“And they do, my friend.” Ochsner gave a small laugh. “Think of me as a mechanic, tuning the engine of a powerful racing car. Your occasional dizzy spells are caused by plain overexertion. Get more sleep, and eat plenty of red meat: that will keep you in the peak of condition.”
Godric swallowed. “I only eat white meat. Veal, pork, chicken.”
“Ah, well, there’s your problem. Change your diet. I told your niece the same. Lots of bloody red steak and offal.” The doctor lit a cigar, offered one to Godric. He declined.
“What do you mean, you told my niece? You haven’t seen her yet.”
“Ah.” Ochsner cleared his throat. “Actually, I have. She came for an evening appointment, well over a week ago. I thought you knew.”
More rebellion, he thought, tensing with irritation. He’d wanted Amy to see Dr Ochsner because – he’d learned from Gudrun – she suffered heavy monthly bleeding that left her exhausted; a checkup was in order. Ochsner had suggested he could scrape out the troublesome tissue: a cleansing procedure to solve the problem.
Godric liked the sound of an internal cleanse to purge all that unspeakable feminine mess. That sort of treatment could only improve one’s well-being.
Amy, though, had refused to discuss such a private matter with her uncle. But surely her health mattered more than her privacy? They’d argued. Now to learn that she’d obeyed him, but in secret, indicated defiance of a peculiarly underhand nature.
“Well?” Reiniger demanded. “What did you find? Is she unwell, does she have any… problems that should concern us?”
Dr Ochsner shook his head. He poured schnapps into two tumblers, passed one across the desk. “Nothing irregular.”
“What does that mean?” He sipped the liquor. The doctor took a large swig. “Did you examine her properly?”
“I gave her a thorough examination and curettage, an internal stripping, if you will. It may help, but some women bleed more heavily than others. It’s perfectly natural. More importantly: she is not pregnant. She has no diseases. She is a virgin. Is that not what you actually wanted to know?”
Godric Reiniger exhaled and sat back in his chair. Yes, that was precisely what he’d wanted to know. Amy was pure, and now nicely cleaned out. Perfect marriage material, ripe to be offered to a man of wealth and influence.
Her life in London had not turned her into some promiscuous flapper. Godric was very determined that she would not become a promiscuous flapper.
“Most reassuring,” he said softly. “I wish she’d told me. I suppose she was embarrassed. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome.” Ochsner drew on his cigar and grinned through a cloud of smoke. “Women, eh?”
Godric rose to leave.
“Come to me at any time,” said the doctor, rising to shake his hand. “I look forward to your visits. Anything I can do, at any time of day or night: I’m always here.”
Their handshake was firm, transmitting an understanding far deeper than his neurotic medical concerns.
Neurotic, thought Godric as he stepped out of the building. The fresh damp air immediately made his head whirl – not true dizziness, but a strange buzz of energy. Am I neurotic? A string of thoughts twined around his brain like barbed wire.
He tried not to think about Fadiya. True to her word, she’d acted the sweet obliging helper, painting make-up on to the faces of his actors for the early scenes of his next film. You would never guess she wasn’t human. Everyone loved her.
Godric hated her. The hypnotic glow of her eyes unmanned him. Yes, she’d “let” him keep the sakakin, and promised him extra power, but he wanted power on his own terms, not hers. As soon as he found the strength to expel her from his house – or even to kill her – he would.
Although Ochsner supported his politics, he was not part of the inner circle. When Godric told him to ignore the rune scar, he obeyed. The doctor would do anything for a price.
Ochsner was, however, a clod of earth, incapable of looking past the mountain horizon. He couldn’t comprehend the unearthly powers that coursed through Godric’s body. His symptoms were indescribable.
Seeing things. Feeling that he’d gone transparent. A sensation of wild power, as if he could fly. Feeling invincible. Something both nightmarish and wonderful was happening to him and he kept groping for explanations even though he knew the prosaic Ochsner could not supply an answer.
All he could do was seek repeated reassurance that he was not actually ill. That he was not deluded, not sick, but becoming something other: a channel for all the gods and folk heroes that had helped to make Switzerland great.
Becoming superhuman.
* * *
Of course I am not going to tell her.
Emil held himself upright, lined up with the male dancers at the barre, pushing themselves hard through the warm-up. The rehearsal pianist pounded away as if she were beating a carpet rather than playing music, while the ballet master, Ralph, walked up and down the line with a cane, prodding at misaligned limbs. Emil watched his pacing reflection with narrowed eyes. If Ralph brought that cane near him, he’d be sorry. Emil held every inch of himself in perfect posture, but that made some tutors more determined to find fault.
Sometimes he caught other dancers, male and female, eyeing him with envy. They thought he was growing arrogant, especially after his success on tour. He’d come from nowhere to be celebrated alongside Violette; of course they resented him, but he didn’t care. Let them think what they liked. He disdained their jealousy.
They couldn’t possibly guess that his princely form hid a love-struck idiot, as gauche as any other youth in love with a goddess. Nor would they ever know.
I know Mikhail’s game, he thought. Tell Violette! He wants me to make a complete fool of myself. Does he think I’m that gullible? Not in a million years can I tell her. But if I don’t, I’ll surely explode… but how?
Sober, he saw that it was impossible.
The knowledge made his frustration unbearable.
In the mirror, he saw Violette slip into the room. In the days since they’d returned from tour, he’d barely seen her. Still, it was her habit to vanish and reappear at will.
Without her dramatic Firebird costume, in grey practice clothes and no make-up, she looked smaller and softer. No longer a terrifying goddess, but a lovely, natural girl next door whom he might have met in his home village. A girl he might have married so they could grow happily old, fat and grey together.
Violette, a contented grey-haired grandmother? Never. But which was more desirable, an uncomplicated peasant life or this sharp-edged existence of glamour and yearning?
Everyone stopped and turned to greet her with a small bow or curtsey, as if she were royalty. And she was, to them. She waved a hand, said, “Continue,” then whispered in Ralph’s ear. He rapped his cane on the floor and barked, “Jetés, please. In pairs. Girls first.”
As Emil stood at the barre, watching each pair run and leap their way from corner to corner of the studio, Violette came to his side. He felt his heart drumming faster. She smelled delicious, as always. To his own discomfort, he felt himself becoming aroused.
This rarely happened, despite the proximity of agile females around him all day. It was an everyday situation: the novelty had worn off years ago and rehearsals were simply work. Also, the male dancers wore a dance belt, a protective garment that preserved their modesty and hid any potential embarrassment.
Nevertheless, the garment became uncomfortably full. With all his will he tried to make the pounding blood drain out of his loins. Think of something else, anything – my toothless old grandma…
“Emil, will you dance a few steps with me after class?” said Violette. “I’m creating a new pas de deux and I need to see if it will work.”
“Of course, madame.” He swallowed hard.
“I spent my spare hours on tour writing a new ballet. It’s about a girl who runs away to join the circus. Would that not be fun?”
“I’m s
ure it will, madame.”
“You look shocked. Emil, you’ve turned red! I know it’s different, but we always perform dark stories, tragedies. Wouldn’t it be nice to send the audience out smiling instead of weeping for a change? Think of the stage filled with bright colours, like The Nutcracker, but with rather more of a story.”
“If you want me on a trapeze, I’ll oblige,” he said, and felt his face flush even hotter.
“Don’t rule it out. Of course, we tread a fine line – the ballet must not actually turn into a circus.”
“Mikhail should be cast as the evil ringmaster.”
How pretty she looked when she laughed!
“You read my mind,” she said. “Of course, there must be an evil ringmaster.”
The last fifteen minutes of the session passed like fifteen hours. Violette warmed up alone in a corner as the class went on, while Emil tried not to watch her. The perfect curve of her arms. The long slender lines of her torso, the small tight buttocks… God.
Eventually all the dancers trailed out with towels slung around their sweat-damp necks, followed by Ralph and the pianist. Emil and Violette were alone.
“This will be the central pas de deux,” she said briskly, “in which the runaway girl and the male acrobat rehearse together and begin to fall in love. So it should be tentative at first, gradually becoming more sensual as they begin to move as one – but that’s fine detail. This is just a walk-through, to see if the poses are even possible.”
She went into professional mode, snapping out instructions and expecting Emil to interpret what she wanted instantly. Usually he could: as she said, they seemed to read each other’s minds. That was partly why she valued him.
But today… it was all he could do to concentrate as she manipulated him like a poseable mannequin. Usually rock-steady, he was trembling.
As they worked, he saw faces glancing in through the glass doors: people being nosey, then hurrying away when Violette scowled at them.
“Let’s try this. I’ll wrap around you, spiralling upwards. Then I balance on your shoulder in an arabesque. It shouldn’t be hard, but will take practice.”
Her eyes shone – not for him, but with excitement about her new ideas.
Emil was compliant, letting her direct the move. What sweet agony this was… She slithered around him like a snake until she knelt on his right shoulder, their hands joined for balance.
“Let go,” she said. In the mirror, he watched her rise on one foot on his shoulder to execute a perfect arabesque, her free leg raised high behind her.
“Don’t stand like a post!” she said. “Try your feet in fourth position, and do something with your arms.”
Trying not to unbalance her, he eased into a more stable and elegant posture, arms raised in curves to complement hers. Not even a wobble; how was her balance so perfect?
They held the pose, both looking into the mirror. Violette frowned. “Now, does that look ridiculous or astonishing?” she asked.
“Both, I think,” he said.
“Which is ideal. All right, let me down.”
She lowered her raised leg and executed a light spring on to the floor, turning as she did so to land facing him with her hands on his shoulders. He automatically caught her upper arms to aid her landing.
They looked at each other, a little breathless. His conscious brain told him to let her go, but the command did not reach his hands. Now would be the most natural time in the world to lean forward and kiss her…
Oh God. God!
“Emil.” Her hands fell and she stepped backwards to arm’s length. He had no choice but to release her. “That was a promising start.” Her voice went quiet and cool. “Now would you mind telling me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, madame.” His voice went hoarse. “Why?”
All his innate confidence evaporated. No one else had the power to do this to him. He was conscious of how rarely he’d spoken to her in private; normally she had a crowd of assistants around her. There were a few times when she first brought him from Paris… Once, on board a ship in a storm… and now.
“You are absolutely rigid,” she said.
He went red-hot. He thought she meant the physical reaction he’d fought to suppress – surely she wouldn’t notice, let alone draw attention to his embarrassment? Then she shook his shoulder, quite roughly, and he realised she meant his whole body.
“You’re as tense as a board,” she added, leaning back against the barre. “The more you tremble, the harder you try to control it, which only makes it worse. You seem off-balance. We all have bad days, but if something’s troubling you, I should like to know.”
“I apologise. My knee…” He stopped. If he feigned injury, she might perceive physical weakness where there was none. And he couldn’t lie to her.
“I didn’t notice you favouring one knee during practice,” she said softly. She stared straight at him without blinking. Her eyes were blue ice. He felt she was staring into his mind as if he were made of glass, drawing all his thoughts and secrets out of him. It was a most unnerving feeling, like that frozen moment he’d had onstage in New York, when the imaginary world of the Firebird had become real.
She knew.
His hands were clammy. Forbidden emotions rose inside him: anger at losing his professional poise. Fear, frustration. Violette standing there in all her impossible beauty, untouchable – yet he was expected to hold her every day and feel nothing… This was unbearable.
Emil came from a family where passions were always close to the surface and no one thought twice before they yelled, wept or embraced. Yet here, he was expected to be as self-disciplined and obedient as a soldier. And until a few weeks ago, he’d been so.
“Get changed and come to my office,” she said when he stayed silent. “Perhaps you’ll be less tongue-tied there.”
Emil rushed to the changing room, doused himself in a cold shower, and threw casual clothes on to his still-damp body. Ten minutes later, outside the solid oak door of Madame Lenoir’s office, he halted and took several deep breaths.
“Come in,” she called, before he’d raised his fist to knock.
He went in, closed the door behind him and gave a nod of deference. “Madame.”
“Sit down.”
So now she placed the desk between them, a wide barrier cutting off any illusion of intimacy. The window behind Violette outlined her with dusty-silver light.
“There’s no need to be afraid of me.” She spoke gently, but her eyes warned, Be terrified. “Whatever you say will remain between us. But I will not tolerate dishonesty.”
He struggled to speak. Finally he managed, “Has Mikhail said something to you?”
She blinked, and didn’t answer the question.
“I know my dancers consider me overstrict. For as long as they dance for me, relationships are discouraged. All passion must be channelled into work. Some people have left, finding this impossible. I know it seems harsh – but this is the price you pay to become the best. Anyone who cannot accept this condition is free to leave.”
Emil clenched his fists beneath the desk, his blood rising.
“But how can we dance without passion?” he exclaimed.
“By expressing it all in our work.” Still she went on freezing him with those beautiful eyes.
“But that is exactly…” All of it, every drop of fire? Nothing is allowed to spill into our real lives? He bit back his thoughts, but the harder he held back his feelings, the more they threatened to erupt. “That is how I live, by putting my passion into the dance,” he said. “But I cannot turn it on and off like an electric light. What you see on stage is all I am!”
This is insane, impossible, he thought. Perhaps Violette was insane. With every second he sat under her arctic stare, the less human she seemed – and the more fervently he adored her.
“Emil, I know, but… What is wrong?” she asked, resting her hands parallel on the desk. “I know you’re young and impulsive. You’re a perfectioni
st, like me. Of course tempers flare. But this is something more, isn’t it?”
“What did Mikhail tell you?” He could imagine the Russian chuckling into her ear, “You’d better watch that one. He has it bad for you, madame, real bad.”
“Why do you keep asking me about Mikhail? What has he got to do with this conversation?”
“Because… Damn it!”
Emil got up and paced the rug on his side of the desk. He knew in that ghastly moment that his career was over. He was trapped, desperate. He could lie or tell the truth.
Either way, he was damned.
But – was there no hope at all? How was it possible to feel so strongly if those feelings were not returned? There must be something mutual. Even the tiniest spark could grow, given time and warmth and nurture…
Her eyes sucked the heat out of him. He felt terror, and a dozen other swirling emotions he couldn’t suppress.
“I know he’s said something. I’ll kill him!”
“Don’t kill anyone. Never mind Mikhail. Just say what’s on your mind.”
“Madame,” he gasped. “Violette. Would you force it out of me?”
“If I have to, yes.”
Before he knew what he was doing, he circled the desk and fell to his knees on the carpet before her. “I can’t – how can I – I tried so hard to hold back but it’s unendurable. Please – I’m a fool and I ask your pity. But I – is there anyone on this Earth with a pulse who does not love you? I’m only human.”
“Emil…” Her protest was weak. Apparently he’d shocked her nearly speechless. “Please, try to control yourself. Are you saying…”
“I love you,” he said simply. He became suddenly calm, as if a higher power were directing him. Have faith in yourself, said the power. Open your heart and tell the truth. “I’ve adored you since the first moment I saw you: a photograph in a newspaper. I’ve worshipped you, heart and body, every moment since. Madame, I am in love with you. You already know, don’t you?”
“I… suspected. I hoped…”
“I would do anything for you. Don’t mistake me. This isn’t blind lust or infatuation. I desire you, of course, with all my being – but this is more. It’s everything. I would marry you tomorrow if I could. I don’t ask for an answer now, of course not, but my offer is there for eternity. I have to be with you.”
The Dark Arts of Blood Page 12