“No, I—”
Friedrich wanted to cry out, to shout at her, to thrust her away and demand to know why she had brought him here! Why had she given up so much when he had never asked it of her? Why not have left him with his mother, who was kind and encouraging and had never once tried to drag him to her bed?
But he could not speak. He stammered and stumbled over his words, unable to find the strength. It was like he was fifteen again, that night when Auntie had gotten him drunk and remarked how much he looked like his father had at that age, and then.…
Ilse gave him a shove, and he fell back onto the bed. Raising her skirts, she climbed on top of him and began undoing the buttons of his jacket.
“No, Auntie, no,” he pleaded.
Ilse smiled at him, her expression warm and affectionate, delighting in his feeble protests like a sweetheart might delight in proclamations of love.
“Your lips say no,” she said, placing her finger against them to hush him, “but your heart says yes.”
She finished undoing his jacket and pulled it open, running her fingertips across his shirt, tracing the lines of his chest beneath it.
“Stop it!” Friedrich cried, finally finding his voice again.
With a strength he had all but forgotten, he struck Ilse across the face. Taken by surprise, Ilse tumbled sideways and slid onto the floor. Friedrich rose onto his elbows in time to see her stand. She stood over him, delighted rather than angry. She smiled as blood trickled from her lip.
“Oh, Friedrich,” she said, licking her lips, “such passion you have tonight. I always knew that you loved me.…”
She leapt upon him in a rustling of skirts, grabbed him in her arms, and forced her lips against his. Friedrich struggled against her, trying to push her away though his strength failed him. Suddenly a voice spoke from the stairs:
“What in God’s name are you doing to my son?”
Chapter Thirty
Midnight
Varanus stood in Friedrich’s bedroom, her face contorted with rage as she beheld the sight of her son and his aunt pressed together in each other’s arms. Had she simply come upon them in such a state, she might have expressed her anger more against Friedrich than against Ilse, for how dare her son engage in something so depraved? But while on the stair, she had heard all that she needed to hear.
“Get off of him,” she said, her hands clenched into fists.
Ilse looked at her, first scowling with deep resentment, then smiling like a dear friend as she rolled sideways onto the bed.
“Mother, I—” Friedrich began.
He looked horrified and ashamed.
“Alistair, come here,” Varanus said, as soothingly as she could manage with such anger in her voice.
Friedrich rose from the bed and backed across the room toward her, always keeping his eyes on Ilse. He seemed almost fearful of his aunt, though perhaps “fear” was the wrong word for it. Apprehensive. Varanus could see that he had struck Ilse from the bruise forming on her face and the blood upon her lip, though under the circumstances Varanus found it to be both understandable and forgivable. Perhaps that was part of Friedrich’s unease: even used in self-defense, he feared his own capacity for violence.
Varanus took Friedrich’s hand and squeezed it gently. She looked up at him, and he turned away, looking ashamed.
“It’s all right, Alistair,” Varanus said softly. “You’re safe now.”
This statement made him look back at her, confused and relieved at the same time.
“What?” he asked. “Mother, what are you doing here?”
“It occurred to me that there were three of us,” Varanus said, “and that you have only two hands. I came to help you carry the wine glasses. And it is well that I did.”
“Mother, I don’t know what you think—”
“Alistair,” Varanus said, interrupting her son, “I have left Aunt Ekaterine all on her own in the red parlor. Would you be so good as to go and keep her company while I speak to Aunt Ilse?”
Friedrich slowly nodded. He looked at Ilse, his face set firmly, and said:
“Never again.”
Ilse simply grinned at him as if she knew that it was not true.
Friedrich looked at Varanus. Varanus smiled softly, in a manner that she hoped was reassuring, and squeezed his hand again. Friedrich nodded and hurried down the stairs.
Ilse rose from the bed and picked up the wine bottle that lay on the floor. She smiled at Varanus and set the bottle down on a side table.
“Well,” she said, “this is a little awkward.”
“Awkward?” Varanus asked. “Words do not exist to describe what this is.”
Ilse opened the bottle and filled two glasses. She took one and sipped it, offering the other to Varanus. Varanus merely scowled at her.
“As you like,” Ilse said. She put the second glass down again and drank a little more.
“How can you be so cavalier about this?” Varanus demanded.
“What ever do you mean?” Ilse asked innocently, as she sat on the edge of the bed.
“You were trying to seduce my son!” Varanus shouted. “Your nephew! A thing so depraved that I can scarcely bring myself to think of it!”
“I don’t know what you thought you saw, Babette,” Ilse said, “but—”
“What I thought I saw?” Varanus advanced on Ilse. “Ilse, I came upon you on the verge of forcing my son to commit incestuous acts with you! Yet you act as if it were nothing?”
Ilse drank a little more and tossed her hair. Varanus felt Korbinian appear at her side, slowly shaking his head.
“My goodness,” he said. “What has my sister been doing in my absence?”
Varanus glanced at him. Had Korbinian known? But of course not. How could he have known? He had spent the entirety of his otherworldly existence by her side. He was surely as ignorant of the goings on in Fuchsburg as she was.
“Oh, hardly forcing him, I think,” Ilse said. “Dear Friedrich may require a little forceful persuasion some of the time. Well…all of the time. But he is a man, and men are always willing.”
“That is a lie,” Varanus said. “Men are not always willing, and my son was not willing with you! And for good reason, for God’s sake! You are his aunt!”
Ilse rose to her feet in a flash, her bloody lips twisted into a snarl.
“He loves me,” she said. “I raised him as my own son. He arrived in Fuchsburg motherless—”
“Only because you conspired with my grandfather to steal him from me!” Varanus shouted.
“I became his mother!” was Ilse’s retort. “I did. A better mother than you, I’ll wager, if you grandfather was so keen to send him away from you.”
Varanus almost struck her. Almost. But she stayed her hand. Where she found the conviction to do so, she could not imagine, but she thought of Friedrich and of Korbinian and of doing violence on the eve of Christmas, and she restrained herself.
“If he was as a son to you,” she said, “and you a mother to him, then it is even more repugnant that you should treat him in this manner!”
Ilse drank more of the wine and refilled her glass, snarling:
“You do not understand, and you will never understand. Friedrich and I share a bond, a deeper bond that any two people in the world could know. We made each other complete in our arms.”
“I doubt that my son shares you view of things,” Varanus said. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been…been violating him?”
Ilse’s mouth twisted at Varanus’s words. She sighed loudly and, taking the bottle of wine in her hand, she walked to the terrace and threw open the doors to reveal the frigid, moonlit night.
“There was a time when I did regard him as a son,” she said. “A son and a son only, for that was when he was small. He was the child that was owed to me. The child I had never been granted. But when he became a young man, he was so like his father in look and speech and action that I knew how things had to be. He was not mere
ly my son granted to me. He was my dear departed brother—my dear sweet Korbinian, who died because of you!—returned to me in flesh and blood.”
Varanus scowled at the accusation, but she was silent for a few moments. That barb had struck deep, for in truth she did blame herself in part for Korbinian’s death. Not because he was murdered by a jealous suitor, but because in her youth and foolishness, she had not warned him of the attack in time. It was a thought that had always haunted her, would always haunt her.…
“Do not think such things, liebchen,” Korbinian murmured. “Guilt for my death does not fall on you nor does the theft of our son. Do not be distracted from the grave importance of the present by regret for the past.”
Varanus slowly nodded and forced herself to focus. Korbinian was right. Nothing could be done about his death now. But what could be helped—what must be helped—was the plight of her son.
“What do you mean ‘returned to you’?” Varanus asked. “Why would you—”
And suddenly it became clear to her, even before Ilse spoke her next words.
“Friedrich is my brother returned to me,” Ilse said. “My lover returned to me.”
* * * *
Ekaterine had waited in the red parlor for some time, gazing out the window at the courtyard with its giant, candle-strewn tree. What a peculiar thing, she though more than once. The Latins were very strange people, but they amused her tremendously.
As time wore on without the return of either Friedrich or Varanus, Ekaterine began to worry slightly. She did not fear that something might have befallen them—for how could it in the safety of the castle?—but rather that they had found something terribly interesting and had forgotten to tell her. They had probably discovered a secret passage, she concluded, and were busy having adventures.
Sighing, Ekaterine selected a book of poetry from a shelf near the fireplace and settled in to read. Eventually they would return from whatever adventure had occupied them, but for now Ekaterine needed something to stave off boredom.
And so, she was astonished when the door opened and Friedrich entered, looking pale and deeply unsettled. His coat was undone and sweat was beaded upon his forehead.
“Alistair?” Ekaterine asked. “I mean, Friedrich. What is it?”
“I…uh…” Friedrich stammered. He looked around and then glanced over his shoulder as if he feared he might have been followed.
Ekaterine took his hand and gently led him to one of the sofas. Friedrich sat beside her almost automatically, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
“Friedrich?” Ekaterine asked. “What is it? Where is your mother?”
“She is with Auntie,” Friedrich said, blinking several times as he spoke.
“Is something troubling you?”
Friedrich wiped his mouth with his hand and took a deep breath.
“Yes,” he said, rather abruptly.
There was a long silence. Finally, Ekaterine smiled a little in her most comforting manner and asked:
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“I…” Friedrich said. Then he quickly shook his head. “No, I cannot. It is simply too…too horrible. If I were to tell you, you would despise me for it.”
His voice sounded so guilt-stricken, so pained that Ekaterine embraced him and held him tightly for a few moments. At first Friedrich shuddered at her touch, but soon his whole body relaxed, and he rested his head upon her shoulder.
Good Lord, Ekaterine thought, what has happened?
Presently, Ekaterine murmured, “Friedrich, has something happened to your mother?”
“What?” Friedrich asked, startled. “No, no, Mother is fine.”
“Your mother is my dearest friend in all the world, Friedrich,” Ekaterine said. “So if she is well, what can you have done that would make me despise you?”
“I…” Friedrich began. He shook his head and drew away from Ekaterine. He looked calmer, but his countenance was still ashen. “No, I should not speak of it. I should not have said anything at all.”
Ah, he was adamant, Ekaterine thought. Given some time, she could probably pry it from him, but why should she? It would only distress him further. Better to leave it alone tonight and press him about the matter another day when he was calmer. If Varanus was well, that was all that mattered.
“Friedrich,” she said, holding up her book, “would you like to read to me for a little while? Only until your mother returns.”
Friedrich seemed puzzled at the question, but after a moment he smiled and nodded.
“Of course,” he said, taking the book and opening it. He sounded very relieved. “I would…I would enjoy that, I think.”
* * * *
“What did you say?” Varanus demanded, barely able to believe what she had heard.
“Friedrich is Korbinian returned to me,” Ilse said, taking another drink.
“After that,” Varanus said, growling in the back of her throat.
She felt Korbinian kiss her upon the cheek.
“Liebchen,” he murmured, “you know what she said. She said that she and I were lovers.…” He sighed. “And surely it is true. Why would she lie about such a thing? It is incredible that she admitted it.”
Varanus turned to look at him, her eyes wide. She felt herself breathing again. It was the shock and the stress.
“You and Korbinian were lovers?” she asked Ilse, her voice sounding hollow and distant.
“Of course,” Ilse said. She sounded surprised that Varanus even needed to ask for clarification. “Korbinian and I were soul mates. Born together. Destined to be together for all time.” She smiled and stared off into the night sky. “He was my first and I was his. And it was so beautiful.”
Varanus’s breathing quickened. She willed herself to stop, but she could not. None of this was possible. It was all unthinkable! Ilse’s…treatment of Friedrich was horrid enough, but of that at least she had seen the proof. But this? Korbinian and his sister engaged in incestuous acts?
She turned her eyes toward Korbinian, silently demanding an explanation.
Korbinian looked at her sadly and spread his hands.
“What can I say to you, liebchen?” he asked. “It is logical. Two young, beautiful people isolated together in a castle, so close to one another and far from anyone else their age. The passions of youth, the blossoming of romance.… And of course, being twins we were so intimately connected from the beginning. It should not have become what it was, I grant you. But can you blame us that it did?”
Varanus stared at him. She most certainly could blame him for such a thing. How had he not known that it was wrong? And yet, what he said did make a sort of sense.
Her thoughts began to churn into a morass of possibilities and memories and fantasies. Before her eyes, she saw Korbinian turn pale and sallow. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. Thoughts of Korbinian and of his death and of the monstrous things in Blackmoor and in France twisted in her mind into a sort of heavy sickness. It flowed through her body, making her eyes dart this way and that at the flickering of shadows, though she knew that there was nothing to be seen.
Ilse’s back was to Varanus, and she seemed to neither notice nor care about whatever outward signs of the inward torment rose to the surface. Instead, she walked onto the balcony and stood on the windswept terrace, amid the snow and silver moonlight, and laughed.
“Of course, my beloved Korbinian was completely mad,” she said, before taking another drink. “After a time, he began to question it. He wondered if it might be wrong for us to do such a thing. He asked what would happen if we had a child.” She laughed again. “Can you believe such a thing? Of course we would have a child. Eventually, that is. I tried so hard when we lay together, for surely it would be the most wonderful child in all the world! But I was barren. It was horrible! And then when he returned home from the war in Italy, he said that we must put an end to it. An end! That it was a crime against both God and Nature! Can you believe such a thing? Our love? Our beautiful lo
ve a crime?”
Varanus clutched at her head and fought to restrain her chaotic thoughts. It was not just the knowledge of incest that troubled her, but rather that each and every new revelation drew more thoughts and memories into the morass in her mind.
Is this what it is to be Shashavani struggling against madness? she wondered. It was almost as terrible as it had been in Blackmoor.
Korbinian loomed in front of her, and he took her by the arms to steady her. Varanus rested her head against his chest and held him tightly.
“You see, liebchen?” he asked. “I ended it. I realized that it was monstrous, and I ended it. She and I had only ever known each other, but still I knew that something was amiss.”
“And then,” Ilse continued, swaying back and forth on the terrace, “he told me that we had to get married. And my heart leapt with joy to hear him say it! But that was not what he meant. No, no.… We were to marry other people! I was to fall in love with some prince or duke somewhere and marry him! Did Korbinian not see that we could never love anyone but one another? For in loving one another, we were truly loving ourselves!”
Varanus felt her frantic breathing slow until it finally stopped. The chaos in her mind began to condense and then to recede. But still from the balcony Ilse carried on:
“And he left me. He went off to travel Europe in search of a wife. A wife who was not me. It made my heart break. There was a time, I think, when I would have killed him so that he and I could be together, as we ought to have been. But then he found you in France. And because of you, he was murdered.”
Ilse turned to face her for a moment and pointed an accusing finger.
“He died because of you! Because of you, he was taken from me!”
And then she began spinning about slowly, laughing drunkenly in the night.
“Can you forgive me, liebchen?” Korbinian murmured, holding Varanus to him and gently stroking her hair. “My love for you was true, I promise you that. I was a free man when I met you. Free and contrite. Had I still been with her, meeting you would have ended it in an instant, whether you chose me or not. But I was no longer with her when I fell in love with you.” He looked down at her, his eyes tearful with blood. “Can you forgive me?”
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