"Ah, the headmistress. It was her calling to help you find your way again. That was the promise she made when you were sent there, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"But you were a ruined woman and she saw a more economical use for you, didn't she?"
"She did find a way for me, in a sense," she admitted, coldly.
"That she did. But she wasn't the last, was she?"
Her eyes were open, her face hard as stone. "No."
"Do you hate them?"
"Yes."
"What if I could promise vengeance?" He finally relinquished his grip on her arms and instead slowly stroked his hands up and down. "What if I could give you justice?" One hand slipped over her shoulder and across her chest. He covered her soft, fleshy neck. "What would you give me?"
She closed her eyes, leaning into him. "Anything."
"Your life?"
His words knocked the air from her lungs. And yet, hadn't she known it would end like this? One way or another? At least he was offering her something, the one thing she never thought she could have in a million years. She began to breath again, and blinked languidly, as certainty crept over her. "Yes."
He released her, his hand sliding gracefully away from her thick neck. "Very well," he said, sounding pleased.
"When?"
He smiled as he took his seat once again and gestured to the chair across from him.
She sat down. "When?" Her voice sounded calmer that time, steadier.
"Soon. Perhaps your beau can wait, he is still relatively young, we have time. But the headmistress and your father...they have less time."
"You've seen my father?"
He leaned forward. "I've seen them all."
"Where is he?"
"Where you left him, of course."
"Of course." Why should he have moved? He wasn't a ruined woman, a disgrace. It had been she who was forced to leave, to flee the idle talk of people with too much money and too few problems. "So, when?"
"It's a two-day journey." He looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "The sooner, the better."
"Now? But—"
"You think it's not an appropriate time to begin a journey?"
"It's the middle of the night."
"It is all the better for the both of us. Besides, your father won't live forever," he added with a knowing smile.
She returned it. "And me? Do I just go back to my slum or...or...?" She couldn't bring herself to say it.
"Or do I want to take my price now?"
She nodded.
He tilted his head to the side, contemplating her. "Your life on the streets is over, Lisette. You'll stay with me, be my companion until my end of the bargain is complete. Then, you will give me what we've agreed on."
"That's...more than fair."
He finished his drink and stood. "But first, we have to see about your clothes."
"I forgot my travelling dress at home."
Ignoring her attempt at humor, he gave a sharp clap. The sound rang out through the room. The man who had let her in earlier appeared in the doorway a moment later. "Willard," Sebastian began, "Take Mistress Lisette to the guest room." He turned back to her. "Several dresses have been made for you and are waiting. Choose the one you wish to wear tonight, and the rest will be packed away on the stagecoach."
Her mouth almost fell open. "You—why are you doing this?" She stood, slowly, feeling the heat rise in her chest. "Why are you doing this all for me?"
"My dear," he said, as though speaking to a child. He took her hands in his. She shuddered at the cold that came from his perfect, porcelain skin. "Something you must understand is, what I am asking of you is no small thing. And I absolutely mean to collect."
She swallowed hard. Looking into his eyes in that moment, it was impossible to imagine him taking anyone’s life. But then she remembered how he held her, how quickly he'd grasped her by the neck and the restrained power she'd felt from him then, and she knew he was speaking the truth.
"Meanwhile," he continued. "What I am offering you is of little consequence to me. A few dresses? Travelling the country, treating you like a person instead of a whore? It costs me next to nothing."
"And killing three people?"
He smiled sadly, brushing her cheek with his finger. "Sadly, nature has not been as kind to some of us."
"It’s in your nature to kill? It doesn't bother you?"
"Does that bother you?"
They had destroyed her. All of them. Bit by bit, they had torn away pieces of her until there was nothing left. They did it without a second thought.
She would do the same. "No,” she answered. “Not them."
He looked over her shoulder and nodded to Willard. "It is time. You must prepare yourself. The train leaves in only a few hours."
Her body trembled as she followed Willard out of the room. She glanced back at Sebastian. He stood at the black window, clutching the dark red curtain in his hand.
"Ma'am?" Willard nudged her with a low baritone voice.
She tore her eyes away. "I'm coming."
Chapter Two
AS A WOMAN OF THE NIGHT, Lisette was accustomed to keeping strange hours, and apparently, so was Sebastian. He slept all day, locked away in his train compartment, with Willard guarding the door and turning her away any time she came near. The master had a rare condition, he'd told her, that made both his eyes and skin painfully sensitive to light.
It was not difficult to adjust to his way of life. She slept through the afternoons and awoke at dusk from her fine, warm bed. She slept soundly and deeply, which was a luxury she'd not been permitted in years. The constant swaying of the train did not bother her while she slept, and even though the lodgings of the train were somewhat cramped, they were still elegant, and she savored the comfort that wealth afforded. After years of sleeping on a thin, lumpy mattress, or sometimes even the ground, the bed in her compartment felt exquisite.
The mornings were hers. In those small hours between sunrise, when Sebastian departed, and when the train came alive, she was alone with her thoughts and her vices. It was in those hours she drank the most, fighting off the demons clawing at her mind and memory. It also kept the dreams away. She'd fall asleep drunk, still wearing the beautiful dresses Sebastian had commissioned in her exact size, and wake up in her nightgown, tucked safely in bed with her liquor bottles full again. Sebastian never mentioned her drinking.
“Good evening,” Lisette began, joining him in the dining car.
“Indeed.” Sebastian was writing in his book, as he was every night when she came across him. He closed it as she sat down across from him. The cover of the book was dark red and embossed with an emblem made up of intricate lines that wove in and around each other to make a rose. The lines on the outside bore thorns.
“More scribbles?” she asked.
He cocked an eyebrow. “There is always something more to scribble about.”
“What do you write in there?”
“Nothing that would interest you, Lisette.”
She doubted that very much. In fact, she was desperate to know what lay inside the mind of a man like Sebastian. What thoughts swirled around in that head and landed on those pages?
Lisette heard tittering from behind. She turned to see two young girls looking at Sebastian. They were clearly teenagers, no older than fifteen, surely, their eyes bright and full of life and possibility. And now as they giggled and stared at her companion, infatuation. It was so pure it almost hurt. God, she remembered how that look felt, how it had burned her.
She ordered a coffee and toast with marmelade and cheese. As usual, Sebastian wanted nothing. “You never eat,” she said as she sipped at her coffee.
“Of course I eat.”
“You never order anything.”
“Those are two different things. When I eat, I prefer to do so in my compartment.”
“Does Willard sneak your food in?”
“Something like that, yes.”
All thei
r conservations seemed to go the same way. She talked or asked questions and he gave vague, non-answers. Still, she enjoyed trying to wheedle information out of him. There wasn’t much else to do on a train.
The following night the train pulled into their station. As it ground to a halt, a knock came at Lisette’s door. She pushed herself to her feet, groaning at the expense. Now that she wasn't walking the streets for hours at a time, she felt all the aches and pains more. Or perhaps her body simply realized that every passing day brought her closer to imminent death. But before that day, she would have her revenge. Three times over. That was the thought that kept her going.
As expected, she found Sebastian at the door, his back to her. He turned and offered her his arm. "Are you ready?" He was as handsome as always but starting to look slightly sallow. His radiance had been growing slowly weaker as the days passed and now was gone. His lips were dry and cracked and seemed on the verge of splitting.
She nodded, taking his arm. He always walked slowly with her, as though strolling through the park, careful not to rush or give the slightest hint of impatience. As though he had all the time in the world. He was unlike any young man she'd ever known. Most of them were always in such a rush to get to living.
People on the train assumed she was his mother. Women smiled lustfully at him and sweetly, sometimes condescendingly, at her. She was too old to be a threat to any of them. Instead, she was a hopeful alliance. They charmed her and complimented her, hoping that she would pass her favor onto Sebastian. They never seemed to notice that Lisette looked at him with the same hungry gaze. How could she not? An old woman she might be, but every time he spoke to her, he seemed to awaken something youthful within, a deeply buried primal instinct she thought had died years ago.
"How do you find yourself this evening?" he asked, as he always did.
"Fine." That was perhaps the only thing she hadn't grown accustomed to, waking up refreshed and rested. Regardless of the booze she drank the morning before, she woke up every evening feeling rejuvenated. Gone were the vomit-inducing hangovers that used to plague the first hours of her day. She couldn't understand it.
However, today her usual response was only a half-truth. Her stomach felt weighted, like she'd swallowed a handful of marbles while she slept. It was an uneasy feeling that had been creeping up on her, growing stronger as the days passed, as they came closer to their destination. Here, Sebastian would make good of his side of the bargain. Here, it would begin.
"And you? Sleep well, did you?" she asked, as usual.
"Fine as ever."
"You always say the same."
"It's always true."
"Every night?"
"Every day."
"You never have bad dreams or just simply can't get comfortable?"
"I don't dream, and I'm always comfortable."
"You don't dream?"
"Never."
Lisette looked away, not knowing whether she pitied or envied him.
They stepped off the train. Sebastian went first and then turned to offer her his hand. She'd gotten used to how cold his skin was, and no longer flinched whenever they touched, but it was still disconcerting. At least, in public, he always wore gloves and covered as much of himself as possible. She assumed it was a side effect of that rare, unnamed condition he had.
They left the station, Willard walking behind with their bags, and entered a small square. As it was the dinner hour, there were few people out and about. Lisette was grateful that she didn't recognize the town much. She'd worried about the memories that might return, but it had been so long ago, and she had spent such little time there.
A cool breeze kissed her face, carrying the heavy smell of smoke and meat. She wrinkled her nose; the smell of food made the weight in her stomach heavier.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She shook her head. The mere thought of food made her stomach turn. "Let's just go."
"As my lady wishes."
He helped her into the carriage.
"How..." she started, unsure of how to continue. "How do you...how are we going to do it?"
He grinned, apparently pleased that she'd finally broken down and asked. "Simply." He leaned forward. "I have a man who will show us in. He has arranged a meeting between us."
"You already have everything prepared?"
"Of course."
She scoffed. "Of course. Like the dresses, like the train and the carriages."
"Of course."
"What do you mean by of course?” It irritated her how he seemed to know everything. He was always right and always prepared. But he didn’t know her, even if he thought he did. “I could've said no,” she said, challenging him. “I coulda stayed in Whitechapel."
"No," he said, simply. "You weren't going to stay there."
"And my dresses? How'd you know they'd all fit me?"
"I know your size," he said, as if that answered her question.
She pressed her lips together and turned to the window.
"You're anxious," he commented
She gave a humourless sniff but said nothing.
“It’s natural, you shouldn’t be ashamed.”
“Who said I was ashamed? I’m not, I’m just—I don’t like being back here.”
“You lost your power here. Your family name, your money–it didn’t help protect you from her.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to give you your power back, Lisette. That’s what we are here for.”
The carriage came to a stop. “Are you ready?”
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
THE CLOCK IN THE SCHOOL'S tallest tower struck midnight, its bells calling the hour. Prudence turned over, her back aching. The old bed wasn't what it used to be, and neither was her old back. She'd been sleeping, not soundly–she never did anymore–but the ringing had woken her. Either that or the dream she'd been having. It was always the same: she was eighteen again, just a girl, and she returned home to find a letter sitting on the table. She recognized the handwriting instantly and her heart swelled with joy.
Prudence turned to the other side, willing the memory away. Not that it made any difference. As soon as she closed her eyes, there it was again.
The letter.
She sat up in the bed as the tightly knotted muscles in her back cried out and lit the lantern on the night table. Age had turned her once delicate hands into shrivelled, gnarled claws that had difficulty performing the most menial tasks. But with practiced patience, she unlocked the drawer and removed the envelope. It had grown yellow and brittle over the years, but her stomach still fluttered at the sight of it. She ran her curled fingers over the front, over the letters forming her name.
She must have read it a thousand times, but she couldn't help but read it once more, as painful as it was. The paper crinkled as she unfolded the ancient letter.
My dearest Prudence,
I am deeply sorry for having to send you this letter. My heart breaks as I write this, imagining your sweet face having to read it. I would have preferred to speak to you in private, but my father has forbidden any more contact between us. He claims it is out of concern for my own future, but you and I both know better. He says I am to marry the daughter of Lord and Lady Duvalle. A plain-faced bore of a simpleton that I am cursed to wed simply for her station and dowry.
Prudence dropped her hands to her lap, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line. She knew what the rest said. Though she could recite the letter word for word she usually couldn’t resist torturing herself by reading it just once more. But for tonight, half torture would suffice.
Simply for her station and dowry. Her lip curled into a sneer. She'd believed that then. She'd believed for years that it had been her low social standing and non-existent dowry which had stolen Thomas from her. But she'd still been naive then. It wasn't until years later that she'd heard the rumour of how the homely Jane Duvalle had stolen Thomas' heart away from Prudence.
It was a fellow teacher at
the school who'd heard it, how Jane had seduced Thomas one night while his family was visiting hers. Thomas' father might have blamed the dowry, but it was Jane's wantonness, her desperate cunt that had actually won Thomas over. He just hadn't been man enough to admit it.
Clutching the letter, her eyes turned to the flickering light in the lantern. Not for the first time, she considered lighting it and watching it burn. But, like every other time, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It fed her too well. Over the years, she'd become almost dependent on the hate it fuelled within her. Without it, she'd have nothing.
She was about to turn off the lantern and return the room to solid darkness when a soft knock came to her door. The night around her was otherwise still and quiet. She waited a moment and it seemed there had been no knock at all and perhaps she'd just imagined it.
But the knock came again, this time louder, more insistent.
She slid cautiously from the bed. As weak as the light from the night table was, it was enough to reach the doorway. The floorboards creaked underfoot as she shuffled along towards the door. She ground her teeth together, waiting for the next impatient knock. It didn't come, but she continued gnashing her teeth all the same. Resting her weight against the brass doorknob, she took a moment to catch her breath. Whoever the young, impatient pipsqueak knocking on her door was, she would be sorry by the time she got through with her.
All right, let's see who the sorry little shit is. She braced herself on the wall, and pulled the door open, eagerly awaiting the look of fear she would see.
But the hall was empty.
At least as far as she could tell. The light from the lantern behind only dimly illuminated a small area before her door, most of which was blocked out by her own shadow. A wall of blackness stood beyond.
"Who's there?" she called, turning her head back and forth. She waited, listening carefully for the sound of giggles and whispers. Stupid little girls. She might be old, but she was still headmistress and she would have respect. Even if she had to beat it into them herself. Lighting a candle might challenge her, but Prudence could still wield a strap.
Oaths in Blood: A Gothic Novella Page 2