The Book of Shadows

by James Reese

  We stood face to face. I looked into her eyes, looked away from the wide-open wound. I could not escape its smell: a malodorous mélange of…of soil, rusted iron, and butchered meat. (Ah, there it is! I knew I’d have to describe it.) I’d seen such anguish in those eyes, but now they were soft with concern, with sorrow and longing.

  You must go, said Madeleine. Your mortal clock ticks.

  I loosed another length of linen from the golden rod, wrapped it around me. I sat on the banquette and looked at the succubus, fast fading away. She moved to trail one foot through the tub. When she bent to take up some water, I saw that she was unable to hold it: it passed through her cupped palms as though they were porous cloth. I have laid out clothes for you, she said. The choice, of course, is yours.

  “Thank you.” I rose, ready to return to the studio. “Will you be at supper?” I asked.

  Perhaps. Though Sebastiana may not allow it. Looking at the blood sluicing from the corner into the tub, seeing the slick tiles and the stained cloth with which she’d washed me, I did not need to ask why. It fades in seven hours, the blood, leaving no trace, but it is so…unsightly in the meantime. I cannot blame her.

  “Why seven hours?” I asked.

  Will that be one of your questions? I’d be grateful, as not even I know the answer to that one…. Neither does Sebastiana, though. I discerned for the first time, in the sound that was her speech, a lightness not far from laughter. But then she added: Guard your trust. There are things your Sebastiana does not know.

  “Such as?” I asked.

  Such as how to loose my bound soul into the void. Such as how to let me die, and pass from this world.

  “She has tried to do this for you? She has tried to…to help you?”

  Madeleine sighed—it was at once sad and dismissive of my question. She tried, yes; or so she says. But that was years ago, and she refuses to try again.

  “Why?”

  She is, she says, an old witch; and what is needed is the strength of a new witch…. A witch like you. But the truth is this: still she is afraid of her own self, her witchly self. She rose so fast from the tub I did not see her in motion—a watery wave through the air and a sudden chill were all I discerned; but there she stood now, across the shadowed room. Go now, said she. Go and dress.

  As I moved toward the unmarked panel through which I’d entered the bath, I heard the expiring sizzle of the sconces, and what little light there’d been seeped from the room. Thankfully, just then, the door swung open into the studio.

  I turned back to the bath. Into the darkness I called, “Madeleine?…Madeleine?” What did I intend to say? I don’t know. I only know I said nothing, for the succubus was gone. Still, I called her name once more before closing the decorated door.

  Where had she gone? Had she slipped past me, out of the bath, into the studio, away? Perhaps there was a second door? No, impossible.

  I hadn’t much time. I found the studio warm and bright: the fire blazed, more candles had been set about. (When? By whom? Questions. A surfeit of questions.)

  …I somehow composed myself and dressed for dinner.

  17

  I Dress for Dinner

  THE TALL white tapers that had been set about the studio showed no red signs of Madeleine. Neither did the lantern on the escritoire, lit now to illumine the stationery on which my questions were not yet written. I despaired: how would I ever distill so much mystery into five simple questions?

  I saw that there remained little more than a quarter hour till dinner. I had to dress. Determined to do so, and moving toward the armoires, I saw that Madeleine had indeed been in the studio. The escritoire, that tiny desk balanced on bowed and gilded legs…something about it was not right, was not as it had been. And then I remembered that the Savonnerie carpet beneath the desk had been a pale green, with a rose-and-vine motif. Had someone switched rugs for some reason, or had…No, it was the same rug all right, but blood-soaked now, its green appeared much darker. Madeleine. She’d sat there. The chair’s cushion showed it, as did the corner of the escritoire itself. Some of the stationery too was stained, by fingertips, by down-splashing droplets of blood. One sheet of stationery, folded in half, had begun to crinkle and swell, absorbing the spilled blood.

  I saw that the folded sheet was addressed to me. Across it, in a large, loopy blood-script was scrawled the single letter H. I too easily imagined a seated Madeleine, dipping her quill in the blood-fount of her throat, setting words to paper. So repulsed was I that I could not pick up the paper. I stood staring down at it for I don’t know how long. But the bell would soon sound. And I dared not set the letter aside, for hadn’t Madeleine said that the blood faded in seven hours?

  So I took it up. I read it then and there, undressed, seated at the escritoire.

  And this was wise, for the blood did fade. I’d return to the studio hours later to find that very page blank, nothing but the subtlest change of texture betraying the words I’d read, which were these: Help me, please…. I made no sense of the words, not for a long while.

  Poor Madeleine. She’d have little luck hiding anywhere, that much was clear. She’d bled a red trail from armoire to armoire. (She had indeed chosen two ensembles for me; they lay, mysteriously unstained, on the divan.) The Venetian panel, too, bore the dark print of her hand. It was a cold comfort to see that she had entered and quit the bath by common means. But how had she left without my noticing?

  The clock on the mantel ticked ever-nearer nine. The supper bell would sound, and still I stood naked in the studio. As for the five questions, I scratched out the first, and second, but soon my predicament was plain: dress now or dine naked.

  The first outfit laid across the divan was a lady’s riding habit. The label sewn into the sleeve said it was of Venetian origin. It was not new; which is not to say it was unstylish. Quite the contrary. I mean only that it was not newly sewn: it was well-worn, with a slight tear at the elbow. Otherwise, it was exquisite. Sewn of yellow-green and cerise watered silk, it bore basket buttons and braided trim. The skirt opened at the front and back, and there were drawstrings in the side seams, allowing the rider to hike her skirt higher than the mud. There was a waistcoat, of course, and an overcoat with exaggerated cuffs and lapels, both lined with pale blue linen. The shoes, I saw at a glance, would never fit, and so onto the second outfit.

  A man’s livery suit. Interesting. And my naked feet took easily to the slippers.

  What a piece of work this was! I’d long known that gentlemen, nobles and such, had dressed like this, but what wealth to dress one’s servants so!

  The coat, three-quarter length, was of forest green wool broadcloth which I deemed too heavy to wear to supper, and so left it behind in the studio; also, the waistcoat it would have obscured was magnificent. Sewn of bright yellow silk, and featuring a high-standing collar, this waistcoat was embroidered with forget-me-nots, Queen Anne’s lace, and fern fronds. Even the button covers were embroidered, with an unknown crest. The breeches were of a paler yellow broadcloth; they buttoned at the knee. Madeleine had set out a pair of downy calves: pads for slipping into the stockings to accentuate the leg. I smiled as I donned these and slipped my stockinged foot back into those slippers.

  I took a turn before the mirror. Such vanity! I thought to scold myself, but I was having too good a time. Imagine it: me, sporting something as vainglorious as a pair of downy calves and, moreover, reveling in my costumed reflection!

  And so it was the livery suit I wore to supper that first night at Ravndal. I added to it a simple blouse of white linen, with irresistibly lacy cuffs; it was to be worn with the riding outfit, but I didn’t care. Along with the overcoat, I left behind a tricornered hat. I twisted my hair into a loose braid, one that hung down over my shoulder; the blondeness shone against the yellow silk of the vest.

  My turn before the mirror—first this angle, now that—was interrupted by the second ringing of the dinner bell. “Parbleu!” I cried, sounding like a confounded character
out of Molière; but it, such grandiosity, seemed to suit…well, seemed to suit my new suit. Rather more myself, I added, “Merde!” For still I had three questions to write. What’s more, I’d no idea where the dining room was; and, if Ravndal were half as vast as it had appeared from the roseraie, the search would be lengthy.

  I had just finished folding the fifth sheet and was about to slip it, along with the others, into my vest when the dinner bell sounded a third time. Madeleine had said there’d not be a third ringing of the bell. But there it was, rather insistent. I hoped the bell would sound a fourth, a fifth time so that I might follow its resonance to the dining room.

  As it happened, finding my way to the dining room was simple; finding my way out of the studio, however, was not. The only doors I saw were those that gave out onto the garden…. I deduced the following: if the Turkish bath lay behind the Venetian mural, surely another panel secreted a door from the studio. Vainly, I pushed on every painted scene, waiting for a wall, praying for a panel to spring back or slide away.

  Then I saw a tapestry. A classical scene I did not recognize hung in three thin panels, the outer two of which were cut to accommodate wall sconces. The middle panel moved suspiciously. A draft? Indeed. Behind it I discovered an open door. Thankfully, signifying torches had been lit and set high in their wrought-iron holders; otherwise, I might have wandered those dark halls of Ravndal till dawn. Those sticks, wrapped at their tips with sulfur-soaked rags, had only recently begun to burn: their acrid smoke still hung in the air. They rose at angles from the stony wall to my left. A chilling draft toyed with the torches’ light, and the flames flickered. To the right, the hallway disappeared into darkness. Yes, I remember well that first darkness and bone-deep cold. I wanted to retreat to the warmth and candlelight of the studio, not make my way along those corridors seemingly carved from earth and ice.

  I walked on, spurred by the promise of answers. The only sound was that of my slippers on the smooth stone floor. The light of the lantern was feeble, and the torches threw shadows all about me; several times I stopped, wheeled around, certain I was not alone, but all the beings I “saw” were but creatures of darkness and light, easily vanquished. Still, at every step I expected some specter, some undead thing to rush me. Ravndal might well be crowded with…with what? With things inexplicable.

  Just then there came a high-pitched, hollow cry to still my steps. An owl, so near it must be within the house. Again. This was not the plaintive interrogative of a child’s imitation; no, this was a throaty and murderous screech, scratching and clawing its way through the manor. The owl’s cry was soon answered by a frightful chorus of raven-cry, a sound which, once heard, is never forgotten. These black birds with their blacker cries were nearer even than the owl. Surely they were within the so aptly named Ravndal! Of that I was certain; and so I walked on, bent low, watching and waiting for those shadows, which surely would come alive, to swoop down and strike me.

  I passed several arched windows cut into the stone; there were no panes of glass to impede any bird’s progress. Anything’s progress, for that matter; for who knew what passed in and out of Ravndal, and by what means? The views from these arched windows were of open fields. Above, there hung the bladed moon, which gave its light charily, and so I could not see if these fields were cultivated, fenced for grazing, or put to any purpose at all.

  Of course, I’d assumed it had been Madeleine who’d lit my way along those serpentine halls. I knew it had been she only when my slipper slid in a slickness spread upon the floor. A blood puddle…. Yes, the fire-lit path had been another favor from Madeleine. Strange, that she who’d at first seemed uncaring, even cruel, offering up her curt commentary and bedeviling Sister Claire…strange that she was now a protector of sorts. I wondered, had she watched jealously from the shadowed depths as Father Louis had lavished his attentions on me? Certainly she’d loved the priest in life; why should death—if death was indeed the state in which those two lived—why should death upset the balance of love?

  Huge doors of slab oak with hammered iron hinges broke the walls at irregular intervals. I dared not try one. Somehow I’d know the dining hall when I arrived at it. Between these doors were hung tapestries and paintings. Typically, I’d have held the lantern high to inspect some of the art, but not that night. No. Doubtless I feared another strange discovery. Another threadbare saint bleeding upon a sewn landscape, or a portrait whose subject would speak or whose eyes would shift. No. I would wait for the safer-seeming light of day to see any more of the manor. Quite enough now to simply find the dining room.

  First came the aroma: roasted meats, spiced sauces. Then the clear tinkling of silver and crystal…. There. Before me. The double doors behind which sat—I was sure of it—the dining room. Seeing no lit flambeaux extending in either direction, I grew more certain. Still, I stood listening at the thick oak. I had barely taken hold of the icy iron latch when the doors suddenly, smoothly, soundlessly opened inward, pulling me into the room, sweeping me in to see—

  To see nothing. Only light. Blinding, disorienting light. And there I stood. Dressed in the suit of a manservant, sightless, on the threshold of the dining room. I could not see, but I sensed, knew that I was seen. Was being stared at.

  No wonder I’d been blinded: hanging above the dining table was a vast, multibranched chandelier of Bohemian crystal set with white candles. It was an intricate, elaborate piece, with pendants and rods and a complicated system of stems; white wax spread over its faceted angles. As for the table, a solid slab of red-veined marble, it spread in either direction—it’d take a tall man twenty, twenty-five paces to walk its length—and I saw Sebastiana away to my right, Asmodei to my left. It was they who stared.

  “Welcome,” said Sebastiana, rising, gesturing to a third, empty seat, at the center of the table on its far side, just under that crystalline sun. I took two steps in Asmodei’s direction and stopped, turning to round the table at Sebastiana’s end. It was a long walk, and all the while nothing was said.

  When finally I arrived at my seat, I said “Thank you.” I had no idea just who I was thanking, or what I might be thanking them for. But what else was I to say? Life among the nuns had rendered me polite, at least. In truth, I was relieved to hear myself speak, for speech seemed an impossibility just then. The chair was throne-like, high-backed and heavy, each thick wooden arm carved down to a bird’s beak at its end; covered in worn velvet—crimson—it was comfortable. Sitting, I said again, “Thank you.” This drew Asmodei’s rattling laughter. I sat straight-backed, and looked to Sebastiana, who said:

  “You are an honored guest, and most welcome.”

  I remember raising my unsteady hand to the five questions, tucked into the inner pocket of my waistcoat. I patted them as a lover pats a fluttering heart. Indeed, through that thick embroidered silk, through those five folded sheets of paper, it seemed I could feel the quickened beat of my heart.

  I sought something to say. My hosts sat silently at my left and right, far enough away that I’d have to practically shout. I did not want to hear Asmodei’s grating laughter again; I would do nothing, say nothing to elicit that, for its effect on me was visceral, like a bee-sting or a slap, or the rush of desire.

  So what did I do? One small thing, the telling of which embarrasses me now. I took up a fork, heavy as a hammer, and sat staring at it. It shook in my hand. The chandelier’s light tangled in its three silver tines.

  “Are you hungry, dear heart?” Sebastiana was smiling.

  “Or have you never seen a fork before?” With that, Asmodei leaned forward so that his white-blond hair framed his face, his eyes sharp and cold. He went on: “If it’s me you fear, arrête. I’ve been told I cannot have you. Of course, that does not mean I will not take you.” His icy eyes held me fast; when he finally sat back, satisfied, I fought the urge to flee, to run from the room and never—

  “Asmo, really! You are an absolute boor! Insufferable!” And turning to me, Sebastiana apologized: “You’l
l forgive him, heart. I’m afraid he’s quite out of the habit of company.”

  I smiled, politely; still, I was disturbed. I would settle myself by focusing on what was before me. I set the fork down beside its three companions at my left (twelve pieces of silver in all, among them a tiny pair of scissors; this last utensil puzzled me). I looked down into the white china bowl set atop a plate. I tried to lose myself in its pattern—a tangle of thorny black vines winding up and over and along the lip of the bowl, then back to its center, where there bloomed, in exquisite hand-painted detail, a red rose.

  One of the smaller crystal goblets was full of something. Something deeply dark, purplish. Wine, presumably. I willed my hand to still itself. I wanted that wine badly, and hoped it was more of the magical vinum sabbati. I wanted to drink and drink and drink, drain that tiny vessel then and there. When I knew that I could hold the glass without spilling its contents, I drank the whole of it down, inelegantly, sloppily. And I was quite conspicuously casting an eye about for a decanter, a bottle, when I heard Sebastiana speaking; she was mid sentence, saying something about my suit.

  “…but I wonder: whatever made you choose it? Of course, it looks wonderful on you. It’s quite complimentary, but still…”

  I waited for some witty, inspired remark and, for once, one arrived on cue. “I thought it appropriate to come among you in servants’ dress. I owe you all,” and here I dared to look down at Asmodei; I even made a quick and vague gesture meant to encompass our undead friends, wherever they were. “I owe you all a debt of gratitude, one I pray I will somehow be able to repay.”

  “Well, bravo!” Asmodei raised an empty glass in mock salute. “Or should I say, brava!…Fear not, witch, you will repay the favor.”

  Exactly what Asmodei meant, I’d no idea. But it was clear he’d betrayed a confidence, or at least spoken out of turn, for Sebastiana interrupted him by slapping her hand on the table. Too, she shot a look like a poisoned dart down the length of the table. Asmodei said nothing further.