“Do you think I can throw this in that basket?”
She blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?” she said.
I repeated the question. She eyes me suspiciously, clearly thinking I was playing some trick. “Of course not,” she finally replied.
I smiled at her, and then I took a moment to eye the target, before tossing the rock. It landed with a smack in the basket, shaking it but staying put.
“Do you think I can do it ten times?”
Her eyes bulged.
I laughed. “Bring it back to me, please,” I instructed. “You will see.”
She did and I threw it again. Once more, my aim was perfect.
“Again.”
By the seventh time, she was looking at me as if I were some supernatural being myself. “I have seen him,” I told her as she gaped at me. I tossed the rock, barely looking now, for I had the feel of it. “I know what he is. I have done battle with his kind before, and won.”
“I . . . what . . . how?”
I smiled at her, holding up the rock. “I could take out a spider at the other end of the room. I could toss this out the window and pinch a twig off one of the trees in the stand over near the stables. That is not my only talent, but I hope it will be enough to prove to you that I am capable. I can deal with this thing that is happening to you, to all the girls. You have but to trust me. I want you to tell me—promise me—if anything, anything happens that makes you feel in danger. Come to my room at any time of the night, find me in the school at any time of the day. Now, I am going to give you something, and you must promise me you will wear it.”
I took the cross from around my neck. I would replace it as soon as possible, but for now I wanted Eustacia protected. She gazed at the tiny figure of the crucified Christ, frowning.
“There are strange things happening here at the school,” I said to her. “Put that on, wear it always. It is made of silver, which is important. And its power is not only in the carved figure but in the blessing over it.”
She placed it over her head solemnly, then looked at me with such a forlorn expression my heart wrenched. “What about the others?”
“I will attempt to do the same for them. But I do not trust them with what I just showed you, about my . . . abilities.”
“Why do you trust me, then?”
“Because, darling,” I said gently, reaching out to take her hand, “you see things differently. And I know something of what it is to be the one who does not quite belong but longs so desperately to be part of a world you admire. Take my word for it, Eustacia, there are worse things than being clever. It might mean some will not like you for it, but then, you will find their regard never quite makes up for giving yourself away.”
Eustacia smiled tremulously. “Thank you, Mrs. Andrews.”
“Remember your promise. Any time, you must let me know if there is a change, any change.”
So we struck our bargain, and I retired to my room. I had not even had a moment to unpack. I cannot say I was eager to do so. I was half-afraid that at any moment, I would hear the haunting tremor of Ruthven’s voice, feel his disgusting touch. But somehow, I did not think he would trouble me. I had repelled him successfully on his previous attempts. And he was distracted now by his coven of worshipers. It was they who were in danger.
Or maybe he was simply biding his time.
When I saw the dead orchid, I was even more depressed. I had never even thought of its care when I’d left it behind. But the reminder of Suddington sparked a new idea that reenergized me. I scratched off a message and placed it in the post on my way to dinner that night, asking him if I might make use of his library this Sunday. I had in mind to do some research into the local history.
I meant to uncover the true identity of the vampire, Ruthven.
Being in Suddington’s library was like coming home. I could have languished the day away with Shakespeare and Marlowe. I smiled, recalling how Suddington had flattered me with words from Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus: “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships . . .” It was meant as a compliment, although it was a bit ghoulish, for it was a line spoken by Faustus regarding Helen of Troy when Mephistopheles had summoned her to tempt the poor doctor into agreeing to bargain away his soul.
I went to the section Suddington had indicated held the local history, and was immediately absorbed in research. As I pulled book after book off the shelves, I saw a fascinating pattern begin to unfold. When the sound of Suddington’s arrival broke me out of my reverie, I was astonished to find that four hours had gone by. Standing, I winced at the protest from my stiff joints. He, however, swept into the room with his usual grace.
“Hah! I knew I would find you thus. You are hopelessly predictable, Mrs. Andrews, as are all those who love books.” He looked at one of the volumes I’d collected about me and frowned. “Local history? I thought you would be nose-deep in Spencer, or Dryden, or Pope. Or Marlowe. You know I think of Marlowe every time I see you.”
“You have made that quite apparent,” I replied, laughing.
He grinned playfully. “Ah, so I have. Well, then, are you searching for something particular?”
“Actually, I found a few interesting things,” I said.
“Excellent. Are you ready for tea?” Before I could reply, he was already on his way to summon the servants. “I know it is late, but I have a sweet tooth and my cook makes the most delicious cakes. Oh, and have you noticed something different in the room?”
“You removed the tapestry,” I replied, following his line of sight.
“That I did. The thing disgusted me once I realized what it was. And I did not want it to frighten you.”
“I hope that was not the reason. If so, it was quite unnecessary. That tapestry was your family history; you should not feel compelled to hide it away.”
He smiled at me, as if indulging a child. “Don’t you know, Mrs. Andrews, that history can prove dangerous?”
It was a strange thing to say and I had no response as I mulled over its meaning. Tea arrived shortly, and we sat together. I was hungrier than I had thought, and we ate a hearty meal.
“So tell me what it is you have found,” he inquired.
I hesitated, instinctively secretive, then thought, Why not? I had no reason not to speak openly with him. “I was looking for information on a gentleman who might have lived in the sixteenth century, and I did find someone.”
“Really? Was he an ancestor of mine?”
“I do not know. His name was George Smythe. He lived at Kingsvale Grange.”
“Ah, that is Glorianna’s line. The Smythe became Smith at some point, and I suppose they ran out of male heirs and bargained for a hyphenated name. Although with a name like Smith you would not think they would have bothered.”
The news of the relation between Miss Sloane-Smith and George Smythe stunned me. In light of the information I’d uncovered in Suddington’s library, I thought it likely that George Smythe was the origin of the Cyprian Queen, at least the legend. I suspected it could be Smythe, or someone connected to him—perhaps a relative—that later became the vampire whom I now knew as Ruthven and who masqueraded under the hypnotic guise of the Cyprian Queen. It struck me as a suspiciously close association, but one I did not know what to make of.
Suddington was still speaking of the family. “. . . Plenty enough of them around. Well, I do know Kingsvale used to belong to her people, before the Commonwealth.”
I could barely contain myself. I knew from my archive research that vampires often surfaced in their own families through subsequent generations, posing as one of them whenever they wanted to disguise themselves as human. All they had to do was feed from a suitable member of the family. That person’s blood gave them the ability to take on their appearance.
“He must have been quite a horrible fellow,” Suddington was saying, “if he was tried for murder. That was a time when nobles were a law unto themselves. They were rarely brought to justice, and almost never if the v
ictims were commoners. What did he do?”
“I found a journal written by a mother whose daughter went missing. It appears she was found to have been one of the many who were . . .” I flushed with discomfort. It was not easy to speak about how the young women of the area had been violated sexually. “Harmed,” I said significantly, “and then murdered. Many, many young girls were lost.”
The weight of this tightened a knot in my chest. We were silent for a moment.
“What a terrible monster,” he said with fervor. “However did they catch him?”
“In the beginning, no one had any idea who could be perpetrating the crimes, but over time he grew careless, almost taunting the authorities with his bold kidnapping and placing the bodies out in the open to be discovered in a ghastly manner.”
Suddington soberly contemplated the scope of these atrocities. “The haughty devil probably thought he would be held above reproach.”
I did not concur. “It actually seemed he grew more frenetic, and his judgment failed him. I suspect with each murder, he felt the thing he was seeking, this . . . compulsion that drove him to do such horrible things—perhaps this kept eluding him and he began to come undone.”
A look came into Suddington’s eye. “Really? That is an odd theory.” He half-smiled, and I feared my bloodthirsty interest in so sordid a tale must have taken him by surprise. “So what happened to the fellow? How did they catch him in the end?”
“His guilt became apparent when he left the area and the murders ceased, only to resume upon his return. Once the townsfolk suspected him, they found ample evidence. As I said, he was quite demented at that time.” I consulted my notes. “He was hung at the crossroads leading out of the village to the south.” This suddenly struck me as odd. Crossroads had strong significance in the legends surrounding conjuring demons. Had there been suspicion of witchcraft?
“Fascinating. But what, Mrs. Andrews, has captured your interest in this macabre tale?”
I was on thin ground here, for it was impossible to tell him that I was searching for the origins of a sexually predatory vampire. I sought to change the subject. “You once promised me you would show me your orchid house. Is there enough daylight to do so now?”
My diversion achieved its aim, and he leaped to his feet enthusiastically. “Of course. In the dramatic light of late afternoon, the colors of the plants seem to glow. It will be a spectacular presentation.”
He fairly pulled me through the conservatory to a smaller greenhouse filled with tables upon which were placed pots of flowers. The sultry air heated my skin as I moved among the weird, elongated stalks. Atop each of these were unique blooms, so widely varied in texture, shape, and hue that it was amazing they were of the same species.
Suddington paused at a cluster of white blossoms, strangely wrought among narrow leaves, each with a scooping bottom and narrower splayed petals of a most delicate construction.
“Phragmipedium reticulatum,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. “Breathtaking. And here is the cheeky Phalaenopsis schilleriana.” He indicated a more conventional flower in shades of pink and rose. The leaves were flat, broad, and white-veined. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” he mused, and then moved on.
I found myself overwhelmed as I viewed the collection. From the lovely to the grotesque, the orchid petals boldly displayed suggestive shapes. There were delicately feminine unfurling petals, unabashedly displaying a nub of hooded stamens that made my skin so red and hot I felt scalded. Others were masculine, bulbous shapes appearing shockingly fertile among conceits of brightly colored plumage.
“You of course see the vein of sensuality in the plant.” He glanced at me apologetically. “Pardon my frankness, but it is difficult to ignore.”
“Yes,” I agreed nervously.
“The orchid’s name is from the Greek legend of Orchis, who was the son of a nymph and a satyr. He proved to be an alarming combination of beauty and sexual aggression. There is a great deal of mythology that attributes the ability of the plant to inspire some rather unsavory acts.”
I tried to laugh, but I was too uncomfortable. It was too hot in here. Suddington had explained earlier that the heat and humidity were maintained by large furnaces underground, which kept a steady supply of steam coming up through ornate vents laid into the floor. Right now, however, it felt as if we were sitting on top of a volcano about to erupt.
“An interesting defense,” I said, trying to shed some of my discomfort with humor. “Blame it on the flowers?”
“Ah, but not just flowers. Orchids. Mystical and noble flora. They embody not only life—which you see represented by its shocking appearance—but death as well. In Bohemia, certain orchids are known as the ‘hand of death.’ ”
I stopped. “What is this one?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. The flower in question was quite horrible. Spotted petals folded around the core so that it resembled an angry face topped with spiny leaves. From its maw extended long, black spindles so that it looked like some insect of prey with grasping tentacles, crouched and ready to strike.
“Ah. That is the dracula chimaera. Very exotic, and rare. Its beauty is not always appreciated.”
I could not reply for a moment, for the combination of the sight of the thing and the name struck me dumb. Foreboding throbbed, dull and distant in the back of my mind.
“I see it speaks to you,” Suddington said, mistaking my silence for appreciating. “It usually repulses most. But it is a very special orchid. Some would say a lord among the rest.”
I struggled for the right words. All I could come up with was to murmur, “It is quite unusual.”
“You are a skilled diplomat. You know, it is one of my particular favorites, perhaps because it is often so misunderstood.” He suddenly grabbed the pot and held it out to me. “You must take it. Yes, go ahead. Take it as a companion to the other I gave you.”
“I cannot,” I protested, recoiling from the thing.
“Indeed, I insist. What is beauty, if not shared?”
I stared dubiously at the orchid. Beauty? This looked like something out of a nightmare. If I put it in my bedchamber I was certain to get no sleep.
“I absolutely refuse,” I said firmly, and placed the pot back in its spot on the table. “I have no talent nor am I equipped to care for such a delicate plant.”
Suddington’s gaze flickered over me coldly. He was sorely disappointed, but I was beyond caring. The cloying air, the lascivious plants, the frightening dracula chimaera all combined to make me feel ill, and I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. “I must be getting back to school,” I said, and turned to lead us out of the orchid house.
He did not follow immediately. I had to await him in the conservatory. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him straightening the pots, taking care to make certain all was in order before coming to join me.
“Thank you for indulging me,” he said, and again, his tone was stiff. Clearly, I had offended him. But the urge to flee had overcome me and I had no choice but to exit the orchid house as fast as I dared.
Chapter Twenty-one
In this new school term, Valerian appointed himself my guardian. He insisted on a daily meeting. Most times, we used Serena’s cottage. She was always willing to give us our privacy for these summits. Sometimes, when my time was short, Valerian came to Blackbriar. Like clandestine lovers, we slipped into secret spots to exchange words. But there were no kisses, no embraces, not even a lingering touch.
Things between us were in careful balance. Neither one of us was satisfied with the unresolved nature of what had happened, but a solution evaded us both and so we never spoke of it.
On this day, I was eager to tell him what I had learned. As we drank tea and nibbled on poppy-seed cakes Serena had prepared for us, I told him of George Smythe, and of his connection to Miss Sloane-Smith. I described the extensive orchid collection. However, Valerian showed little interest, and I cut short my report.
&nb
sp; After he left, I stayed to help Serena with the dishes. “Your man is jealous,” she said sagely.
“It is foolish of him.”
She gave me a curious look. “Is it?”
I was so shocked, I could not reply. The comment stuck in my thoughts like a bur under a blanket, and when the orchid arrived for me the following morning, I felt a sharp pang of guilt, remembering Serena’s words.
The messenger sent a footman for me, and when I arrived in the hall, I found a pot tied up with a great ribbon, the elegant blossom seeming to radiate its exotic beauty in the dull surroundings rather like a beacon among shadows. There was no denying the rush of excitement as I held his gift. I was attracted to Suddington—the evidence of my own racing pulse was undeniable—but how could I have this visceral reaction to him when Valerian was so near? Was I so fickle?
A hot, unpleasant tide of shame rose up in me. My mother, I recalled, had betrayed my father. Was I that same, inconsistent sort?
The note from Suddington read: “Grammatophyllum scriptum is used for the making of love potions. Guard it carefully. Fondly, S.”
I started when a chirpy voice rang out. “Oh, Emma, what is that you have?” I groaned softly, recognizing Trudy Grisholm’s insincere tones. I turned to face her.
She eyed the extravagant flower with raised eyebrows and a secret smile. “What a lovely gift.”
And one the entire school would know about by luncheon, I mentally wagered.
Trudy peeked at the card, her heavy eyebrows crawling up to her hairline. “Lord Suddington? Why, I had no idea you two were such close . . . friends.”
“Nor did I,” I said with false lightness, attempting to step past her. I did not want to speak with her now, not when I was feeling a bit flustered.
She allowed me, but her smirk assured me she would have the last word, and most probably removed from my hearing. My guess proved correct when a few hours later Miss Sloane-Smith glowered at me from across the dining hall during lunch. If blood could boil, then surely she was being poached in her skin. I half-expected her to sack me on the spot.
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