A sullen look replaced the maid’s slyness, rendering her features as ugly as those of a toad.
Lillian straightened her shoulders. Casually she reached out to take hold of one of the discarded whips, letting the leather strap run through her fingers. “I gave you an order, Marie. Now make haste—or shall I use this on you?” She raised her brows.
Even though it had been but a bad imitation of her stepmother, the trick worked and the servant hurried out of the room. Lillian turned to glance at the man once more. His chest was still heaving, his breath whistling through his nose. Lillian fiddled with the whip, glad that her hands had something to do while she was waiting for Marie’s return.
However, it was Gabriel who knocked at the door and entered. Golden-haired Gabriel, gangly as a colt, with a certain chubbiness still clinging to his cheeks. He bowed. “Cook sent me to bring you the food, mistress.”
Lillian stared at him. She could not be sure whether he was already bearing the mark. He was younger even than herself. Had he already been cut? She forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you. Put it on the table over there.” She noticed how he avoided looking at the construction as he went across the room to set the tray down.
Marie came soon after to deliver the pitcher of warm water. While her face remained cast in a sulk, she did not linger this time, and soon Lillian was all alone with the man once more.
She could not help the sigh of relief that escaped her. Swiftly, she went over to the door to slide the bolt in place. No unwelcome surprises from that quarter. Leaning against the door, she surveyed the room and took stock of the situation.
She could not do anything about the chains that kept him shackled to the construction, of course, as Camille would expect to see him in exactly the same place in the morning. But she
could
do something about the man’s injuries and his pain.
Everything needs balance: One to do the healing in a place where another does all the wounding
. But this time, she herself had done the wounding.
Lillian tried to ignore the bitter twist of her stomach.
She
had set the mark. It was
her
responsibility.
So she dragged a footrest behind the construction in order to reach the strings of the gag. Lightly she rested her hands on the man’s shoulders, ignoring the stickiness of the oil under her fingers. At her touch he flinched slightly as if he feared more pain. Yet all she did was lean forward in order to bring her mouth close to his ear. “Listen,” she whispered. “I am going to free you of the gag. But you
must not
speak, do you understand? These walls have ears and one never knows who is listening.” And whoever it was would report back to Camille, for no one slipped her control easily. By now, most people knew better than to even attempt it.
Not me
, came the unbidden thought. Lillian shivered as the enormity of the plan struck her once more. This man was a burden she neither needed nor wanted. He might endanger everything.
For a moment she felt anger that he had been stupid enough to get chosen, to show defiance. A tight hot ball of anger in the pit of her stomach—and something else. Something which pricked in her eyes, an emotion she dared not name. Compassion, after all, was a luxury and not for her.
She let her gaze shift to the window, where the night, cold and dark, pressed against the glass. She felt the coldness reaching out for her and waited until it touched her heart, erased all feeling inside.
Her fingers steady, she started to work on the knots of the gag. Carefully, she reached around him to take it out of his mouth. “Remember,” she reminded him on a murmur. “
Not one sound!
”
Again, he nodded.
Satisfied, she stepped down and went over to the chest where she kept her herbs and medicines. Nanette had taught her that.
Everything needs balance
, she heard the old woman’s voice whispering in her head. Nanette had been her nanny from the time Lillian’s mother was still alive, and later, she had been the only link to a bygone golden life. She had taught Lillian to stay away from the main part of the mansion, never to be heard or seen so as not to attract any attention. So her father had forgotten Lillian and had died. When later on, Camille had finally taken notice of her stepdaughter, Nanette had been sent away and Lillian herself had been forced to move rooms—among other things.
Lillian swallowed. Then she shoved all memories of her nineteenth birthday aside and concentrated on selecting the proper herbs. Oil of St. John’s wort for the burn, marigold salve for the cuts.
She straightened and went back to the man, who never once let her out of his sight. She started with his bum, carefully applying the oil to the skin. As she touched the raw flesh, his breath hissed through his teeth, but true to his promise, he did not make any other sound.
The body under her hands was lean, too lean for such a tall man. The ribs, Lillian noticed, seemed to be poking through the skin; the muscles on his arms and belly were not rounded and defined like Antoine’s or Maurice’s or any other of Camille’s men.
When she was finished, Lillian went around the construction to step onto the footrest once more. The cuts on the man’s head had already been cleaned, she saw, so all she had to do was to spread salve on them. After that, she pulled the stool in front of him and fed him the fruit and the bread and let him drink part of the wine. Over the rim of the glass, his eyes were very blue.
Lillian tried not to notice.
She only spoke once, when she put the sleeping potion m the rest of the wine and gave it to him. “To make you rest,” she explained.
He gazed at her and finally nodded his assent.
Lillian watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. Perhaps she should have given him poison instead. That way, he would never become a danger to her plans. But Camille would not be happy to lose one of her toys overnight. And that was even more certain to put the plan on the line.
Lillian blinked.
Besides, would she be capable of simply ending the life of a human being? Somebody who was just as entrapped in Camille’s web as she herself was?
His eyes met hers.
Perhaps. If it meant sparing him the fate that awaited him at the end of the four weeks: either a life as Camille’s toy, or the mines.
Chapter 2
Lillian thought about taking a sleeping potion herself. But as she had to rise before dawn to get the man ready, she chose a sleepless night instead, listening to his even breathing. Sometimes he would grow restless, his muscles fighting against the strain of the chains.
When the horizon blushed with the first touch of the sun, she roused him so that she could put the gag back in place. She saw his skin ripple with gooseflesh from the cold. Or perhaps it wasn’t from the cold at all.
Lillian looked out of the window and forced herself not to care.
When Camille finally walked into the room, black silks rustling, Lillian was cool and poised. Clad in muted gray, she felt as if the mists outside had risen to gather around her body, to freeze her heart and soul.
“
Bonjour,
chérie
.” Cold red lips touched her cheek.
“
Bonjour,
maman
.”
Behind Camille stood Maurice, her stepmother’s golden shadow for today. Arms folded across his naked chest, he wore his face in an expressionless mask. The red marks on his skin were badges of honor. Like all of Camille’s favorites, he seemed to crave his mistress’s touch.
Camille’s gaze shifted to the man in chains, and her lips lifted in the travesty that was her smile. “It looks even better in broad daylight,
n’est-ce pas
?” Slowly, she walked around the construction, appraising the well-made form and shape of the prisoner. Her fingernail trailed down his long backbone, making his muscles ripple in revulsion and herself laugh. “Stubborn, is it? Maurice…” She turned. “See to it that it learns the error of its ways.”
Lillian’s eyes darted to the bound man’s face. Did he know the meaning of this? Could he guess?
Her stepmother finished her tour in front of the construction. She patted the man’s cheek while his eyes shot blue fire at her. “Teach it,” she said softly, her fingers mimicking a caress, “that stubbornness is a flaw which we do not tolerate.”
In a whirl of black, she turned to Lillian. “We should have breakfast now,
chérie
. Maurice will see after your present.” Thoughtfully she touched her fingers to her chin. “Should we put it back here, do you think, or should we consider the cage?”
Lillian stood straight and unblinking. “This morning, I have a desire for a walk in the garden, I think. Could that be arranged?”
“Of course. Maurice will prepare everything. Now come,
chérie
, before the chocolate grows cold in our cups.” Well aware that her stepmother’s loyal golden shadow regarded her every move, Lillian followed Camille from the room without once looking back at the spread-eagled man. She did not know why she had spared him the cage. It was just a postponement of the things to come.
~*~
All the weeks since her birthday had not yet managed to accustom Lillian to the meals in the dining room. Golden decorations blazed with the light of the early morning, filling the room with a thousand small suns. Hercule was standing next to the sideboard where the chocolate was kept warm, so still he could have been a statue carved out of darkest ebony. Young Gérard of the rosy face cowered beside his mistress to feed her bits of fruit and sweet roll. If the mood took her, she bit his fingers.
Lillian’s eyes remained cool over the rim of her cup. The chocolate tasted like acid. On her plate, the sweet rolls crumbled to sand.
A snap of Camille’s fingers sent Gérard spreading himself on the table so she could eat the fruits off his body and scorch his skin with droplets of hot chocolate. Hercule brought the pot to fill her cup when it was empty, while Gérard moved sinuously before her, his eyes never once leaving the face of his mistress.
Lillian watched, detached. Hercule did not need to refill her cup.
A dark cherry gleamed between Camille’s lips, before she sucked it into her mouth and chewed, smiling. The next was crushed between her fingers, staining her skin. She spread the sticky juice on her throat. Slowly, she leaned her head back, and, lithe as a cat, Gérard rose—the sign to Lillian that she could leave. She saw his tongue sweeping white skin just before the door closed behind her.
Downstairs, Maurice had her coat and the man ready for her. The traces of his punishment were not visible at first glance. Or perhaps the breeches and the shirt covered them; Lillian did not know. The gag still filled his mouth. Better than the bridle Camille so liked.
Wordless, she took the chain that fastened on the ring around his throat, a dog on a leash. Shackles held his hands on his back, where another chain ran up to fasten on the ring at his neck. Thus, he would not get far, should he decide to run away. Camille preferred to make sure nobody slipped her control.
Wordless, Lillian took the riding crop to use when he failed to show appropriate subordination.
Maurice bowed, and she stepped over the threshold outside. The man in shackles followed without resistance. By now he knew better.
Lillian’s stepmother did not have much use for gardens. She preferred the games inside the mansion; it was cooler in summer and warmer in winter. Sometimes, though, she would have a man’s naked body covered in ice, chilled for her pleasure. Also, she did not like flowers except for roses. She liked it when the men brushed her body with roses while the thorns were buried deep in the flesh of their hands. Thus, with the exception of the rose garden, the grounds had not been tended in years. The bushes had grown over the statues of stone and over the small benches scattered around the garden. The paths hid behind curtains of greenery, which had rendered them almost invisible.
Yet Lillian did not hesitate to pick her way through the overgrown garden. She walked carefully, of course, mindful of the thorny branches which lay waiting to trap the folds of her coat and dress. The man had been given boots, she saw, so they would not have to clean him up later.
At this time of the year, the leaves had already started to fall and reveal the branches gray and bare. In many ways, the garden was as ghostly as the mansion itself. But, oh, how many times she had wished that the plants would reach out and envelop the house, bury it under a green blanket!
La belle au bois dormant
.
Lillian’s lips turned up in a humorless smile. There would be no prince coming to release her from the evil spell
In her dreams, the plants would grow and cover the walls of the mansion, would press against the glass of the windows, would seek out the tiniest cracks in the walls. And, once inside, they would grow and grow and twine themselves around Camille. Around and around until there would be no trace left—
Lillian gave herself a mental shake and looked over her shoulder at the man trudging behind her. His chest rose and fell with laborious breaths. What could she say to ease his troubles? For him, there would be no deliverance. And so, she remained silent.
To the left, a lichen-covered Pan peeked out of the bushes, lounging on a bit of rock, flute raised to his lips as if he were about to compete with the absent birds. Just visible under the dark green tendrils was one of the broad, powerful shoulders, a hint of muscles bouncing in his arm. His very presence seemed to mock the man in shackles, for the faun had achieved what the prisoner had not: escape from Camille’s web.
Lillian stepped down moss-covered stairs. Overhead, the tops of the trees touched intimately, while under their feet dead leaves rustled—or perhaps it was the whispering of ghosts, quietly conversing among themselves.
With one hand Lillian drew her coat tighter around her body. The crop, though, was in her way and she wished she could put it down somewhere. But Maurice or Antoine or another of Camille’s men would notice, and thus Camille would eventually hear.
Such a tight, suffocating web of control. To break it, one had to destroy the spider in the middle. Drip poison into her drink. Watch her writhe in agony on the marbled floor. Or feed the fire in the kitchen, let it rage out of control until the blaze wrapped the house in its bright red bloom.