“Ooh, can’t.” He opens a beer, takes a few swigs. “I’m just going to grab a sandwich and run. I’m heading out for pints with Wilson and a couple of guys from the studio.”

“I didn’t know you had plans. Do you have to go?”

“Don’t sound so down.” He puts his arms around my waist from behind and attempts to lift me up. I know it’s meant to be sweet, but it feels like an attempt at the Heimlich manoeuvre. “I’d ask you to come along, but you know, it’s a guys’ night. How about we go out tomorrow night?”

“I’d rather go out now,” I say and wiggle around to face him once my feet are back on the ground. “Didn’t you just come from beers with the guys?”

“Nope. With Maria. We went to a really cool place, near Old Street station.”

“Maria?” I echo. I shrug his arms off me completely and take a few steps away. “Why?”

“Why? Well, she came by the studio.” He sits down on the bed.

“With Edward? She and Edward came by?”

“No, just her. It was really nice of her, actually.”

“But why did she come by? Why did she want to see you?” I start pacing in front of the bed. “Did you see the
Daily Press
article today?” I say frantically. “Did you see it?”

“What are you going on about? Why would I read that paper?”

“It’s...it’s part of my bad day. I said something to Edward about the Foster case, and it showed up in the
Daily Press
today. Why did Maria drop by? Did she say anything?”

“Look, you need to calm down. Have you asked Maria or Edward about this? I’m sure it’s all a mix-up. He doesn’t work for that paper—he’s a
critic.
Don’t get so worked up.” Henry tips the beer to his lips.

“It turned into a huge deal at work. I think it might be really serious.”

“Cherry blossom, you’re kind of yelling. I think you should just chill and wait until you talk to Maria and Edward and ask them their side of the story.” He finishes his beer and grabs his jacket. “I think I’m going to eat something at the pub, give you some alone time, you know.”

“Henry.”

He gathers up his bag and opens the door. “Really, take a bubble bath or something. You can’t think straight when you’re all crazy upset like this. I’ll see you later.” The lock clicks shut and he’s gone.

I grab the pillows off the bed and throw them at the closed door. What the hell was he doing out with Maria? Why does she have time to stop in on him but not to return my texts?

I whip out my phone and send Maria a message:
Where r you? Call me now. Urgent.
Another message:
Vry urgent!

I wait a few seconds. Nothing.

I sit on the couch and watch a reality program on the BBC about out-of-control teenage girls who are sent on a desert hike in Arizona to sort out their lives. By the end of the trail, their hair is in neat pigtails, their faces fresh and black-eyeliner-free, and they are all excited to see their moms and stop doing drugs. I wish someone would send me on a desert hike and I could emerge with my career magically intact, with Maria gone, along with her games, and a doting and sensitive Henry waiting for me at the end of the trail.

My phone chirps. I lunge for it. From Maria:
Just got your messages! Sent you an email. Be in touch soon.

I open Maria’s message immediately.

Dani,

I saw the tabloid. Terrible. Edward feels horrible. All of it, a misunderstanding.

Will you come for tea, my place, Saturday? I will explain everything. Do not worry. No one pays attention to the tabloids. In case you need a bit of a cheer-up, here is another section for you.

x, M.

All of it a misunderstanding? Right. And she wants to explain, of course. I think of writing her back, telling her I’m not coming for tea on Saturday, not speaking to her ever again.

But as Henry said, shouldn’t I hear her side of the story? Not that her story is going to make any difference to the fallout at work.

For now I don’t reply. But I open the attachment.

Čachtice, March 6, 1603

I have always loved night in this castle. We have been so much happier here in Čachtice. The castle is a proper fortress, and far enough away from the town to give us some privacy. Still, I hear that ridiculous minister preaches against me every Sunday. But he is of no matter.

From one side of my chamber, the world is pitch black, only the lonely call of owls emerging from the darkness. On the other, the same darkness punctured with a light or two from Višňové, far down in the valley. The lights are pretty, but those Slovak townsfolk are stupid for burning lights this late. It is quiet in the castle now, and I can finally make note of my last session with Darvulia.

Fizcko pulled the carriage up to the house. Darvulia came out immediately and helped me down and into the house before any townsfolk could notice or approach me. They can be such a nuisance. Why should I do anything about their crops, their taxes, whatever is annoying them?

The house was plain inside, but had a large open area with the fire going strong on the south side, a sturdy table pushed against one wall, filled with jars and herbs and dried flowers. Darvulia uses the house as a storeroom for her tools. She had come back from the markets and collected fresh supplies.

She held my hand and led me over to the light of the fire. She examined my skin carefully, and I stood still, knowing she would be happy with what she saw.

She traced her fingers across my cheekbone, down my face and under my chin. Then she placed a hand on either side of my face, holding my head with both hands. Her skin was rough against mine, and her eyes, that dark blue, almost violet, were edged with deep crow’s feet. I wondered once why Darvulia did not use her powers to preserve her own looks. Now I understand that my beauty gives her more pleasure than her own ever could.

She told me she had brought me a present. I followed her into a small kitchen and down a dark set of stairs.

The cellar was low and mostly earthen. The ceiling, made of thick wooden rafters that support the underside of the floor above, was just a few inches above my head. The room was damp and smelled of urine. Darvulia, one of her hands circled around my wrist, the other holding a candle, led me farther into the cellar. Then I sensed it, maybe heard it: a girl’s breathing. She was scared. I’m sure Darvulia could feel my pulse quicken. We approached the back wall and Darvulia’s candle spilled light on the girl. She was sitting on the dirt floor, hands and feet bound, a dirty gag in her mouth. She had long hair, the color of honey, and she had wet herself. When she saw us in the candlelight, her eyebrows raised, tears came, her nose started to run.

It was a beautiful present. I assessed the smoothness of her skin under the dirt and tears and snot. A good catch. Fizcko loaded her into the carriage and took her back to the castle. She waits in the cellar, until we decide how she may be best used.

Čachtice, March 12, 1603

My new toy arrived yesterday. She is crude, and a bit frumpy, but I welcome her. Fizcko moved her into my chambers this morning, and I will employ her tonight.

I must thank Darvulia for introducing me to this device. Of course, I had heard of iron maidens before, but I was not very interested. With all of the spikes on the inside, and the lumbering figure, like a coffin, like one of those Egyptian tombs that hide the corpse inside, what was the purpose? You could not see the punctures, the slow, bleeding death. But this one; she is not a beauty, but she will be effective. There are two trips, one behind her left ear, and one at the centre of the throat, that trigger the release of a set of large spikes. One of these spikes swings out of her back, and the other out of her chest, just below her bustline. I am told that these weapons will not cause an immediate death. Depending on where the victim stands when she trips the latch, she could suffer a fatal stab to the lungs or abdomen, or she could receive merely a flesh wound. I like this element of suspense.

She is about my height, and although she is bulky in the midsection (I suppose it is so because this is where she houses the spikes), Darvulia advised that I could tell the girls that this is my new mannequin, a new dressing model. I will tell them it is from Paris, and it is a gift from the best dressmakers. They are such stupid cows that they will be impressed by this lie.

I had Helena Jo sew some hair around her crown. She took some from one of the girls we froze in the snow last week. Now my lady wears long, straw blonde tresses that skim her cold, bulky shoulders. I believe they belonged to that skinny girl who died fast. At least we salvaged something from her feeble death.

Darvulia will be here soon, and we will go through my jewellery. I have an old silver crown, a few strings of diamonds that might be appropriate. We will lay them all out, make it truly look as if we are trying to decide on which accoutrements I will wear to the next ball in Bratislava. I can so easily trick these girls. At first, they believe the stories they have heard and fear me greatly. But once I show them the slightest kindness, make them believe they are special to me, I know they will fawn like trusting whelps. Whichever creature I pick for tonight will be enthralled that she gets to enter my chamber, or touch my jewellery.

Čachtice, March 14, 1603

It was better than I thought it could be. Helena Jo and Dorca only cleaned up my chamber late yesterday, so I have not had a chance to write about it until now. I wanted to sleep late after the previous night’s treatment. I did permit them to remove the body that night, after Darvulia cut a square of its skin to add to the talisman she is creating for me. But I insisted that they leave the rest. I wanted to wake to the rust-stained floor, that acrid smell of slaughter and the darkened, dry blood caked on the mannequin’s spike.

I told them to bring me that very pretty one Darvulia found for me, a girl who was beautiful enough to serve as a lady of my chamber, if I were actually to employ such ladies. I think is it kind of me, in a way, to keep up this pretence for the other girls; they still believe their fantasy that they are here to work for me, to serve me, but that it will not cost them their lives. Though it is perhaps vain of them to think they would be valuable to me for any other purpose, that the efficient manner in which they carry a tray is worth more than their blood.

When the girl entered my chamber, I wondered if she had heard the screams from the ones we killed last week in the snow. She was terrified of me, and all the more beautiful because of it. Her fear drew me like an intoxicating perfume, wafted from her fine white skin, sixteen years of uselessness. Tonight I would give her purpose. Her beauty had no titles, no muscle, no consequence, except to lure, at most, a merchant’s son, or stoke my stable boys. Her hair was blonde, a false sort of gold, worthless compared to the metal that linked the diamonds on my necklace. Her grating Slovak voice was a cheap load of tin that scratched my ears when she choked out “my lady” in Hungarian, as she gave me a ragged curtsey. Helena Jo moved her out of my direct line of sight and instructed her to stand by the dressing table where I had laid out the jewellery. The mannequin was a few feet away, facing the table. The bed was close enough that I could have sat on the edge and comfortably watched the show, but I left Darvulia perched there, and I crossed over to Helena Jo and the girl.

I told Helena that I would give the orders directly. I saw that the girl trembled, so slightly, when I spoke or came near. She was dressed in a simple grey dress, and her hair waved loose around her shoulders. She kept her eyes to the ground, as she should, but I saw that she stole glimpses of me when she thought I wasn’t looking. It is understandable.

“Girl,” I said to her, and she jumped, looked sideways at me for a moment and then forced her eyes back to the floor. I asked her if Helena Jo had told her why she was here, that she was to dress my mannequin. I told her to start with the silver crown.

She gave another awkward curtsey and turned to the dressing table, picked up the headpiece. It was a half crown, really, heavier than a tiara, but not a full circle. It had a crude criss-cross pattern, and it bore no jewels. It was a wedding gift from Ursula, and those first few months that we lived with her, she made me wear the awful thing twice a week to dinner. But now, at least, it was going to be of use.

The girl had trouble fitting the crown on the mannequin, but she finally found a way to wedge it on, slightly askew. I let this imperfection go.

I instructed her to take the long gold chain.

She scuffled back to the dressing table, took the long, braided loop of gold and hung it around the mannequin’s neck. I waited—but no click. The chain was too light to trip the latch.

I could not wait much longer. I told her to take the heavy silver and diamond choker on the table and fasten it at the nape.

She walked over to the mannequin. She stood in front of it, reached around its neck, almost as though she were giving it a hug, to fasten the clasp. At last—the click. My lady attacked.

The girl’s cry thrilled me like a lover’s caress as the steel spike penetrated her suckle-soft abdomen. I circled to the back of the mannequin so I could look at the girl over its shoulder. She writhed like a deliciously wounded deer. The spike must have nicked her lung, because blood bubbled out of her mouth and wet her lips. I leaned forward and collected this spill with a kiss.

My abdomen throbs where I imagine the girl was punctured by the spike. My lips tingle as I picture Báthory and the bloody kiss. The drama of the tabloid, the problems at work, even the mystery of Foster’s possible accomplices, they all wither compared to Báthory’s diaries.

I close the file, make more tea and check my mobile in hopes of a message from Henry. I do the dishes. I organize the pantry. The quiet evening stretches on, eleven thirty, midnight, almost one. I put on my pajamas even though I’m not sleepy. I go back to my laptop and reread the diary entry. Then I go back and reread all the others.

I want to see the rest. I want to see Maria. And the photos that prove the diaries are authentic. I reply to her email and agree to meet her on Saturday.