Terrible Praise

by Lara Hayes

  Above the mantel, eerily anachronistic, is a replica of Morning Sun by Edward Hopper. Beckoned to the hearth by the familiar, strikingly sad image of a woman alone on her bed, hands clasped around her knees, dreading this new day, I drift farther inside while Stela watches. I had the chance to see the original on a school trip to New York but this version is much larger. I trace the bottom of the heavy oak frame.

  “I could not get the image out of my head.” Stela is transfixed by the painting.

  “Did you paint this?”

  Stela shrugs.

  “It’s amazing.”

  “Given enough time, you can teach yourself just about anything,” she says. Stela’s hand moves in the corner of my eye, and I pull away unintentionally. She frowns and reaches around me for a remote on the mantel. We stare at each other, painfully unsure of ourselves. “Sit with me for a moment?”

  Stela takes my silence as an answer. She steps behind me and removes my coat, tossing it onto an embroidered bench at the foot of her bed. I let her take my hand and lead me down two generous steps that separate the sleeping area from a small, recessed living room. There is a long black leather chesterfield, a smart black club chair to match though I would date it around the 1950s, and a low-lying mission-style coffee table separates the two.

  Stela steers me toward the chair, which faces a wall latticed like colonial windows but is actually an enormous projector screen. Stela clicks the remote and takes a seat on the sofa. The large screen wakes to life, depicting an animated and realistic portrayal of a beach at dawn, complete with the low rush of a lazy surf. The image transforms the entire room, opening the space, and I would swear we were perched at the window of some cliff-side resort.

  “You can change the view, if you like. This one has always been my favorite.” I look to her in amazement. “I spent many evenings on this sofa, watching the waves roll in. Thinking of you.”

  I walk on weak legs to the edge of the coffee table. The illusion remains just as convincing. “Something to make you forget the tunnels?”

  Stela laughs wearily. “Something to make the isolation bearable.”

  She reclines with one arm thrown along the back of the couch, the other propped on the armrest. She rests her head in her hand, her ruined blouse parted down to her navel. I take a seat on the sofa, close but not beside her. Not unless she reaches out for me. Which she doesn’t.

  Though she remains silent, she shows her nervousness in other ways. Stela rarely fidgets, but she plays idly with a loose button on her blouse, dangling on a single white thread. She won’t look at me. The atmosphere is oddly reminiscent of an awkward first date. Bodies close but not touching. The air charged with everything that should be said, but isn’t. I reach out and take her hand and the corner of Stela’s mouth quirks up into a grateful smile.

  “Stela…I don’t know what to do.”

  XI

  The Beginning

  Leaning forward, I cup her flushed cheeks in my hands to press a chaste kiss to her lips, which she does not return. Elizabeth’s eyes remain open—all seeing but removed—and they search my own, dulled to distraction by the inescapable conclusion we must embrace. She places her hand through the torn silk of my blouse and flattens her quivering fingers over my heart, listening to the sluggish beat through her pores.

  “You are less bothered by what we must do, than how it must be done.”

  Elizabeth curls into my waiting embrace and her hands press against my chest. Her touch climbs timidly to the nape of my neck, and I do not halt her solemn exploration. She has traced the edges of this scar before, many times, but never with such morbid fascination. Her fingers skirt the aged reminder that I was once as she is now: terrified, enamored, distrustful, mortal, and wholly unprepared for the change, despite the years of quiet servitude I spent in Fane’s great company.

  “How then?” she asks, ghosting her fingers over the mark that ended one life and gave me another. I cover her hand with mine, holding her fingers in place.

  “I will drain you of your blood and, in turn, force you to drink from me. It is impossible to describe exactly what will happen when you wake. That is a very singular experience. It differs for all of us.”

  She pulls her hand from beneath mine, leaning up on one arm, and despite her apparent duress, the tops of her cheeks darken when her eyes glance over the exposed skin of my chest. A quick, pleased smile whispers across my face and Elizabeth brightens for a second, before her face ices over.

  “Will it hurt?”

  For all her stubborn arrogance, she is little more than a girl. I forget at times just how green the soul is that flowers in her heart. I linger in my own wretchedness, searching for any comfort I can give to her.

  “It was several lifetimes past that I was made by Fane. I do not recall the sensation, but I believe I tried to fight him off. The memories of my life before that night have largely faded into shadow. But it is my hope that you will not suffer. I will be as delicate as I can.”

  A lone tear slips from the corner of her eye. When I reach for her she does not recoil, and permits me to bring her face to my chest. I run my hand through her dark hair as she weeps, softly, barely audible.

  “Why did you fight him? Wasn’t it what you wanted?”

  With a heavy sigh, I cradle her in the crook of my arm as we recline. Now is not the time for stories. Fane whispers to me, urging a conclusion so that the others may rest.

  “I was young and very much in love with my fencing instructor, at the time. When Fane saw us together he became wildly angry. He nearly beat the life out of the poor lad right there, on the promenade. I pleaded with Fane to spare the young man’s life. Threw myself at his feet in front of the whole household. Fane had him taken to the dungeons at once, and came to me later that night. There was no tenderness in his heart for me at the time, and as such, it was not his aim to spare me pain.”

  She wraps her body around mine and draws familiar circles against the side of my neck. Her lips brush my ear.

  “What was his name? The young man?”

  Elizabeth has an exhausting mind. I press my cheek to her forehead and close my eyes, searching for details long since buried to appease her.

  “I cannot recall.”

  She lifts her face to mine with a furrowed brow.

  “Did you see him again?”

  Her eyes dip down to my lips. I can picture his face as I look upon her.

  The first never leaves you. His features dark and sharp. The cuts and bruises on his face blackened with dirt from his cell. With shattered hands, he clawed the calfskin legs of my riding pants, crying tears of joy that I was spared and returned to him.

  I gathered him in my arms and kissed the crown of his soiled head as he wept. The scent of his fevered skin filled my nostrils, obliterating everything else. He was the first human I crossed in my first night in the new world. I did not have years of painstakingly manicured control. I was an infant. He kicked, he pulled my hair, and I apologized, spilling more blood than I ingested in the process. When I laid his body back down in the dirt he was peaceful, smiling faintly, while Fane applauded behind me. It was not a full day after that my human blood began to sour Fane’s immaculate constitution. The life force of a mortal polluted the meat and muscle of my Lord. He was bedridden for months, raving mad from the pain.

  “Fane had him executed.”

  A carefully worded omission is a lie by any other name, but what good would it do her now to hear such truths? What peace could it possibly bring her to know that his sentence was carried out by one who cared for him so deeply in life?

  “Executed? For falling in love with you?”

  “It was a different time, my darling. Simpler if you can believe that, which I do not expect you will. If I had been the ward of any other wealthy Lord, the young man’s sentencing would have been thus. I was a maiden and I did not belong to myself. My virtue was not mine to give.”

  In an instant, Elizabeth is out of my arms and plant
ed firmly on her feet. Her trepidation seems to evaporate with an aggravated hair flip, hands resting high on her hips. I sit up with a groan, knowing full well that she is furious, and with a mind to make demands, though she is not in the position.

  “I want to talk to you about my affairs before…anything else.”

  I honestly do not mean to ridicule her, but I laugh all the same. The sound strips the wind from her billowing sails, and she sits opposite me on the corner of the coffee table. Her mouth tight and vexed from the threat of teasing, yet adamant all the same. I must say, I am intrigued.

  “What affairs, dear one?”

  She squares her shoulders and arches a brow, waiting for the next fit of laughter. Her mother would be proud.

  “We need to talk about my money,” she says, clasping her hands.

  “As you wish.” I lean into the conversation. Elizabeth lifts her chin, which earns her a smile. “What of it?”

  “My mother left everything to me. The brownstone, its contents. My parents were of better than average means from the day they were born. There was money on both sides. I’m worth quite a bit.”

  Elizabeth stands, takes to pacing once more, and I am content to watch. I recline on the sofa and watch the wheels turn.

  “Most of the money is locked in a trust,” she says, deliberating for a moment. “Which will do for the time being. I want the brownstone sold, along with its contents. All assets liquidated and absorbed into that account. Accessible only to me.”

  Again she rests her hands on her hips, and I am struck by her slightness. How had I not noticed it sooner? The legs of her dark jeans sag at the back of her thighs. She stares expectantly back at me with swollen, sleep-deprived eyes. Gazing into that exhaustion, I accept a bittersweet truth. I know nothing of true grief.

  “To what end, my darling? Why is this so important to you, and now of all times?”

  She huffs, and gestures wildly around us as though the reason could not be more obvious. “Autonomy!”

  My stunned and frankly confounded silence merely serves to enrage her. She storms over to the sofa, towering over me. I take her hand and kiss her knuckles, holding her with a beseeching stare.

  “Elizabeth, we are all here, only because Fane permits it. We live because it is his wish. We are kept and cared for by his generosity. You have no idea the fortune he spends in a single month to keep our existence hidden. The bribes, the treaties, upkeep of the infrastructure. We are indebted to him now, and always.”

  She rips her hand from mine, brushing it on her pants as though she fears infection. “I don’t want to be indebted to him. I want my own money, Stela. I don’t want to belong to anyone.”

  I stand up, nearly knocking her over, and steady her by the elbow. “Not to anyone?”

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispers. Her pulse climbs and she wets her lips with her tongue. She slips her fingers under my shirt, dragging her knuckles over my sternum as the color rises in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean you.”

  I caress her hair, savoring the light sheen of sweat on the back of her neck and the way it perfumes the room. Elizabeth rocks into me, closing her eyes as our lips brush.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Stela, I—”

  “No.” I shake my head, brushing my nose against hers. She takes her kiss by force, wrapping her skinny arms around my shoulders. This will be the last time that I have to hold her like a piece of china, or a paper doll. The last time that I will be forced to reign in my own urge to devour her completely, or that her body will give and bend to me this way. I suppose that is a positive, yet I feel such overwhelming loss. When I cease to respond to her, she pulls away troubled. “Elizabeth…you honor me with your company. That is enough. Your companionship is more than I ever dreamed I would have.”

  Slowly, Elizabeth smiles, overcome, and nods enthusiastically, perhaps not trusting herself to speak. She swallows harshly and takes a step back. Never one to be derailed, she tilts her head expectantly. Though I am at a loss as to how we would achieve such deception, I could never refuse her.

  “This would bring you peace? To retain your trust account, and maintain, at least on some level, your financial independence?”

  Elizabeth straightens, the flush of our proximity fading in favor of a more resolute expression. “It would.”

  I fear this will cost a favor I do not wish to mortgage at present, but what can be done? She knows her own mind, and there is little hope of dissuading her. “Then it shall be so.”

  “Thank you.” Showing her youth, Elizabeth grabs me by the arms and peppers my face with enthusiastic and playful kisses, until we are both smiling. The joviality is short-lived, both of us sobering as though the precipice on which we balance has begun to quake.

  This life will hold many challenges for a woman of her intellect. There is a reason Lydia was to be the last addition to our clan. Fane did not like the growing importance the world at large placed on the individual. A trend he noticed early on, and one that continued to grow, as he said it would. He believed there was no room in his family for such modern self-absorption. It took ages for Lydia to acclimate to this life, and she still has much work to do. “Do not thank me yet,” I tell her. “And Elizabeth, speak of this to no one. Furthermore, push the thought from your mind entirely. When the necessary arrangements have been made, have faith that we will revisit this matter.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrow, and underneath my hands the muscles in her abdomen clench. “Push the thought from my mind? What, like you can’t sense everything I’m thinking?”

  My lips part but explanation fails me. An empty breath curls from the back of my throat. Did I assume she knew? She must know.

  “Not everything, no. But I am not the one to fear, my darling. You must keep this secret from Fane after you are named.”

  She turns away, taking a deep breath, holding it in her lungs as though it will be her last. “He’s going to be inside my head.” She is not asking, merely expelling the remnants of some unspoken hope.

  “He will.” I need to hear the words out loud as much as she does. “Once you have been named.”

  “I thought…” Elizabeth keeps her back to me, pacing distractedly in an aimless shuffle. She clears her throat. “I hoped there wouldn’t be room for both of you.” She shrugs, toeing the bottom step with her boot. “I thought you and I would still be…us.”

  How can it seem as though I have lost her when all I have to do is reach out and touch her? I stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I have never felt more powerless.

  “We will. Of course, we will.” Elizabeth leans back against me, and I press my nose into her soft hair.

  “But he’ll be there. Inside. Like you are now.”

  “Elizabeth…I can turn you. But I cannot claim you. Fane is the head of this family. It is the power and the responsibility of the Moroi to name their Strigoi.” She runs her hands over mine, threading our fingers together and forcing my embrace to tighten around her waist. “This is the price. You knew this. You must have known.”

  “I didn’t have words for what I knew.” She turns in my arms, hands falling on my shoulders. Her displeasure is as obvious in her touch as it is in her face. “Just a strong impression I gleaned from your dreams.” Elizabeth quietens, deliberating. “He was there though, with you, I mean. Or,” she releases a frustrated breath, “he was, is, a part of you. Separate, but distinct.”

  Elizabeth digs her thin fingers into my shoulders. She stares at the hatch in the ceiling, the small locked door in the corner that leads out to the tunnels, calculating her dismal odds. She dips her head, releasing an uneasy breath and stares up at me. “But you’ll be here. We’ll be together.”

  Fane is the only Sire I have ever known, Maker and Master. Lydia comes unbidden to my mind, her near-instant devotion to Fane. Though he is resigned to this affection, the betrayal shows in Bård’s face when he watches Lydia fawn over Fane.

&nb
sp; “Where else would I be?” I wear my most convincing smile for Elizabeth. After all, what are we without hope?

  Her lips purse and then relax. Her furrowed brow softens and the rest of her body reluctantly follows suit. Elizabeth nods once, and I reciprocate. Meanwhile, at the mouth of the hall in the corridor above, my family quarrels. Loudly enough that I fear Elizabeth can hear them, though she gives no outward acknowledgment. She is far more troubled by her emptying hourglass, than she is of their apprehension and distrust. A crowded quiet falls between us, simmering and intense.

  “I’m scared,” she says, shattering the silence in the worst possible way.

  She would be a fool not to be frightened. And while Elizabeth is many things, she is not a fool. She needs reassurance, and so do I, for that matter. I have never born another into this life. Part of me wishes for her sake that I had. The fact that this is new territory for both of us is not helpful.

  Though Elizabeth’s breathing is noticeably labored she does not cry. Her trembling has ceased and she stares off at nothing, distant and detached. I press my forehead to hers and her fear-battered frame is still. All the fight has left her, replaced by uncharacteristic resignation. She makes no protest when I take her hands and lead her to the sofa, sitting quietly, wide-eyed and completely lost.

  Fane whispers into my ear, pushing me to finish. To take her now, while she is compliant and calm. But Elizabeth is not calm.

  I stoke the meager remnants of the evening’s fire, building it up with fresh kindling, anything to occupy my restless hands and banish the dreadful chill that permeates my chamber. She must be freezing. The budding flames lick the blackened walls of the chimney, smoke rolling up and into the draft rushing through the tunnels. A reassuring heat washes over my face and hands, relaxing a basic part of me. A human part. We are safe. We are kept under Fane’s care.