The Book of Shadows (24 page)

“Now, now…It's not
that
bad.”

The voice startled me. Two paces to my right sat Sebastiana, on the rim of the fountain's large pool. She was as I remembered her: beautiful, so pale, her features framed by her jet black hair, its braid falling down over her shoulder, her eyes a wondrous blue—they would amaze me each time I saw them; bluer still were the diaphanous robes she wore.

She sat sketching in a large leather-bound book. She closed it at my approach.

“Come,” she said. I took one step nearer and stopped. What if…

Sebastiana addressed my ill-formed concerns: “Heart, tell me: Would I have saved you then only to hurt you now?”

I took a seat on the edge of the fountain, too far from Sebastiana, apparently; she extended an open hand, saying, more to herself than me, “Ah, but I forget…. I was afraid once too.

“This fountain, you know,” said she with a languorous wave of her hand, meant to take in the entire mechanism, “is an exact replica of one at Versailles. Hideous as it is, I had it built years ago as a reminder of…” She stopped with a sigh. Turning to me, she asked, “Surely you know the story it tells?”

I said I did not. Rather, I shook my head. Speech seemed beyond me still.

“Well then,” said she. “Welcome to the Fountain of Latona.”

I stared down into the pool as though I'd find there—in the murky, thick, stagnant water—some clarification of her words. I saw only fish, large fish, sun-colored: shades of orange, red, white, and yellow. Several broke the scummed surface with the tense, greedy white Os of their mouths. Carp, they were, ranging like pulsing hearts through the body of the pool.

Sebastiana went on:

“There, at the center of the pool, stands Latona. In her arms is the infant Apollo.” She told the rest of the tale. How Latona had tried to flee from the wrath of Juno, whose husband, Jupiter, had openly desired Latona. Midflight, stopping to drink from a creek, Latona and her son were set upon by a horde of peasants doing the bidding of Juno. Just then Jupiter intervened and turned the peasants into toads, and that was the moment frozen in the fountain: toads, some of which retained the odd human feature—a hand or face—were crouched, poised to attack mother and child.

“Of course, there were far prettier fountains at Versailles, but I always favored this one. I sat beside it often.”

Sebastiana trailed her hand through the water, cutting its viscid skin; there rose up those wide-open white mouths. “They kiss me,” said she, smiling. “And they beg.” Reaching behind her head, she plucked a petal from the rose in her hair. She let it drop onto the water and then, striking fast, she scooped up the first carp that came. Thick as her wrist, rubicund and muscled, she held it up to the sun. Its gills pulsed. Its eyes were lightless and empty. She held it so tight! Would she let it die in her grasp?

No. She returned it to the pool, held it underwater—I heard those horrible kisses breaking against the back of her hand, her forearm—and finally she released the fish. Only when she told me to sit did I realize I had stood and stepped back from the fountain, from
her
. I did sit. And again I moved nearer Sebastiana when she told me to.

“You've looked into my eyes,” said she, flatly. I nodded that yes, I had. She referred, of course, to the strangeness I'd seen in them, those same twisting shapes I'd seen in the eyes of Maluenda. Thoughts then of the feline familiar. Where was she now? Would I see her again?
What
was she? Animal essence, as Father Louis and Madeleine were somehow
human
essence?

Sebastiana spoke of her own eyes. I listened for the one word: witch. I wanted to hear it, wanted Sebastiana to tell me that she and I were one. Witches both. I wanted her to say it until I believed it. Say it till it seemed no more fantastical than those acts attributed to the Catholic saints I'd long worshiped…. But she did not say it, not directly. Instead, she told a quick story:

“In the city of Ferrara,” said she, “in the sixteenth century, two orphaned sisters were tried for sorcery.

“The older sister—eleven to her sister's nine—told the Inquisitor that she would, if freed, tell him how to find all the witches he wanted. ‘How?' he asked, all the while intending to burn both girls, as indeed he did. It was then the older sister told the Inquisitor about
l'oeil de crapaud
. The eye of the toad.

“The sisters, you see, were indeed witches. They knew of the true witches' mark.”

Was Sebastiana saying that witches
were
marked, as so many witch hunters had supposed? Was
I
marked?

“All those trials,” she went on, “all that torture and death…the searching in vain for, and the false finding of the witches' mark…. All a horrible waste. For the few true witches ever tried bore the mark within, at the center of the eye, and could hide or show it at will.” She looked at me squarely, and added, “It is, of course, the same for their familiars.”

So it was the shape of a writhing, twisting toad I'd seen in Maluenda's eyes as she'd sat in my lap that afternoon, bleeding from her wounds. This led to more questions, and still more till it seemed I might lose my mind…

My voice rose up within me, came out like those streams of water croaked by the toads, and I heard myself ask, “Am I, then, a witch?”

Sebastiana took up a long-handled mirror in response to my question. I hadn't seen it at her side. It was wrought-silver, its shape that of a naked woman whose outstretched arms held the glass. “Look,” said she, holding the mirror up before me. “And ask yourself that question.”

I did not look into the small mirror. I looked over it into Sebastiana's eyes, so blindingly blue. “Not my eyes,” she said. “Yours.”

Suddenly, there was my face in the silver mirror.

“You are beautiful, you realize,” said Sebastiana. I did not demur. “Beautiful and handsome too.”

My eyes, in the mirror, were changing. I was not conscious of causing this. All I did was stare, and the longer I stared the less certain the shape of the pupil. I closed my eyes. I looked away. But I would
have
to look again, and there it would be: the perfect round edges of the pupil pushing out, here and there, into the striate green of the iris. Like the bulbous toes of a toad. The whites of my eyes were unchanged. Neither did my vision blur or change in any way. I asked myself, tacitly, What am I? Am I a witch? And I repeated the word—
witch, witch, witch
—till the deed was done and there, in the mirror, were reflected my own witch's eyes.

I had my answer.

I would have looked into that mirror till nightfall had Sebastiana not lowered it to show her own shape-changed eyes. “We are witches both,” said she, holding tightly to my hand.

“You have questions,” she said.

Finally! Which would I ask first and how would I—

“Ask none of them now,” she said, standing. She let go my hand. Was I being dismissed? No; she was leaving me.

And with that she walked away. Took two or three steps from me. Turning, as though she'd forgotten something, she said, her arms opening wide as her smile, as if to encompass all of Ravndal, “Welcome.” Her long blue sleeves caught the sea-scented breeze, moved as gracefully as she. “Enjoy the roseraie. Walk the lawns.” A few more steps away. “And oh yes, dear heart,” said she, turning fast, “do
not
go into the woods.” She bent at the knee—at first I thought she was bowing, but no—and took in the scent of a small purplish rose (
“Belle sans flatterie,”
it was labeled). With thumb and forefinger, Sebastiana snipped the bloom off a double rose, pink and smooth as a shell's inner curve (“Abaillard”) and tossed off, not deigning to turn toward me, “The dinner bell sounds at nine. Tonight we dine in your honor.” She did turn to add, with what seemed a wicked little smile, “And, of course, we dress for dinner.” She raised the pink bloom to her nose, breathed it deeply in, and with a wave of her hand she was gone behind a hedge, singing again what was or was not Scarlatti.

I
SAT FOR
some time in the roseraie. The roses were lit by the low-angled sun; their tiny angular leaves shone green above and gold below; and the petals showed infinite pastels. And the air was thick with rose perfume and the scent of the chocolate mulch mounded loosely around the bases of the bushes.

Occasionally I would raise my eyes to the horizon, to the sea. The shore was near, but the sea was distant: the tide was out. From where I sat on the fountain's edge, I could not see much of the manor; and so I soon lost myself in the play of the carp, shooting like flaming arrows through the shadows I cast on the water.

I might have sat forever on the edge of that fountain, awaiting the wonders to come. But no; I could not. I rose to return to the studio.

Turning left at a shorter hedge, I saw over it to the horizon, and to the receded sea. Ravndal sat high on a hill above a large cove. The descent to the strand was all rock and friable dune. From the boundary shrubs of the roseraie, the land fell fast away to marry the vast expanse of beach, or exposed sea bed; the sea was but an undulating line, far away.

This was beautiful, starkly beautiful. The sun was setting; it bore the softest of palettes, as though the roseraie itself were reflected on the undersides of the fast clouds. Purple shading to red, red to orange, to pink, to cream. But too soon the colors of the sky all died to blue. A singular, simple blue. A sliver of moon rose like a scythe in the sky, its edge sharp, its light hard…. Soon I was chilled through, and lost.

How I longed then to return to the room in which I'd woken!

Having determined to retrace my steps, move as quickly as I could through the roseraie, back to the studio, I stopped, could not continue.

For it was then that I saw, truly
saw
Ravndal for the first time, set like a jewel in the sky, faceted and darkly sparkling. I stood awed before it. A long stony wing spread back behind the studio. I saw scattered windows candlelit, and dark stone walls rising up, up. It seemed immense, as indeed it was,
is
.

Given the size, the scale of the studio in which I'd awakened, why was I shocked to see Ravndal looming so large before me?…Yet I was. And so I wandered the rose-heavy hedgerows, looking up at the manor from every angle. The shards of oyster shell shone an ivoried blue, crunched beneath my slippered step.

Coming rather serendipitously upon the studio door, my only thought was of the hour. Had I missed the dinner bell? I
bounded
into the room. There, on the mantel, the clock beneath the bell jar—I hadn't much time.

Tall white candles, textured and thick, had been set about the room in wrought-iron stands of various heights; they lit surfaces I had not noticed earlier—burnished floors, gilded moldings, mirrors showing their metallic backing as illkempt women let show their slips…. The muraled scenes seemed suddenly animate in the shadows cast by the tall candles.

A fire blazed now beneath the marble mantel. I took a seat very near the fire, shielded by a beeswax screen; then I saw with excitement that two of the studio's
nécessaire,
or armoires, had been thrown open. Clothes of every shade, shape, and style threatened to spill out onto the rugs! I progressed to a closer inspection of each garment and realized, with a sickening chill—as though I were being laughed at—that the armoires were stocked with men's and women's clothes.

I stripped myself of the shift. I rushed over to that tall mirror, tilted its oval till I stood staring at…I hesitate to describe just what I did next…

Mais non,
I've come this far, and certainly there is farther to go, and so…

I wheeled the mirror nearer a short divan (covered, yes, in emerald damask, and with gold chenille piping!) and positioned it just so—yes!
there
, and now
here
…And I lay down to take a long and intimate look at my body. An assessment, if you will.

Was this the self-abuse I'd so often been vaguely warned against? Could it be? No, not possible—for this was pleasurable beyond words, not abusive at all. Quickly my thoughts…well, what followed were not
thoughts
at all. Instinct, was it? Something
sensory
overtook me, and I did what I did as though my hands were not my own. I slid my opened palms over the plain of my stomach and felt fine hairs all over my body rise; up, up went my hands to the undercurves of my breasts and…and when first I touched, with a fingertip, the rough, reddened centers of my breasts, I felt my eyelids flutter, I felt my eyes themselves roll back…it was a sudden, surprising and most welcome sightlessness that I settled into then.

…My hands! What new instruments they were! So…
utile
. With them I took in textures I had never known, not in this way—my lower lip, the tip of my tongue, the lobe of my ear; and with them I dared…I dared to be curious; and I let myself be satisfied. Or nearly so.

I was brought back with a start from that quite wondrous, uncharted place by the first distant ringing of the dinner bell. My eyes burst open. There I lay, splayed, perspiring, and smiling. The clock showed eight. That bell had been rung to warn me that I had one hour to bathe and dress for dinner.

Clothes I had in abundance, but where was the bath? Surely there was a bath. And indeed I found one. But on the escritoire, folded and laid atop that stack of stationery, I discovered another note from Sebastiana:

“Dear heart,” it read, “do you adore my roseraie? Are you well rested? I trust you are. We let you sleep some time—so that sweet dreams in the night might temper recent events, so regrettably sour. Enjoy the wardrobes. Choose well. And should you wish to bathe, you may do so in the Grand Canal!”

Whatever did that mean? I read on:

“Do this—take a pen, and on five sheets, which you will fold into quarters, write the five questions to which you most desire answers. This is a courtesy I extend to you. It is a duty, too. Think well, and carry these questions to supper on your new and well-dressed person.
À bientôt
.” The note was signed, in full, Sebastiana d'Azur, and bore a quick and familiar sketch: a toad seated in the lower curve of the S.

This note—the handwriting, the signature, the sketch—was the work of an artist. It came to me plainly then: the frames, the rolled canvases, the muraled walls, the fox hair brushes, in short everything in the studio was Sebastiana's.

Five questions? I might have asked five
hundred
questions.

Sebastiana had been right to assume I'd want to bathe. Desperately. And the Venetian riddle was easily solved: one push on the large painted panel depicting the marriage of the Doge and sea and it swung open, revealing the most exquisite bath, a model of Oriental luxury and comfort. (Sebastiana—who was, I would learn, not
merely
an artist but the premier portraitist of her day—Sebastiana had done the Venetian mural; too, she'd designed the bath and adorned its walls with scenes of the East.)

The low-ceilinged room was dimly lit by sconces fastened to walls the color of baked clay. Through the steam that rose from the just-poured bathwater, I could see that the room was quite large, perhaps half the size of the studio. The sunken tub could accommodate a small crowd. A broad banquette, covered in smooth black cloth, ran along three walls. On the fourth, beside the door, there hung the linen one used to dry oneself. Pendant from golden rods, adjustable to the bather's height, it was a fine Indian mull, embroidered at the bottom with flowers, the added weight of which caused the cloth to cling to the skin…. It was opulent. It was…orgiastic.

I circled the large marble tub. Shining in a corner were the copper kettles in which the warmed water had been carried into the room. (When? By whom?) I nearly tripped over a delicate silver set, from which I would pour a cup of piping hot chocolate once I'd stripped, stepped down into the water, and settled in up to my shoulders.

Heaven, this was! The water's temperature was perfect. (At C——, desperate to avoid the other girls, I'd only ever bathed in tubs too hot or too cold.)…I closed my eyes. I could not
help
but close my eyes. I lay back, my head at rest on a contoured pillow. In that water—which I was embarrassed to find strewn with rose petals—all my cares dissolved.

I bathed. I sipped the chocolate. Then suddenly, inexplicably, the water cooled; indeed, the entire room seemed to chill, uncomfortably. I'd have to stand and quit the bath. I was wondering what the hour was. Just then I heard…
something
. No; I
sensed
something. Movement. Shadow movement, as I'd seen in the lesser library. Then, an actual sound. It may have been present for some time, that sound; I may not have heard it, lost as I was in the sway of the bathwater as it lapped at the smooth, high sides of the tub. But now I heard it clearly. There it was again: the slow, steady, unmistakable sound of…of dripping water?…No. It wasn't water. Denser than that, heavier. More like pebbles in a pond.

There were no spigots, no well-spouts ringing the tub. I looked all about the bath. Nothing. I scanned the ceiling, where bolts of oxblood fabric billowed, drawn as in some pasha's tent to the center of the ceiling. Grand as this room was, it was unavoidably humid too: I searched the ceiling for condensation, down-dripping water. Nothing. But there it was again…That hollow
plock! plock! plock!
I lay perfectly still, staring straight up, thinking that if I did not disturb the water it would…No. There! It fell now at my shoulder, near my ear! It—the source—was above and behind me, and when I turned fast I saw with a start Madeleine standing there…. Blood. Blood it was, dripping down into the bath from her split-open throat.

What happened then, well, it is a bit of a blur. I cannot recall if…Ah,
nonsense
! False decorum, this. I know
exactly
what happened next, and I'll say it plainly: I scurried like a soaked rat to the far side of the tub, scrambled up its side till I sat shivering on the tub's edge. The water in which I'd bathed was dark with the succubus's blood. In the uneven light I saw that the surface of the bathwater was slick, as with oil or bile or excrement; islands of…of life-matter floated among the rose petals.

There I sat, naked, knees drawn to my chest. I shivered. I said nothing. Madeleine stood across the pool, staring down into its soiled water. When finally she spoke, it was in that horrible voice that was not a voice, that garbled rasp, thick with blood, which I—thanks to what strange talent?—could understand:

I've only come to help you dress,
she said. Blood bubbled at her throat, fell down with that sickening sound into the water.

Standing there, naked in the near-dark, wraith-like, Madeleine wondered aloud,
What will you ask of her? Of them? Tell me
.

In the lesser library, that last night at C——, I'd heard anger in Madeleine's voice,
seen
anger in her actions. There was none of that now. It was sadness I discerned in that voice of hers, and I was no longer scared. When our eyes met, I returned her steady gaze without difficulty. Her face…so beautiful above the bloodied gash…The expressive eyes…that immobile mouth…In fact, I could not look away from her face. And I stared as her “speech”—again, I know no better word—as her words spurted forth, as that watery viscus broke from her open throat, the black-red edges of which moved as though to mimic true speech; yes, it was as though the cut itself spoke.
What will you ask?

“I have my questions,” I lied.

Good,
she said.
Then you've only to dress. The second bell will sound shortly, and there will not be a third
. Moving through the room, with its half-light cast by those bitter-burning sconces set with vials of whale oil, Madeleine seemed
composed
of shadow. More so than she had in the library. Her body…well, it was as though she absorbed the light. She seemed to reflect it, too; and a nimbus, a halo of sorts surrounded her. She moved with such fluidity, such grace and ease. She stopped before one of the sconces, and by its pale light I saw her from behind…the sweet and perfect curves of the girl she'd been, the long plait of black hair bisecting her narrow back, her high buttocks and long legs…In an instant she turned again to face me and that same sublime body seemed a
grotesquerie
! The slim hourglass of her torso, the small tight upturned breasts visible beneath the rags she wore…
enfin,
all her beauty bore the blood, its spoil, flowing from her throat down between her breasts, over her stomach toward the fork of her legs. What light there was caused that bloody course to glisten, and in it I could see those bits of viscus that slowed its flow. Was Madeleine
rotting
from within? The accompanying stench—a description of which I will spare myself—seemed to indicate that yes, she was. Or perhaps she'd achieved over the centuries some terrible stasis, and her dissolution would never end—she'd rot but never rot
away
…. Such were my thoughts when again I heard her voice:

May I speak?

“You may, of course.”

Madeleine cast her eyes down, shamefully. She played with her braid. And it struck me: She is a girl. I nearly said it aloud. Madeleine, when she died, was but three or four years younger than I am now. Yes, we were near in age, discounting the nearly two hundred years separating our birth dates. Madeleine, centuries dead, come from Beyond—she seemed to me, simply, a girl. A sad girl. I pitied her. “Please, say what you will.” I rose and wrapped myself in the linen.

Madeleine approached.
Do you forgive us for…for what was done to you at that place?
She was a horrifying sight, yes, at once beautifully pure and putrid. And I'd no reason to believe her to be benevolent. Hadn't she shape-changed to torment Sister Claire as Peronette, and then as her bleeding, licentious self? But now I knew that those tricks had been played in the service of a larger plan. And I knew too—I cannot say
how
I knew it—that Madeleine, though far from harmless, would not harm me.