A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  He looked at Babette and nodded very slightly. Babette quickly bowed as he did. Without another word, Iosef backed away a few paces, turned, and walked back toward the door, head high. Babette mimicked his movements perfectly and followed him out of the hall.

  In the adjoining corridor, Iosef turned to her and gave her a very serious look.

  “My mistress approves,” he said.

  “Why did you not tell me of her?” Babette asked.

  Iosef seemed surprised at the question.

  “It was unnecessary,” he said. “Come, you must be tired, and you need fresh clothing. I will have Luka show you to your new chambers.”

  “I dem—” Babette caught herself. “I request an explanation.”

  “And you shall have one,” Iosef said. “Soon. Once you are settled and night has fallen, I will show you the grounds and explain many things to you, some that you did not even know needed explaining.”

  * * * *

  Babette very nearly gasped aloud when Luka opened the door to her new quarters. The set of rooms, located on the second floor of the house, were decked in rich brocades and layers of silk. Woven carpets, similar to those that she had seen in Sophio’s audience hall, covered the floor. The furnishings were of various woods, mostly Lebanese cedar but also mahogany and teak—no doubt imported from India ages ago.

  The first room was a parlor, with pillows and sofas set around in a semi-circle. Babette picked her way across and investigated the two adjoining rooms. One was a study, with shelves of books, empty tables, and a desk of Persian design. On the opposite side of the parlor, Babette found the bedroom, an enclosed chamber with a canopy bed draped in thick red fabric. Beyond it lay an alcove for washing, which was effectively dominated by a large pool built directly into the stonework. It had already been filled with hot water and rose pedals, filling the air with a pleasant vapor. All three rooms had windows that looked out onto the grounds to the north, and each window was swathed in curtains and augmented by ornate shutters.

  “My God,” Babette breathed. “It’s—”

  “Very beautiful,” Korbinian murmured in her ear. Babette felt him wrap his arms around her waist.

  “Lord Shashavani hopes that it is satisfactory,” Luka said. He crossed the room and carefully closed the shutters. “It would be best if you kept these closed during daylight hours,” he added. “It is a good habit to develop, even before it becomes necessary.”

  “Yes, of course,” Babette said.

  Was she to become like Iosef, she wondered, unaccustomed to the touch of sunlight? Not that it wasn’t a fair exchange of course, but she did wonder.

  “I will leave you now,” Luka said. “As you see, a bath has already been drawn for you. You may wash at your leisure. In a short while Ekaterine will come to keep you company.”

  “Ekaterine?” Babette asked. “Who is Ekaterine?”

  “She is the woman who is coming to keep you company,” Luka replied.

  “I.…” Babette stopped before protesting. She could tell that it would not earn her an explanation. “Thank you, Luka,” she said. “That will be all.”

  “Very good, Mademoiselle Varanus,” Luka said. He bowed to her and backed out of the room, closing the doors as he did so.

  “What a peculiar state we find ourselves in,” Korbinian said.

  “Most peculiar,” Babette agreed. She smiled as Korbinian took her in his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “And how horrid of them to offer you a warm bath and a maid to wait on you,” Korbinian added. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “What ever shall you do in the face of such barbarism?”

  “Oh hush,” Babette said. “It is a good thing no one else can hear you. I fear you would offend our hosts with your tactless prattle.”

  “A very good thing indeed,” Korbinian said, kissing Babette’s neck and making her sigh happily. Korbinian began unbuttoning her coat with his gentle fingers. “Now then, let us get you out of these traveling clothes and into that bath.”

  * * * *

  Babette did not realize when she fell asleep in the bath. After the long days of travel, the heat of the water and the rose-scented steam went right to her head. One moment she lay there in the water, held in Korbinian’s arms. In the next, she opened her eyes to see a young woman peering in past the curtain.

  “Who—” Babette began.

  “Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” the woman said in French. She spoke somewhat uncertainly and with a thick accent. “I am Ekaterine. I have brought clothes. They are on your bed. While you become ready, I will be in the other room.”

  With that, the mysterious woman withdrew and vanished behind the curtain.

  Babette looked at Korbinian and whispered, “What do you make of this?”

  “She is a rather pretty girl,” Korbinian said.

  “You are of no use,” Babette told him.

  Korbinian stroked her cheek gently. “That’s not true,” he whispered, kissing her.

  Babette smiled and purred.

  “Perhaps you have a few uses,” she said.

  Korbinian rose elegantly from the pool and extended his hand toward her. He should have been wet, with rivulets of water coursing down the length of his smooth, sculpted body. But he was bone dry. Not a single droplet from the pool clung to him, and the surface was still about his waist.

  Babette smiled at him and sighed. “I should not keep the girl waiting.”

  “She might wonder why you are talking to yourself,” Korbinian said.

  “Hush!”

  Babette took Korbinian’s hand and stood. She selected a towel from a pedestal by the pool.

  “Allow me,” Korbinian said, taking it from her.

  Babette smiled and raised her arms.

  “As you wish,” she said.

  * * * *

  After being gently toweled dry by Korbinian, Babette returned to the bedchamber. Her clothes were gone, but in their place she found a long robe of crimson wool laid out for her on the bed. She touched it with her fingertips and found the fabric to be of the utmost softness, like cashmere. It was too large for her, she found, especially in the train and the sleeves, but it was comfortable all the same. The robe buttoned closed at the shoulder for modesty and was belted about the waist with an embroidered girdle of gold and rich blue.

  Babette found Ekaterine in the adjoining room, waiting patiently on one of the sofas. She stood as Babette entered and bowed her head politely but with dignity and very little deference. This surprised Babette, for she had first taken the girl to be a servant. But there was nothing servile in her attitude.

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle,” Ekaterine said, smiling and motioning for Babette to join her.

  “You speak French?” Babette asked, unsure of what else to say.

  “Yes,” Ekaterine said. She looked more than a little embarrassed at the question. “But I speak the French only a little.”

  “Is there another language you would prefer to speak in?” Babette asked, before she realized how foolish the question was.

  Not German or English, surely, she silently chided herself. Nor Italian. It is enough of a miracle that we have one language in common.

  “Russian?” Ekaterine asked. She gave a wide, genuine smile, expressing her knowledge that it would not be so. “Or Persian? I know that you understand neither Svan nor Georgian. Luka has said so.”

  “Alas,” Babette said, “but you are right. I am ignorant on all four counts.”

  “Then the French must suffice,” Ekaterine said. “I shall endeavor to become more accustomed to it. And at the same time, you shall learn Svan. Lord Shashavani has said so.”

  How thoughtful of him to consult my opinion, Babette thought. But it was true: if she were to reside there, she would have to learn the language—or both languages, as it seemed.

  “I trust you will help me with my lessons,” Babette said.

  “It will give me great pleasure,” Ekaterine said. “I most en
joy to teach.”

  “Tell me,” Babette said, “where are my clothes?”

  “They have been taken to be cleaned,” Ekaterine replied. “You cannot have thought about wearing them again, not after bathing. They were—I beg your pardon—filthy.”

  It seemed very painful for her to speak in such a manner, though whether it was the French or the criticism that bothered her, Babette could not tell.

  “You do not like the robe?” Ekaterine asked.

  “It is a wonderful robe,” Babette said, “but it is also quite large.”

  “Too large, you mean,” Korbinian said.

  Babette glanced at the doorway of the bedchamber where he stood, still nude. She watched as he crossed the room with a haughty stride and threw himself down upon the sofa behind Ekaterine. Resting his chin on one hand, he fluttered his eyes at Babette, almost daring her to respond to him.

  Babette was very careful to ignore him, difficult as that proved to be.

  “However,” she said, “I would still prefer my own clothes.”

  “New clothes, yes?” Ekaterine asked. “Tomorrow I will bring the tailors to measure you for new dresses. Like mine.” She drew her hand down in front of her, indicating her own dress, which resembled a chokha in pale green worn over a broad skirt and a high-necked tunic. “You will like it. Most comfortable. Not like the clothes you brought.”

  “If you mean my corsets, I happen to be rather fond of them,” Babette said.

  Ekaterine look horrified for a moment, her eyes going wide and the blood draining from her face. She quickly forced a smile and took Babette’s hand in both of hers.

  “New clothes,” she said with a firm nod. “Most comfortable.”

  Babette sighed and said, “If you insist.”

  Perhaps the tailors could make new copies of the clothes she had brought. That would be very welcome.

  “Where is Lord Shashavani?” she asked.

  “He is in study,” Ekaterine said. “But he has asked that you meet him on the northern terrace one hour after sundown. I will bring you. But first, you must eat. The servants are coming with food.”

  “Can I not see him now?” Babette asked.

  Ekaterine shook her head and said, “No, certainly not. Lord Shashavani is very busy. Whenever he returns from the outside, he insists that he be told of all things that transpired while he was away. He will be occupied until nightfall. And besides, he gave me instructions that you are to be washed, fed, and clothed before attending him. Hospitality, you understand.”

  “How insufferably hospitable of him,” Babette said. She sat on the sofa beside Korbinian and sighed. “Very well, I will eat first. And you, Ekaterine, must tell me all about yourself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Babette found Iosef waiting for her on the northern terrace one hour after sunset, just as Ekaterine had said. The night was cold, and Babette wore a thick fur mantle over the scarlet robe and a hat pulled tightly over her ears. She saw Iosef standing near the edge of the terrace, looking out across the valley. He wore a chokha of black over a high-necked white shirt.

  The moon was full and high, and it shone against his face in brilliant silver as he turned toward her.

  “Good evening, Varanus,” he said. “I am pleased to hear that you are settling in well.”

  “I find the accommodations agreeable, yes,” Babette said.

  “And Ekaterine?” Iosef asked.

  “Very pleasant,” Babette said. “Though I must confess, I do not understand her role in things here. She attended to me, but she is not a maidservant, is she?”

  Iosef almost seemed inclined to laugh. Certainly, his eyes twinkled with amusement, though his countenance remained emotionless.

  “No, she is not,” he said. “She is… Well, she is like Luka.”

  “And is he not a servant?” Babette asked. It was a question that had puzzled her for some time.

  “Abroad, we refer to him as my valet,” Iosef said. “But he is not. It would be more accurate to say that he is the Tariel to my Avtandil…though I suspect that is a reference you are not familiar with.”

  “I fear not,” Babette said.

  “Call him the Oliver to my Roland,” Iosef said. “He is as my brother.”

  “And Ekaterine is to be as my sister?” Babette asked skeptically.

  “No,” Iosef answered, “she is to keep you company until you join me on the northern terrace one hour after sunset. But I do think that you two will find much that you have in common, not least of which is your mutual understanding of a language. As a Frenchwoman now residing in Svaneti, I think the significance of that is clear.”

  Babette folded her arms and said, “Your point is taken, my lord.”

  “Good,” Iosef said. He offered his hand. “Come, join me.”

  Babette walked to the edge of the terrace without hesitation and looked out. At such a height, the drop was tremendous. Thankfully, the most terrifying part of the view—the vastness of the walls and spires below them—was concealed in the blackness of night, revealed only by the flickering of lanterns from some of the windows. Otherwise, the castle was dark and silent.

  “You should have told me about your wife,” Babette said after a lengthy pause.

  “I disagree,” Iosef said. “To tell you about Sophio would have served no purpose, and if your family had learned the truth, it would have made your journey here impossible. The most prudent course of action was the one that I followed.”

  “You lied to me,” Babette said.

  “Again, no,” Iosef replied. “Ever since our first meeting in Vienna, I have told you nothing but the truth. I have kept information from you, certainly, but I have never lied. And whenever I have kept something from you, it has been for a purpose. I do not arbitrarily seek to deceive you, Varanus.”

  Varanus. He kept calling her by her surname, whether or not he addressed her by her title of doctor. It was unusual, but not unpleasant.

  Babette shook her head and reminded herself of the topic at hand. How dare he distract her in such a way?

  “Lord Shashavani—”

  “Iosef.”

  “Lord Shashavani,” Babette repeated, more forcefully, “I will confess that I am cross with you at this moment. You have placed me in a most difficult position.”

  Iosef chuckled with genuine amusement.

  “Have I?” he asked. “I have offered you a safe haven here in my country. I have granted you impenetrable asylum from the man who would do you harm. I have offered you the possibility of immortality and far more freedom than you could ever hope to enjoy in your homeland. What is this difficulty of which you speak?”

  Babette frowned, displeased at Iosef’s evasions.

  “I came here with the intention of marrying you,” she said, “only to find that you are already married.”

  “Nonsense,” Iosef said, “you came here to accept the gift of immortality so that you might continue your work for all eternity. The topic of marriage was always a means to that end for you. Unless I am tremendously mistaken.”

  Babette set her lips in a frown. He was right about that. How dare he be right at such a time?

  “Do you love her?” she finally asked.

  “Does that matter?” Iosef asked. “You love a dead man. Who are we to judge one another?”

  “How did you—” Babette began.

  She heard Korbinian clearing his throat from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him—clothed again—standing a few paces away.

  “The Russian is an intelligent man, liebchen,” he said. “Your affection for my memory is no great secret. He spent the entire winter with you in France. Of course he knows about it.”

  Babette turned back to Iosef and folded her arms. Even sheltered by the furs, the chill of the night made her shiver. How Iosef managed to stand there, lightly dressed and bareheaded, was a mystery to her. It had something to do with his condition, no doubt.

  “Why did you not tell me about your wi
fe while we were in France?”

  “And risk your father or grandfather discovering that fact?” Iosef asked. “No, that would have been foolish. Your purpose in coming here was clear from the outset, and it should not be confused by the subject of marriage.”

  “You are not the master of your own house,” Babette countered.

  “It is not my house,” Iosef said. “It is Shashava’s, and Sophio is the Vicar of Shashava. Until he returns, she rules in his stead. But that has nothing to do with us. As Christ says, ‘render unto Caesar those things which are Caesar’s.’ So long as you respect Sophio’s position and do not interfere with her, you will be free to pursue your work as you see fit.”

  “And what if I desire to become embroiled in politics?” Babette asked. She did not, but the question was worth the asking.

  “But you do not,” Iosef said. “You wish only to work, to pursue your research free from interference. And that is something that I have placed within your grasp.”

  He turned away and looked back out across the valley toward the northern mountains.

  “Do not be mistaken, Doctor Varanus,” he said. “If you wish to leave, I will dispatch you for home first thing tomorrow. You are not a prisoner here. You have not yet taken an oath in Shashava’s name. Until that time, you are free to leave whenever you choose. But consider, where would you go?”

  Babette frowned with great displeasure. He was right about that. She could go anywhere, thanks to Grandfather’s money. Not back to France, of course, but to the new Germany or to Italy or to England. Perhaps even to America. But none of it would satisfy her. Only the offer of immortality that Iosef held before her piqued her interest. Besides, where could she go that she would be judged for her intellect rather than for her sex?

  Iosef, seeming to understand her thoughts, added:

  “There is no other part of the world that will afford you the liberty that you deserve. Here in the valley, you are the equal of any man, both in custom and in law. Beyond the lands of the Shashavani, you will always be a woman first and a doctor second—and a most distant second. What I offer you is not merely eternity. I offer you those rights and dignities that Nature has bestowed on you but that Man has abrogated.”