Plenilune

by Jennifer Freitag

  “Determinas loco—” she whispered “—come home to me! Determinas loco—far from the sea! O hunter, come home from the hill!”

  She was hit in the chest by the boom of a drum-wind. Lookinglass tore away behind her. Somehow she kept her feet. Somehow, fists clenched, teeth ground, eyes tight shut against the shriek and roar of the fabric of everything, she stood her ground until the ground stood still. The wind stopped. The roar died to a soft summery calm. Opening her eyes she found herself looking up at the grim, stalwart front doors of Marenové House.

  The great doors were imposing and uninviting, especially under the pallid glow of earth-light. Shadows huge and full of form stood guard on either side, their curves and jagged edges made of a kind of otherworldly iron. Margaret felt the blades of them slide across her skin as she mounted the steps and stood small under those doors. But she did not hesitate. If anything, the long empty lawn and lane behind her made her feel more naked than those doors. She pressed down the latch, surprised and relieved to find that it had not been bolted for the night, and she slipped out of sight into the vaulted entryway.

  It was dark inside, and had an almost deserted air. She felt at once that something hung over the place. Around a corner, within the dining room, she thought she could see a single light. On the ground floor no light nor form stirred. She stood alone by the doors, her breath loud in the silence.

  A latch clicked. She jerked her head around to see Rupert’s big black man Livy step out of the north wing of the house. He saw her upon the instant and he, too, froze, his white eyes uncannily gold in the light of the candle he carried.

  She was the first to make a move. “Good evening, Livy,” she said coolly.

  “Lady Margaret,” he replied in a wary tone. Somehow he shifted the candle so that his eyes were lost in the shadows thrust up by his cheekbones, but she could feel him searching her, noting her travelling attire.

  “Livy, is your master at home?”

  His eyes sprang out again. She hated how wide and white they were. “Ye-es,” he said slowly. Then he shifted toward the stairs. “He is upstairs in the astrolabe chamber. Come—I’ll put you through.”

  Margaret stepped up after him. After the spell she knew she ought to have been bone-weary, but if her bones had been cast of spring steel she could not have felt lighter. She swept after the manservant; her skirts filled the quiet—for Livy’s feet made no noise—with an urgent rustle. Against the steel cage of her ribs her heart jostled and thumped.

  From the first floor landing they took an immediate left into a long wood-floored corridor of the north wing. At the end of it they began mounting a long spiralling staircase, and Margaret knew they were going up to the curious tower that presided over the whole length of the house as a watchtower over a garrison. The foreign, forbidden chamber to which she climbed did not help to calm the shaking in her breast, and she was glad for the thickness of her coat lest the movement be visible. She would have reached into her own chest and crushed her heart to stillness if she could.

  There was a single door at the head of the stair, shut and barred with hinges of iron scroll-work. A wide beam of saffron light leaked out beneath the door and brushed up the front of Margaret’s gown.

  Livy knocked. “Sir,” he called, fetching a glance over his shoulder at Margaret. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  There was a long pause behind the door, then, muffled through the wood, came Rupert’s weary voice: “Show him through.”

  The old latch squealed in protest as the manservant opened the door for her. The light of dozens of candles dazzled her vision. She stepped through into a profound sense of thick darkness that was not the darkness of mere shadows. She heard the door shut and latch to behind her.

  It was a wide octagonal chamber that she stood in, rather larger than she had expected, but cluttered profusely with tables, chairs, bookcases, candelabras, cabinets, and countless smaller objects that she did not have leisure to observe. In the centre of the room stood the largest of the tables, a great pale oak thing with dragons for legs, and by it stood Rupert—Rupert, who stared back at her like a stag caught on a woodshore scene, staring as if he were looking at a ghost.

  “Good evening, Rupert.”

  Her words fell from a great height, dissipating into the silence.

  He stirred at last, slowly, as if afraid his movement might cause her to vanish. “Fiends of Hell,” he murmured, and he took a hesitant step closer. “Margaret.”

  She laughed airily. “You once chastised Skander Rime for pressuring you into entertaining here at Marenové. I can see why you were so reluctant.”

  The old spark flashed into his face. “You come upon a man in the dead of night like a vision, and expect a cool reply? You might let a man collect his wits once you have dashed them out of his hands.” Then, after he had fallen quiet, he began again in a quieter tone, “Am I to believe you…have come back?”

  “You are to believe it.”

  All the while Rupert had been bent a little over the table, supporting himself on his splayed fingers. Now he seemed to come alive again and he pulled away, coming upright. The darkness seemed to thin a little. She had never seen his pale eyes so softened, nor, strangely, so afraid. He was still expecting her to vanish. Suddenly he laughed, softly, self-deprecatingly.

  “I’ve had this dream before,” he said. “But even if it is just a dream, I’ll follow through with it. It is pleasant enough while it lasts.”

  Margaret cracked a smile. “Well, I’m not a dream.”

  At that moment the clock chimed its introductory tune, high and gaily, and then struck off the time: it was an hour and a half past midnight. A momentary wave of weariness broke over her, but ebbed away at once. At the last chime Rupert pulled his eyes away to look at the face of the clock, and he seemed to hear the time as the echoes died away into the stony distance below them. “One-thirty.”

  “A batty time of night,” said Margaret encouragingly. “You look tired.”

  “Not at all.” He left the table and came to her, hand outstretched, a smile on his face. Their smiles, she thought; their smiles are the same. “You will want to freshen up. Would you like a drink?”

  “I was hoping you would ask.” They turned and ducked through the little doorway again and began to descend the stairs. It was like walking down the throat of some animal. Rupert went ahead so as not to tread on Margaret’s skirts. “You have a bottle of pinot noir—”

  “The bottle from Thrasymene?” His tone was incredulous. “That is a one-of-a-kind.”

  “All the better to open it now,” purred Margaret.

  They passed through the long wooden corridor and paused at the head of the stairs. Rupert turned, folding up her hand in his own. In the uncertain earth-light that filtered through the glass-domed top of the atrium his face was pale, but sharply featured, and she could see him clearly. “An extraordinary wine for an extraordinary woman. There is not a more appropriate bottle in my cellars.”

  “I’ll fetch the wine and glasses.”

  Wordlessly he leaned over, through a shaft of light, and kissed her, warm and slowly and searchingly, as if to assure himself that it was not just a dream that was about to vanish. One hand closed over her forearm; she felt the other grip her above the thighs. She had his upper arms in her own hands, and even through the sleeves of the tunic she could feel the powerful muscles clenching and relaxing like the sinews of a racehorse. They sent wild shivers playing up and down her spine.

  He let her go reluctantly, wordlessly, and backstepped a few paces along the hallway, pulling his eyes from her with some effort. She listened to his fading footsteps and stood for some time at the head of the stairs, alone, a small shaking going all through her body. Then with a deep, harsh breath she turned and descended the stairs for the dining room.

  There was a candelabra set up in the dining room and all its five candles were lit, burning down at regular intervals as a way to mark off the passing of time. The glas
s front of the drinks cabinet, the glass panes of the windows and pictures, caught the light and cast it back, filling the room with a warm subtle glow. She moved through the familiar yellow, smoky air, feeling as one in a dream, each footstep put to the tune of a heartbeat. She opened up the drinks cabinet, but the cold bodies of the bottles and glasses arrayed on their long narrow shelves could not quench the warm cast that flushed her skin.

  The Thrasymene pinot noir, encased in its flame-red bottle, was a creature of dark foreboding: velvet, rich: if she could only strain her ears enough, she imagined she might hear the low cat-hum of it. She set the bottle down on the board and put her hand into her pocket, feeling for what she had stashed there.

  “Rupert,” she called into the entryway. “Rupert, which sort of glass did you want?”

  Her fingers found the knob of a drawer. Sliding it open, she fished out the syringe meant for soda.

  It took a moment for the voice to filter back down to her. “The burgundy glasses will do. You will find them behind the port—tall with the wide bowl.”

  Her fingernails nearly breaking, she unstopped the little can and bent, hand iron-firm, to fill the syringe. With the sense of plunging a knife into herself, she pushed the syringe through the cork of the bottle, depressed it, and removed it, smoothing the cork back into place.

  She searched the shelves and found glasses. With her fingers through their stems she lifted two off, retrieved a whale-tusk corkscrew from a drawer, and returned to the entryway with the precious bottle tucked firmly under one arm. It took some fighting to climb the stairs with her hands so occupied. Her feet fought her hem grimly, but she made it to the top without tripping.

  Rupert met her at the doorway of his chamber and took the articles from her. He had changed. He had stood up in his astrolabe chamber in trousers of corduroy and a thick tunic the colour of the pinot noir itself, but now he stood up in black trousers and a simple white shirt, the collar of which had been carelessly left undone. She noted it but did not look at it.

  “I’ll pour out the wine,” he said. “Don’t be too long.”

  He moved, but she coyly avoided him, shooting him such a smile that turned his brows rampant. She almost expected him to snatch her back around, but if he had wanted to his hands were full, so he let her go, and she toyed with him by sweeping off and not looking back, even as she passed into her old room and shut the door after her.

  It was dark within. Someone, most likely by Rupert’s order, had lit a candle or two within the washroom, but all else was drenched in darkness, lit only in the most metallic places with the thin yellow light that worked through the sky and through the heavy curtains. She moved through the velvet dark like a ghost, shrugging off her jacket and working the buttons of her skirt as she did so. She had some surface understanding that the room, so long deserted, was cold as ashes, but she could not feel the cold for the burning in her skin. She entered the washroom and tossed down her rumpled clothing with pointed carelessness, and plunged at once into the long closet.

  The cold began to fight with the warmth as she stood before the long racks of articles, fingers pressed against her thighs, her right leg jigging slightly with faint irritation as her eyes roved over the clothes. Colours vivid and muted, pastel and dark, white and black, silver and gold, jostled against her vision. But there was an extraordinary wine in a wine-glass waiting for her, this was an extraordinary night at one-thirty in the morning, and they needed an extraordinary gown.

  She stepped up to the rack as one might step up to one’s dance partner, and took down with deliberation a long gown of fierce, rich purple velvet. It was simple—not like the heavy, sky-like thing that Romage had given her—stitched of pure midsummer’s night, and she ran it through her fingers with satisfaction. It was perfect. It was tailored for this night.

  She laid it down on the vanity chair and callously pushed the hot handle of the faucet, opening up the water until it roared through the pipes. The sweet scent of hot water filled the room.

  She got into the tub as it filled with water and leaned her head back against the rim. She watched the candlelight play in watery shivers on the ceiling; if she looked down, she could see the thumping of her heart. Mechanically, after a few minutes, she picked up the container of soap, scooped out a handful, and began rubbing it over herself. The memories of nearly a year ago splintered through the thin partitioning dark, vivid under her mind’s eye, full of the scent of that soap, the sight of the billowing steam. She rinsed, feeling as if she were a dream—

  —A dream shattered, suddenly, by the quick gasp of fury from the doorway.

  Margaret looked up like a raven on the battlefield, teeth bared, heart set against life. Rhea hung with one hand on the doorframe, the other hand clenched into a fist, the light of murder in her eyes.

  With a rush and cascade of water Margaret lunged to her feet and sprang out onto the rug. At the same moment Rhea came forward, feet planted firmly—she seemed to know her business—hand pulled back for the blow. But the maid, canny and small as she was, had not reckoned on the sheer iron hardness of Margaret’s resolve. Like dead Brand’s war-hammer she caught Rhea’s wrist in one hand and slammed the other into Rhea’s face. Bone broke—she felt it go, shocking away upward into the spaces where no bone belonged. With her left hand she grasped Rhea’s hair, yanking her head down; with a jerk she brought her right elbow down onto the bared neck and felt the sickening wave of exaltation as it broke and the body sagged limp at her feet.

  So much for the bath. Reaching for her towel, Margaret stepped over the body and stood before the mirror, insensibly watching the eyes of her reflection as she dried off.

  How quiet the house was.

  31 | The Red Queen

  Dried, she flung the towel over Rhea’s body and plunged forcibly into her gown. It was a tight fit, but then she had wanted it to be. She wrenched first one arm and then the other into the sleeves and fought with the décolletage until the cold night air played on her breasts and in the opening at the back between her shoulders. Despite the chill, it looked well. The velvet took the light and seemed to come aflame with it: lines of fire-orange encased her breasts and hips and fanned with the train behind her. She turned and turned, and bit her bottom lip to crush a smile.

  It is just as well that I am so tall. Now, Helen: we will see which of us stands better in history for the fame of our beauty.

  Two steps forward, she peered strongly into the mirror, fetching a look over her skin. The summer had brought out several fine freckles on her cheeks and chest, and the open wind had teased a glorious lustre into her hair. If she had not been quite pretty before, the high wilds of Plenilune had infused into her a goddess-light that shone out now.

  She left Rhea dead on the bath-mat and went to join Rupert in his room. She knocked for the sake of the thing and let herself in.

  She had never been in his room before. It was shaped not unlike hers, but more cluttered, with every inch of the walls taken up by full bookcases, and the floors covered in rugs and sofas, tables, and, in one place, a large globe of Plenilune that she seemed to take in more clearly than anything else. The lamps had been lit; on a low sheeny wood table before Rupert’s couch, a little plate of black stone lay, and across it smoked two sticks of scented wood.

  He rose, setting down the bottle which he had just been using to fill the glasses. He looked at her for a long time, taken but quizzical. “How insensible life is,” he murmured, “and all the people in it, that one mistakes it for a dream sometimes.”

  “Do you still?” she asked.

  The hard laughter glinted in his eye. “I am standing here, wondering if this be an ivory dream or a dream of horn.”

  “If you put out your hand and touch it, it may or may not vanish, and then you will know.”

  He sucked in a half-laughing, uneasy breath. “I do not know if I want to risk it.” His voice hardened. “Come—come here.”

  She went of her own accord and sat beside him, falling ba
ck into the deep embraces of the couch. He, too, leaned back, sliding his arms around her and settling his chin on her shoulder so that, whenever he breathed out, she felt the heat of it on her neck.

  “What were you doing,” she asked mockingly, “in the cloud-capped tower of yours?”

  “We have fair weather at present,” he protested. And just as mockingly went on: “I was summoning the dark powers and principalities of the air. They are great friends of mine.”

  “Sooth?” She shifted and the hem of her neckline shifted a fraction too. “Do they have names?”

  He sat up, frowning—but she saw the want for a smile lingering behind his eyes. “You do not believe me, you little heathen.”

  “No, no, no!” she cried pacifically. “Of course I believe you. They were all standing about your door when I went up to you. I wonder they were not a little angry that I got in and they didn’t. I rather jumped the line, didn’t I…?”

  He sank back on one elbow and, twisting, swept the glasses into his hand. “They can wait. They, too, are time-bound as we are, but they have less enjoyment out of life than we do.”

  Margaret took her glass. It was cold and had sweat a little. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Not that I know anything about them, but I wonder if they don’t enjoy life more fully than human beings. They have no obstructing conscience.”

  His teeth flashed like the sword of the conqueror. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  The glasses clinked softly against each other. Margaret slid the blood-red liquid across her tongue and reflected that, beneath the taste of that other thing, it was a really good wine indeed.

  Rupert drained his glass and set it on the table, then lay back again beside her, head pillowed on his arm, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips. She was propped up on one elbow; his hand, questing, found a length of her hair and began to twirl it round one finger.

  Pipe to the old macabre dance—

  The eyes which had softened to a mother-of-pearl colour, watching the movement of his fingers, unfocused sleepily—the fingertips brushed her skin—then, without warning, the steel came back into them and he jerked upward to his feet, took two steps forward, and turned back on her, fixing her with cold, disbelieving rage.