After breakfast I went downstairs to the servants’ quarters and found Maria in her office, going through the accounts.
“How are you today, Victor?” she asked, looking up.
“I am thoroughly enjoying my imprisonment, thank you, Maria.”
The news of our adventuring was common knowledge among the servants, although Father had been most careful not to make any mention of alchemy. Even among the most loyal of staff, rumors could easily escape the château and sully our family’s glorious reputation.
“Can I be of some service to you?” Maria asked—a touch warily, I thought.
“Today is your day in town, is it not?” She usually made the trip into Geneva with a maid to supervise the purchase of provisions we could not get locally in Bellerive.
“It is indeed.”
“Would you be willing to take a message for me?”
“Of course. To Henry Clerval, I assume.”
I closed the office door behind me. “No,” I said. “To Julius Polidori.”
She was silent for a moment. “You found him, then,” she said, for she and I hadn’t spoken of the matter since she’d given me his name many weeks before.
I nodded. “With his help we’ve been assembling the ingredients for the Elixir of Life.”
Her eyes widened. “But surely your father—”
“Knows nothing of Polidori’s involvement, no. And mustn’t. But we are very close to creating the elixir, and I must get word to Mr. Polidori of our predicament.”
“Victor,” she said, and paused as someone passed the door, “surely there’s no need, now that Konrad is healed.”
“It may only be a temporary cure,” I said. “Father does not want that known, even by Mother.”
“I see,” she said. I did not like divulging this information, but I needed all the ammunition at my disposal.
“Will you deliver my note?” I asked.
“I am loathe to do it,” she said bluntly. “When I heard of your adventuring in the caves … It’s a miracle you did not all perish.”
“But, Maria, you helped set us on this path,” I reminded her.
The fingers of her left hand rubbed nervously against her arm-rest. “I know, and it was wrong of me, I think.”
“It’s but a small matter of delivering a letter to his house—and awaiting his reply.”
“Your Father would be furious if he found out.”
“But he will not find out,” I said. “Just as he never found out it was you who told us about Julius Polidori in the first place.”
She looked at me carefully. “I did it only for Konrad’s sake.”
“I know,” I said. “I know. But we must keep each other’s secrets, mustn’t we?”
I daresay she thought I was threatening her. I would never have done anything to get her in trouble—but perhaps it was best to let her imagine I might.
“Very well,” she said with heavy reluctance. “Give me the address. I will be your messenger.”
I passed her the note, already written and sealed with wax.
“And one last thing, Maria. Do not tell him who you are, or for whom you work.”
In the evening I slid downstairs and found Maria again. She scarcely looked at me as she handed me a sealed letter. And then she gave a shiver, as though relieved to be rid of the thing. Instantly I slipped it into my pocket.
“To be in that shop of his gave me grave doubts,” she whispered. “And the fellow himself … and that cat of his!”
I kissed Maria on the cheek, as I used to do when little.
“Thank you,” I said. “You have done a great service.”
“I hope it is the last.” She looked at me, and I thought I saw a flicker of fear on her face.
I went upstairs to my bedchamber, closed and locked the door, and opened the letter.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your letter. Please rest assured that I did indeed receive the coelacanth head from your friend and that it yielded oils ample for the purpose.
I now understand that you are temporarily detained, and I am most relieved that our venture remains secret—as it must. If I do not hear otherwise from you, I will assume you wish me to continue my work. The translation is cumbersome, but proceeds apace, and I have no doubt I will soon know the third and final ingredient. When I have succeeded, I will leave a message for you, as per your instructions, by the Gallimard crypt in the Bellerive graveyard. Until then, I remain,
Your humble servant,
Julius Polidori
For the moment I had done all I could. Now I had to wait.
I became a keeper of secrets.
I did not tell Konrad or Elizabeth of Father’s alchemy. I did not tell them of my resolve to pursue our adventure. What good would it do? It wouldn’t change their minds. They were too busy being in love. If Konrad did not have the sense to obtain the elixir, I would have to do it for him.
If he were to get sick again, I would have his cure. I would have the power to bring him back from the dead.
And what else might I have the power to do?
That night, sleep would not come to me, and by candlelight I once more opened the slim green volume, the last remnant of the forbidden Dark Library.
The love potion was so childishly simple that I almost doubted it:
A drop of fish oil.
Sugar to mask the fish oil.
A drop of clover honey to sweeten it further.
A pinch of thyme.
The juice of three crushed rose petals.
A small measure of pure glacier water.
Two pinches of rosemary.
A strand of the maker’s hair, cut and ground as finely as possible.
A drop of blood from your heart’s desire.
These items would be easy to come by. Only the last worried me—until I remembered my handkerchief. I had kept it hidden away in my chest of drawers. I did not want it laundered, for upon it was a spot of Elizabeth’s blood, from her sweet lips.
I could cut out the spot and drop the bit of linen into my mixture.
The recipe called for the liquid to sit for a day and night, and then be drunk by my heart’s desire.
That would not be so hard. During our fencing practice we often had a refreshing cordial. I would pour a goblet for Elizabeth and deftly add the sweet potion to her glass.
She would love me. The tincture would make her love me.
A sudden fury overpowered me, and I hurled the book against the wall.
This I knew: There would be no victory in winning Elizabeth through alchemical tricks.
I was not so lovable as Konrad, no. I would never have his charm, or grace or patience or effortless skill at things. But I had the same fine body, and what mine contained had more grit and determination and passion.
Were these not things worth loving?
I’d felt her wolf’s heat that night in the Sturmwald. She’d been mine then, and I would make her mine again.
On my own, and for good.
Afterward I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed I was trekking through the Alps and Krake was my only companion. I was searching for something but did not know what. I looked everywhere, with more and more desperation. Krake’s green eyes regarded me solemnly, but he could not help me.
Night came on, and I found a cave and lay down to sleep. Krake stretched out beside me, and I was glad of his comforting warmth.
The dream dissolved, but the warmth remained. Half-awake, I thought nothing of it at first. But then it seemed to intensify, and suddenly I was fully awake, like a desperate swimmer breaching the water’s surface, hungry for air.
I was not alone in my bed.
I lay very still on my right side. Something warm and soft pressed snugly against my back. An arm was draped over my chest. A hand rested against my pounding heart.
I inhaled shakily—breathing in the heady scent of Elizabeth’s hair and skin.
She must have been sleepwalking again, and had once more found her way into my
bed, just as she had as a little girl. But she was no longer seven years old, and as I lay there, I was all too aware of the new curves of her woman’s body.
Her heat seemed to travel through me, blooming in my cheeks, under my arms, between my legs. I scarcely dared breathe, for fear of waking her, for fear of ending this moment.
But I had to do something. I could not let her sleep the night there. Panicked thoughts galloped through my head. Imagine if a servant came in to find us like this. How could I explain it? Sweat prickled my forehead.
Gently I pulled away and slowly rolled over to face her.
My breath caught in my throat. I’d expected to find her fast asleep, but her eyes were wide open. Her cheek rested on my pillow, and her lips were twitched into a mischievous smile—one that I had never before seen on her. I gazed, transfixed by her beauty, at once familiar and foreign. Was this really the Elizabeth I had grown up with?
Almost at once I could tell she wasn’t truly looking at me. Like the last time, she gazed through me, at her heart’s true desire. No doubt she thought she was with Konrad. And why wasn’t she?
I wanted to kiss and caress her. It would have been so easy: She was mere inches before me, her long hair spilling over the lace of her nightgown. I leaned hungrily closer, but stopped myself with a moan. I could not take such liberty with her sleeping body, as alluring as it was.
She made a soft sound in her throat, like a cat’s purr, and for a moment I swore her eyes looked right into mine. She lifted her hand and stroked my hair, then let her fingers run down my cheek and neck.
I felt myself weaken. I had to do something, or I would not be able to resist temptation. I slowly got up. Her eyes followed me.
“Elizabeth,” I said calmly, walking around to her side of the bed. “It’s time to go.”
Obediently she pushed herself into sitting, and I tried not to look at the flash of her exposed thighs before her sleeping fingers modestly adjusted her hem.
“Come.” I stretched out my hand.
She took it. I felt like a hypnotist. She would do whatever I asked her.
Elizabeth, touch me. Kiss me. Tell me you love me.
I ground my teeth in frustration. She came willingly as I led her to the door. I opened it and furtively peered into the hall, listening. The thought of being seen made me shiver. We walked down the corridor to her bedchamber. Inside, I led her to her own bed. I straightened her churned sheets.
“It’s time to get some sleep,” I said.
I pressed down lightly on her shoulders, and she sat.
“Lie down,” I said.
She lay down, but took hold of my hand, smiling up at me with that same tantalizing smile. But it was given to me only in the confusion of her sleeping mind, and was meant for Konrad.
I gently pried her fingers off mine.
“Good night, Elizabeth.”
Her head sank down into her pillow. Her eyes closed.
I gave a great sigh and turned. At the doorway she said something that made my step falter, my heart skip a beat. Sleepily she murmured, “Good night, Victor.”
At breakfast Elizabeth gave no sign of remembering her nocturnal wanderings. She talked cheerfully with all of us, and with every second it seemed more and more impossible that she’d ever come to my bed, stroked my face.
It had taken me a long time to get back to sleep. I’d been unable to find a comfortable position. As I’d finally started to drift off, I’d felt her weight and heat against me once more—and I’d turned eagerly to find it was truly my imagination this time.
She’d said my name. Did that mean she’d known—or some part of her had known—where she was and what she was doing? Could it mean she had meant to come to my room, and not Konrad’s?
I could ask her—but how? At the very least she’d be embarrassed; at the worst, furious with me, for no doubt she would think I’d made up the whole scandalous thing.
I looked at her across the dining table, and she smiled at me—a friendly, sisterly smile, without even a glimmering of remembrance. She was so radiant and full of beauty that I could barely swallow my food.
That night, after dinner, I emerged on the balcony to find her leaning against the balustrade, watching the sun sink toward the mountains.
“The last night of our imprisonment,” I said.
She looked over, somewhat surprised, for no doubt she’d been expecting Konrad. I had intercepted him on his way, and had told him that Father wanted him to check on the horses and inquire after the pregnant mare from the head groom.
“The two weeks have gone quickly enough,” she said, and turned her eyes back to the mountains.
I had no gift for pretty talk, but I’d prepared some lines, thanks to Henry’s poetry—and I was emboldened too by the fact that Elizabeth, unbeknownst to her, had shared my bed the night before.
“Your beauty makes the sunset itself pause,” I said, “so it can behold you but a second longer.”
She turned to me, her eyes wide.
“But you are the brighter of the two,” I said. “Around you I feel like a moth, and it’s all I can do to avoid your fire.”
She laughed, her hand rising to cover her mouth.
“Have I said something funny?” I asked, annoyed.
Elizabeth bit her lips, then composed herself. “No, no, it’s very sweet, thank you. It’s just that, well, it’s not the kind of language I’m used to hearing you speak, Victor.”
“Perhaps there are certain talents I keep hidden,” I said, raising my eyebrows mysteriously.
“Difficult to believe. Have you been reading poetry?”
“The words are my own,” I said, only half lying. Damn these poetical scribblings—even if they’d been scripted for me, I had no tongue to say them.
“They’re very fine,” she said. “But better saved for someone else.”
“They’d be wasted, then,” I said. “Like, like—” I tried to think of something poetic. “Like pearls tossed at pigs.”
“‘Swine,’ I think, is the expression you’re looking for. Pearls before swine.”
“Oh, to hell with pretty words—since you only mean to mock me.”
“No, indeed, ‘pig’ is very expressive,” she said, “and an excellent description of a fellow who flirts with his brother’s beloved.”
“Ah. I did not realize you were already his property.” I knew this would anger her, for my mother had always taught us that women were the equal of men and shouldn’t be treated like possessions.
I got the exact reaction I wanted. Her eyes flared. “No one owns me, Victor, except me. Well,” she added, a little contritely, “God owns me, as he does all His creations, but no human shall ever own me.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” I said, as dismissively as I could, “you always like to make your own choices. So why not give yourself a little choice in this matter?”
“I already have, and you should respect my decision. Now you should go.”
She looked over my shoulder worriedly, no doubt afraid Konrad would appear.
“Oh, he won’t be coming for some time,” I said. “I sent him on an errand.”
“That was mean of you.”
“Yes.” The light burnished her amber hair, and I went to her, grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her on the mouth. She pushed me away and slapped me, hard.
“Don’t ever,” she said, wildcat fury in her eyes.
“You like it when I kiss you,” I said, knowing no such thing.
She turned her back on me. “You bite,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Admit it,” I said recklessly. “You don’t even have to say yes, just nod your head. Go on, be honest!”
I watched the back of her head, waiting and hoping. She might have been a statue.
“What you are doing is very wrong, Victor,” she said.
“What about that old saying, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”
“You do not love me!”
“Don’t tell me
what I feel,” I said angrily. “When you don’t even know what you feel yourself.”
She turned on me, angry but also curious. “What are you talking about?”
There was a moment when I might have kept her secret, but I was too inflamed. “You come to my bedchamber at night,” I whispered.
Her face flushed. “That is a vile thing to say.”
“You sleepwalk, Elizabeth. You know you do. You did it as a child. And twice this summer you’ve done it again. And each time you’ve come to my room.”
She looked at me warily, not sure if I was telling the truth.
“The first time you held your old doll, the one with the red braids. You thought she was a baby, and she wasn’t dead, just cold, and you wanted to warm her.”
Her gaze left mine, and a memory seemed to scud across her mind.
“You remember such dreams, don’t you?” I said.
“I often have them,” she admitted. “But I have no memory of coming to your bedchamber.”
“Last night you climbed into my bed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not believe it.” And she made to walk past me.
I grabbed her arm and held her. “You lay against me and smiled at me and purred like a wildcat.”
“Let me go,” she said softly, dangerously.
I released my hold on her, but she didn’t move.
“You stroked my face. And when I took you back to your own room, you said good night to me. ‘Good night, Victor,’ you said.”
She looked troubled now, her eyes darting about after flares of remembrance.
“What I want to know,” I said, “is why it’s my room you come to. Why not visit Konrad’s?”
“How do you know I don’t?” she retorted.
I swallowed, speechless for a moment. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?”
But as I watched her, I saw the uncertainty in her haughty eyes, and knew she was lying.
“I have a hypothesis, if you’d care to hear it,” I said.
She said nothing, but nor did she walk away.
“Konrad’s a fine fellow, but there’s one thing I have that he doesn’t. A passion to match your own.”
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