The Duke In His Castle (11 page)

And then,
What will happen now? She is. She lives. At which point does she become mine or cease being mine?

Every motion he makes, it seems she hovers nearby, Nairis.

Down a flight of narrow stairs he descends from his personal sleeping quarters, and Janerizel, the eccentric Duchess of White, stands waiting outside his study. She is dressed exactly as the previous day, in her self-mocking outfit.

He stops in sudden consternation, while color surges in his cheeks and as quickly recedes. For, now he is fading, and his cheeks are fading, and his breath has become faint as he watches her. There is no reason this should be happening, the Duke thinks. And yet, it does.

The Duchess looks at him with her great weird eyes. She is waiting for something. He hardly notices that her right hand carelessly twirls a rose blossom on a long stem, a cut procured from his castle’s gardens. Instead, he is looking at her rosebud mouth.

She steps forward, cheerful in tone, but her expression remains strange. As a proper lady would, out of blue-blood habit, she offers her hand. “Good morning, my Lord Rossian.”

He is not sure why, but his first reaction is to jerk away from her. Fortunately, his control (shattered so badly the night before, three o’clock past midnight) is now again at his disposal, and he is able to remain impassive and endure the proximity.

Why endure? What in the world makes me think this way, instead of
—

In order to see what he is capable of in the here and now, the Duke touches her hand in elegant politeness, and doing so he cringes inside. Continuing to cringe, he takes her hand and holds it. Then, as deep-inbred etiquette demands, he raises it to his lips. The hallway seems to press down on him, stifling with permanent dusk, here where there are no windows to reveal the daylight. The outside of her hand is a cool shock against his lips.

“And to you, Lady. Good morning. My apologies for my tardiness out of bed this morning.”

His words are smooth and faultless as ever they can be, and yet in a new peculiar way they are kind toward the Duchess, as though he has decided to forgo his rude sarcasm that he saves for his unwanted guests. Indeed, words seem overly easy, and he considers them as they issue forth. He listens to himself, listens for any indication of
change
.

She too appears to be remarkably understanding. “No apologies necessary. You were exhausted by yesterday’s extraordinary efforts. It’s well known that the arcane acts drain the spirit and the flesh immensely. In fact, you must partake of food as soon as possible to restore yourself for what lies ahead. Oh . . . and how is she, Nairis?”

The Duke is suddenly bloodless, cold, and can hardly feel his face. He is glad for the dusk of the hallway, and almost indifferent to the muted paucity of air, for it seems he no longer requires it—no longer requires to breathe.

“I expect she is unchanged since last night. She has been accommodated in quarters similar to yours, and cared for—more than adequately—by several of my servants. Indeed, there’s no need to be concerned on her behalf anymore, for she may take a long time if ever to regain her memory and her former ancient self. . . .”

Words come out of him in a measured, punctuated stream, and he speaks so calmly that he is beatific, until the language peters out. Then, nothing remains but silence.

“Oh . . .” the Duchess says. “But—but I assumed that she—I mean, I expected that she might come along with us, with me, that is. . . . After all, one might say she’s been placed into my care by the circumstances—”

“Or, one might say, the circumstances of her restoration, the miracle of life returned to her through my efforts, indicate that she has been placed under
my
care.”

All veneer of politeness is effaced. The Duchess glares at him, and she is once again a banshee. “What, my Lord?
Your
care? After the sorry muddle you’ve made of her resurrection? Admit it, she has the wits of a sheep and less than the awareness of a suckling infant!”

The Duke is suddenly burning. Cold fury fills him so that he cannot breathe yet again, only now for another reason.

“You dare to belittle my effort?” he exclaims. “What have you done for her but carry her bones around my castle? And my Lady, you must indeed think me a simpleton, for you have told me a blatant lie about this creature that we both seem to claim. . . .”

He continues, “You are unaware that last night after I took my leave, I spent several long hours perusing the records of the royal houses of the realm, all genealogical lines of succession, going as far back as there is recorded history. And nowhere is there a mention of a Duchess or even a remote blue blood by the name of Nairis the Fabled One, or even just Nairis. She does not exist! I’ve found one mention of a Nairis who served as a companion to the third Duchess of Blue, but that ancient and long-dead female was no more than a servant of the chamber, and she died a crone in her ripe old age!”

The Duke pauses, and the expression of his eyes is feverish. “And so, you lie, my dear. Your motives are unclear, and all I can now surmise is that this deceased young woman whom I resurrected last night is someone who matters to you in particular, and maybe there is even more to this convoluted story. Would you, at last, care to elaborate? I must have the truth!”

The Duchess parts her rosebud mouth, her lips delicate and succulent, as she is about to rant or spin tales or further deceive. And then she shuts them and takes a deep breath.

“First, Your Grace’s breakfast . . .” And with a slight inclination of her head and a mockery of a curtsy she motions the Duke into his study.

The next hour is a haze of necessity. The Duke breaks his fast quickly by gulping down something he cannot remember to taste from a warmed tray brought up to him by Harmion (at the same time taking odd care to abstain from meat, for suddenly he is incapable of eating dead flesh, which might be another after-effect of his act of power), while Izelle chatters flippantly about the weather and the weave of the tapestries and the tomes scattered over his work table and all about the room.

He knows he must eat, so he ignores everything until nourishment is consumed and piles warmly inside him. He is amused at her insistence that he eat and at how she is unaware that in fact he does so the for the second time since their dinner last night—that at four past midnight he consumes food in the darkness after leaving a certain chamber in the Mad Queens Tower.

When the spirit and the flesh are drained, sustenance must be sought.
Oh, how well he knows it.

He finishes breakfast and puts down the bone porcelain cup with the last of its contents in dregs on the bottom. It clinks delicately against the bowl, and sunlight swirls along its gilded rim.

Izelle chooses the moment to settle in a great chair across from him. Sunlight glares into the chamber from his favorite window and illuminates her grotesque cap and half of her face, emphasizing the doll-like prettiness, the rounded apples of her cheeks.

“I will no longer do you the dishonor of duplicity,” the Duchess says.

“I am glad.”

“Truth is a bit more complicated than I am prepared to divulge. Not because I am unwilling, but because I am unsure where to begin. . . .”

For the first time the Duke gives her an effortless smile. “Begin,” he says, “with yourself.”

Izelle sighs. “Very well. Know then, that I am not the Duchess of White—Nairis is.”

He stares, unblinking.

Izelle removes her cap and drops it on top of an open volume. Underneath, her dark hair is ruffled and wild, and she is so much a doll whose wig has been pulled by some unruly little girl for all of her childhood.

“Nairis—well, she is not, I mean, it’s not her true name—but she
is
my sister. And that vendor was in her service, of course—I had him carry her box into your castle. Nairis . . . For years we used to play at Princesses of the ancient land called Aegypt, and eventually we were both Queens, naturally. She was Nairis the Fabled One, and I was Volatris the Graceful One. Not that I’ve ever been graceful, on the contrary. Nairis—I mean, Izelle—she was the graceful one. She was also beautiful, wise, intelligent, kind, perfect as a crystal vase. Still is, as you know. And she was gloriously slender and tall, even when she was seven or eight, a year older than me. And I was just this short and fat and idiot child who laughed like a crow and ate too many pastries.”

“What is your true name, then?” the Duke says softly.

“Cora,” she replies. “No, wait, I am sorry . . . I did tell you, no more deceit. I always wished they’d called me Cora. Or even Clara. Or better yet, Clarissa, which sounds light as a feather. Instead they shackled me with Molly. Which is short for Mollyanne or maybe Meredith, or even Mary, or Marie. Only, in truth, I am unsure. Mother and father both died before I could ask, and the birth name is recorded in our chapel as Molly.”

“Molly,” he says, testing the sound.

“Yes, what a nasty name, isn’t it?” she says. “Vulgar as myself.”

“Not particularly original, but neither is it all that unsavory,” he replies, watching her squirm. “So, you took your sister’s name. How did that come about? Should I ask how she died? I do have some idea, so you needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”

Molly gets up from her chair, and he notices she is still holding the rose in one hand, while her cap lying on the table is forgotten. The blossom is a tea rose, deep bloody crimson, so dark that it is rich as velvet, and the perfume that comes from it is potent musk. The stem is thick and pale green and the thorns are sparse. She twirls it between her fingers.

“I’ll tell you, yes. But if I may ask, my Lord, would you come downstairs with me, out into the open? The sun is bright there, and I must—I have something to show you.”

He complies silently, this time without any protest. After winding down several flights of stairs, they come out into the courtyard.

The scorching sun shines down this great stone “well,” while the gates of iron stand open.

The gates. . . . These are the gates to the world outside the castle.

There, the whole universe continues, outside and beyond. A sand road rolls in a carpet of yellow gold, and all about, a green brilliant countryside.

How many times, countless times, he stands here thus, feeling the breeze wash over his face, seeing that familiar nearest birch tree out next to the road, knowing that he would never feel its living white bark with his hands. . . .

Rossian squints in the sun, white-skinned and deathly, and unused to such exposure. Whatever virile color he possesses is suddenly rendered inadequate by the reality of daylight.

And yet, how marvelous he must appear to this Molly formerly known as Izelle, the wind whipping his honey hair into a golden frenzy, his eyes, when not squinting, revealing a multitude of violet and blue hues. There is the proud gauntness of his jaw, the fine immaculate cuff-lace of his shirt. He belongs here, in the bright open, under the dome of sky. . . .

Molly sniffs the lush flower that she holds, drawing it close to her face, so that her perky button nose is concealed in the velvet petals. “My Lord. . . .” She is about to speak something important, it seems.

Eyes still narrowed from the world’s brightness, Rossian glances at her.

But Molly does not speak. She glances instead in the direction of the open gates and nods to him.

The Duke considers that the moment is at hand.

Ah. . . . In that instant it seems the wind is blowing their way in particular, past the invisible occult barrier, with such ease that it is once again on the verge of impossible to believe it’s there. Rich air comes in a stream of clean force inside the gates, carrying with it scents of wildflowers and honeysuckle from the meadowlands, a fierce elixir of the outdoors.

The Duke inhales it, growing dizzy with the unfurling of his lungs, the heady pressure inside.

“So, my Lady . . .” he says, feeling the warmth of the sun against the skin of his face. “I suppose I must do it now. It’s not to be postponed. Though, there is nothing worse than the overturning of one’s final hope. And yet—might as well get the inevitable over with.”

“Yes,” she says softly. And then, “My Lord, before you continue—Rossian, wait. First, I need to show you something.”

And for the first time Molly truly
looks
him in the eyes. There is a subtle difference between simply looking to examine, looking to address, and facing another with conviction. There are masterfully complex looks that present an intended effect, sideways looks designed to confuse or beguile, insidious and stealth glimpses that go unnoticed. Some looks are tangible projectiles, shots of intensity, quick, fierce, stabs in the heart. Other looks are bland, forthright, or nearly vacant for the lack of true engagement. And yet other looks are forceful, insisting, nigh physical touches of warmth, affection, concern.

Molly’s look is a revelation. She lifts an invisible veil and shows him her
self
—past the skin, past the tissue and bone and blood.

The Duke, who just about puts his foot forward to advance toward the gates, stops. He is mesmerized.

Despite the fresh pleasant breeze streaming at him, there is a shiver-inducing chill in the air—nay, in his mind—as he looks and
sees
her. “I remember . . .” he says breathlessly. “Did you not say your arcane secret is somehow related to mine?”

“Yes . . .” Molly barely responds. And at last he knows what is on the inside, what it is that lurks just beyond her tragic eyes.

“Look closely, my Lord . . .” she says. “Look.”

At first he merely watches the bottomless abyss that opens in
her
eyes; he does not consciously attend what she means, or where to look beyond her centerpoint of face.

But soon the in-rush of power about them points directly to the correct spot; not her face, but below, no, lower yet. He feels it pulling, a hand of wind, drawing him to the invisible flow, an aerial funnel that moves beyond sight but takes his gaze down, lower, binds and drags him. . . .