Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “Marjorie!” Alain’s voice rose in alarm, and she heard rustling that meant he was coming toward her. “Are you all right?”

  Hit your head, she ordered him silently. Hit your head hit your head hit your head! If he hit his head on the wall like she had, only harder, maybe he would not remember any of this. It was so desperate and ridiculous that she fell back on her heels and choked with sudden mad laughter.

  “Marjorie? Are you hurt?”

  His voice was still too loud. She felt his hand tentatively touch her back. She wanted to scream at him. Quiet! Be quiet! Don’t call me Marjorie!

  A sudden, freezing itch spread from her neck and spine to seize every part of her. She flailed in blind panic, gasping aloud, her skin pierced from the inside by waves of icy needles. She heard a sharp cracking sound and a soft bump.

  Everything was spinning. She gripped the back of her neck in both hands and clawed at the itch that seemed to come from her very bones. There was an acrid taste in the back of her throat, and she swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

  When the itch and the ice faded away, and her head finally stopped spinning, she found she could breathe again. Her entire skull ached. She reached around her, and found that she was sitting on the floor, a cushion by her knee. Her mind felt strange, almost like the dizziness had disconnected it.

  Had she blacked out? Was this how it felt?

  Where was Alain?

  “Alain?” she whispered, but he did not answer. Had he left? What had happened? How long had she been so dizzy? Somehow the candle had gone out.

  My slipper. She had been looking for her slipper. She carefully ran her hands over the space on the floor that she could reach. When she found nothing, she edged along the cushion near her knee and tried from there. Two more tries after that, she touched Alain’s bare arm. “Alain?” she whispered, but he did not answer. “Alain?” She shook his arm, then his shoulder. He was lying on his stomach. “Alain?”

  Clearly he had hit his head, just like she had wanted him to. The mad laughter bubbled in her throat again, but she covered her mouth with her hands. I hurt him. No, he hurt himself. He should have been more careful. He had heard her hit her own head, so he should have been more careful not to hit his. He had knocked himself out. She was lucky that she had not done the same and that she had only gotten dizzy. And now a terrible headache.

  She had to leave. She had to get out of here before he woke up, which could be at any moment. Beatris had hit her head on a low doorway once, and she had that said she had only blacked out for a few seconds. She had not lost any memory, though. But would she have known it if she had?

  He hit his head. Even if he does remember, when Marjorie acts like nothing happened, he will not trust his own memory.

  Where was her slipper? She could not leave her slipper behind.

  I should make sure he is all right.

  Of course he was all right. Tabitha’s hand finally came down on her slipper, and she snatched it from the floor and jammed it onto her foot. If the cushions were here, then the stairs were that way. She crawled forward, patting the floor until it dropped down to the first stair. Gingerly she stood up and crept down to the door.

  She closed her eyes as she had before. But she moved too quickly as she felt her way forward along the bookshelves, and she kept bumping her hands and knees. She could not wake the guardsman. She could not alarm the dog. Her hip ran into the corner of the big table, and she bit her lip to keep from shrieking. When the pain subsided, she opened her eyes without meaning to, and saw a line of torchlight beneath the door to the foyer.

  How long had she been with Alain? Would the guardsman still be asleep? Had the watch changed?

  I was with Alain. I was making love to Alain.

  Tabitha stood still and tried to slow her heart, racing with both terror and desire. Her head still did not feel right. Her breasts still remembered his mouth, and her cherry was still wet.

  I am not a virgin. I might be pregnant.

  She did not remember hearing the hour ringing. She would have heard it in the attic, right? So she had not been gone from bed for even an hour.

  Less than an hour. Less than an hour to change her forever.

  Less than an hour to turn into a whore.

  He had seduced her. That was what had happened. He had known how to kiss her and touch her so that she would let him do whatever he wanted. He was no gentleman, no true knight, to treat a noble lady like a servant girl. She should have hit him over the head on purpose.

  No. She winced. No matter how she tried to pretend it was not her fault, it was. It was! Alain had tried to stop, but she had not let him.

  No! How could she have let this happen? Why had it not hurt? It was supposed to hurt. She would have stopped him if it had hurt. Why had it not hurt? She could be pregnant!

  She had to move. She had to get back to her bedchamber.

  She listened at the door. She concentrated hard, but there was nothing to hear. Please be asleep, she begged the guardsman. Please, please, please be asleep.

  At length, she heard, faintly but distinctly, a snore. Her relief was so great a wave of dizziness came over her again. She steadied herself on the wall, then slowly, slowly eased the door open.

  The torch in the foyer threw deep shadows beyond its pool of light. The guardsman still slumped in the alcove directly across from the big front door, his spear still held across his body. The dog at his feet lifted its head.

  This is my home. Nothing is wrong. All is well.

  The dog watched her walk past. She made it to the gallery, where the first door led to the green receiving room, and the second door led to the blue. The single torch still burned at the staircase going down to the kitchen.

  Kitchen. I was hungry. I just went to the kitchen.

  She hurried her steps, straining her ears to listen, but she heard nothing the whole length of the gallery. All was still. She peered around the wide doorway into the blue receiving room. At the other end of the room, one candle burned in an alcove. Was that the candle that had been lit before? Had someone moved it?

  I wanted a snack. I went to the kitchen.

  The blue receiving room was behind her. Ahead was the corner. She ran lightly up the staircase to the landing. She suddenly smelled the tipi plants from the privy closet, and she immediately hurried over to the tiny room and shut the door behind her. The high window let in the very faintest light from the torches outside the castle, enough to see familiar, broad shapes.

  I just have to make water. I am nowhere I am not supposed to be.

  She gathered her silk skirts, lowered her bloomers, sat down on the privy seat, and just breathed. She breathed until the breaths passed in and out of her without shuddering.

  Her inner thighs and her cherry felt sticky. She made water, took tipi leaves, and cleaned herself. It did not hurt at all when she made water. Poor Catherine. Why had her husband hurt her so badly? Was it because no woman had taught him how to be gentle?

  She ripped more tipi leaves from the stalk and cleaned herself again. The sleeve of Marjorie’s robe draped briefly over her thigh, and it felt sticky. When she looked, she could just make out a blotch against the pale silk, as big as the heel of her hand. Had someone left feces on the privy seat? She did not want to, but she forced herself to sniff at the blotch.

  It was not feces, but blood.

  Had someone left blood on the seat? But no, none of the girls were having moon blood right now. Was it her blood? Frantically she patted her head where she had struck it against the attic ceiling. She found no bump, no broken skin, nothing wet. Her arms and hands had no scratches. Had it come from her cherry? She tried to look at her bloomers, but there was not enough light, so she forced herself to lean close and sniff at them. They smelled like Alain, like the attic, like his seed, like sweat and lovemaking. Not like blood.

  This was not her blood.

  I left Alain there.

  He had hit his head hard. No, no, that was not i
t, it made no sense. When had she ever touched his head with her sleeve? Had his blood had gotten on the floor? She had been searching the floor for her slipper.

  Alain was bleeding. She had left him bleeding. He had been so gentle with her and she had left him unconscious and bleeding.

  He could die.

  It was not her fault. It was not her fault he had hit his head.

  He could die. I can’t let him die.

  He was not going to die. He was probably already awake and wondering what had happened. She could not go back. She could not go back. She tore more tipi leaves off the plant and scrubbed them against the bloodstain, but it just spread out even more. She tore off the robe and stuffed it down the privy hole, down into the middens. Marjorie had not worn it for months, and she would not notice it was missing until spring, and by then no one would remember when they had last seen it.

  He is not going to die.

  She had to go back to bed. Back to bed. Her bed. It was night. She should be sleeping.

  She inspected her nightgown by touch from top to bottom, but she found no blood, no stickiness, nothing but wrinkles. She scrubbed her bloomers with tipi leaves until they only smelled of the plant.

  I can’t go back.

  The door to her suite did not creak, and none of the girls in the cots moved. Then she was through her own door, and she shut it behind her, as firmly as possible without forcing it past the place where it always got stuck. She was back, she was safe. She never should have left. She never had left. That was what everyone needed to think. Her candles still burned by her bed and her fireplace was red with coals. She climbed under the covers, shivering, feeling suddenly colder than she had all night.

  For the first hour, she tossed and turned in her bed until the sheets and blankets were so twisted she had to get up to straighten them. For the next hour, she forced herself to lie flat on her back and stare up at the canopy, hoping she could sleep if she stopped trying. Then she suddenly realized that she was fingering one of her nipples, and she sat up in horror.

  God saw me.

  Her hands clenched together against her forehead. God knew that she had not meant to do it. He had to know. She had only wanted kisses, like every other girl. It did not make her depraved and evil. Did it?

  She was so cold. She went to her wardrobe and wrapped herself in her fur robe. A stray hair was stuck to her cheek, and as she pushed it away, she suddenly wondered how her face looked. Had making love changed something in her face, in her eyes? Had Alain left kiss-marks on her neck? She took all the candles to the dressing table and lit them, then held up her little mirror. She remembered that song Pamela had mentioned, with the lines that described a new bride after her wedding night: “A secret light shone in her eyes, a secret smile curved up her lips.” She thought about Alain, and to her horror, she saw herself smiling.

  No! I can’t let it show on my face! Though the candlelight was dim, she could see that she was blushing, too, and the heat that lanced through her made her shudder. I have to control it. I have to control myself. I can’t let it show.

  For all the rest of the night, she sat at her dressing table and practiced utter calm. She propped the mirror on the table so she could keep her hands politely in her lap as she let thoughts of Alain’s touch take over her mind, trying not to let those thoughts take over her face or her body. She had practiced expressions in the mirror before, and she had learned how to raise one eyebrow in surprise and curl her upper lip in disgust. As Beatris liked to say, it was all about controlling muscles that did not easily respond to cues from the mind. This time, it was all about controlling muscles that responded too easily to those cues.

  Alain’s hair was soft. Remembering the feel of it against her fingers should not make them twitch. Calm and still. Calm and still.

  Alain’s kisses were sweet. Remembering the touch of his mouth on her skin should not make her blush. Calm and still. Calm and still.

  It was like the refrain of a song. Calm and still. Calm and still.

  Alain’s blood on the sleeve of Marjorie’s robe should not make her cringe. But she not only cringed, she almost choked. He is all right. He is back in his own bed and wondering what happened. It was just a little bump.

  She took hold of herself. Calm and still. Calm and still.

  The morning came slowly, gradually brightening the edges of the shutters and curtains over her windows. Half her candles were spent by the time a single ray of light broke through a gap in the shutters and lit upon her hands lying serenely in her lap.

  Today I am a woman.

  When she heard stirring in the sitting room, she moved to her bed without hurry, laid her fur robe at its foot, and sat as if she had just slid her legs over the edge to get up. She had never been so glad that no one else slept in her bedchamber. She had had the entire night in private to prepare to face the world. A few moments later, Lise knocked softly on Tabitha’s door and came inside. Because it was not rare for Tabitha to get up before the chambermaids came to awaken her, Lise merely curtseyed without any surprise. “M’lady, did you sleep well?”

  “Yes.” Calm and still. Calm and still. Her performance began.

  Lise helped Tabitha dress in plain Godsday clothes. She visited the privy closet, and then joined her friends and Mistress Sabine at the table. Breakfast passed quietly, since there were no looming lessons to hurry them through their meal. None of the girls talked much, not even Pamela. Tabitha suspected they were nursing headaches. After breakfast, Mistress Sabine left the room to attend to something, Marjorie offered to re-braid Beatris’s hair, and Pamela convinced Jenevive to go downstairs to the garden window with her and sketch the bare trees. Tabitha brought out a cushion cover that she had started to embroider months ago but had not finished.

  As she sorted through the floss basket, she wondered where Alain was. Did he remember what they had done? If he did, was he even now asking to see Mistress Sabine, to request that she ask Marjorie if she would see him? Or was he busy with errands for Lord Daniel? Would he be very busy with errands on a Godsday?

  She was proud that the thought of him did not make her breath catch or her cheeks redden. She could even slow the race of her heart if she focused closely enough.

  Pamela and Jenevive had only been gone a short time before they came back with Mistress Sabine. “Girls?” she said in a raised voice, and Tabitha and the others looked at her. Her face was very serious. “The castellan has asked that I keep all of you upstairs today.”

  Tabitha quirked a single eyebrow, but she felt like she had broken out in a cold sweat. Beatris asked, “Why, Mistress?”

  “I can’t say just yet. Please, just continue to occupy yourselves quietly.”

  Beatris stood up. “Mistress, what happened?”

  The governess shook her head, her thin mouth set in a line. Tabitha focused on her breathing, on her heartbeat. Alain. It has to be Alain. Had the bump on his head hurt him? Or had he confessed to sleeping with Marjorie? That can’t be it. Mistress Sabine would be taking Marjorie somewhere alone to yell at her. “I can’t say just yet,” Mistress Sabine repeated. “But I will let you know more as soon as I can.” She left the room and shut the door before anyone could say anything else.

  Tabitha saw her friends exchanging glances. Calm and still. Calm and still. She would not say anything. She turned back to the floss basket and began to search through it again.

  “Did she say anything else to you?” Beatris asked Pamela and Jenevive as they took off their caps and veils.

  “No,” they chorused, and Pamela went on, “We were just sitting down when she hustled us back up here. She even shut the blue room door,” she added meaningfully.

  “I wonder what happened,” Beatris murmured. “She was obviously upset.”

  Tabitha chose a color and threaded her embroidery needle. She could hear them talking around her, but she remained calm and still. Her hands did not tremble, though she could hear her pounding heartbeat clearly in her ears.


  “ … Tabitha?”

  Beatris had said her name. Tabitha looked up. Calm and still. “Yes?”

  “You are unusually silent.” Beatris stood on the other side of the table, a frown creasing her forehead. “What do you think happened?”

  Tabitha realized that remaining calm and still was not normal in this situation. She did not need to be calm and still, she needed to be normal. “How should I know?” she snapped. It was easy to snap at Beatris. She started pulling her stitches out of the canvas, as if dissatisfied.

  “You always have an opinion.”

  Tabitha felt everyone’s eyes on her. What would I normally do? She shrugged, as if the whole thing bored her. “They probably caught a servant stealing.”

  “I don’t think that would upset Mistress Sabine so much,” Marjorie said doubtfully. She was sitting on the floor near the hearth now, her legs stretched out before her, a book closed on her lap. She seemed back to normal, relaxed and pleasant, her blonde braid over one shoulder.

  Guilt surged through Tabitha, and it took all her concentration to keep it from her face. “Maybe it was Fiem,” she suggested. Mistress Sabine had gotten Fiem a position as a chambermaid only a few months ago.

  “Fiem would not do that!” Pamela exclaimed.

  Tabitha made an involuntary noise of derision at that. It relieved her immensely that she could react so naturally.

  Eventually even Pamela stopped trying to guess what had happened, and she and Jenevive and Marjorie started playing cards at the table. Their chatter was irritating. After convincing herself that it would be normal for her to go to her own bedchamber to continue her embroidery, Tabitha did just that. She left her door open, because that would be normal too.

  Hours dragged by. Tabitha visited the privy closet again, and she assumed that all the other girls did too, drowning Marjorie’s bloodied robe bit by bit. When Lise and Fiem brought lunch, Jenevive asked them if they knew what was happening, but neither did. Jenevive and Pamela discussed going downstairs to see if they could find Mistress Sabine, but Beatris told them to not give the governess any trouble. Tabitha rolled her eyes, as she might have on any other day when Beatris insisted that they all listen to Mistress Sabine.