CHAPTER TWELVE
I
n spite of our exchange of barbed words, Salome insisted upon giving me not only the blue costume, but also a cherry pink cape of sorts to go over it and a pair of tights that were more or less the color of my flesh.
She also applied the necessary cosmetics.
She powdered my face heavily with rice powder and wielded a kohl stick and lip paint with enthusiasm.
Her skills were considerable, and I felt a completely different person as I made my way back to Mr. Stoker.
“What in the name of Christ happened to you?”
he demanded.
His eyes darted to the plunging neck of the costume and flared wide, the pupils quite black against the dark blue of his eyes.
If he found my costume and cosmetics a change, it was nothing to the alteration in his own appearance.
Leopold had worked wonders upon him, shaving off the monstrous beard and mustaches, revealing a firm jaw that stood as counterpart to the proud nose and high cheekbones.
The beard had, as I had noted before, hidden a perfectly delectable underlip, now entirely visible.
His scar ran slim and pale down the landscape of his cheek, over his jaw, and beneath his collar.
It sketched a parallel line to his jugular, perilously close to that region of mortality, and I marveled that he had come so close to death and fought his way free.
It said a great deal about the character of the man, and I felt—not for the first time—that the fellow I had met was a shadow of what he had once been.
The question remained, was the damage irreparable?
Life had broken him, but could he be mended?
I nodded towards his freshly shaven chin.
“That is quite a change.”
He dragged his gaze up from my décolletage.
“As is that.”
“Salome,” I replied dryly.
“It is a bit much; you’ve no need to say it.
But I did think this would further disguise me should we encounter the baron’s murderer.
Mr. Stoker, are you listening?
You’ve gone quite glassy-eyed.”
I snapped my fingers sharply in his face, and he nodded.
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Good.
I suppose I might as well leave this nonsense on until the performance.
Now, where are your knives?
If I am to do this thing, I must have a bit of practice to make certain I do not lose my nerve in front of a paying crowd.”
He recovered himself then and retrieved his knives, although I caught an unwilling glance or two directed towards my décolletage as we made our way to the little practice ground he had arranged.
The cape had covered my legs, but I dropped it once we arrived, and Stoker made a sort of whimpering sound.
“Are you quite all right?”
I asked.
“Entirely,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
I hoped he would not find my bared limbs too distracting, but as soon as he bent to his task he seemed to forget me entirely as a person.
He moved differently, his very form suffused with purpose and his attention focused with an intensity I had seen only when he was working at his elephant.
He positioned me in front of a large circular target, spreading my arms like the outstretched wings of a bird.
He secured my wrists in a pair of soft leather restraints, giving me a brisk nod.
“These are mostly for appearance.
You can pull out easily enough if you have a mind to, but they will serve to make it all the more dangerous in the eyes of the crowd.
They are also a good reminder to hold still.
If you do lose your nerve and flinch at the wrong moment, you could be badly hurt.”
He bent to secure another restraint at my feet, nudging my ankles far apart.
His hands were warm even through my stockings, and I indulged in a delicious little shudder as he took his time about the buckles.
He strode some ten or twelve paces away and laid out the knives with a surgeon’s precision.
After a moment, he turned back to me, one knife resting lightly in his palm.
He grasped it by the blade.
“Do you want to know when I mean to throw it or shall I surprise you?”
“Just get on with it,” I told him, my teeth gritted hard against the chattering that had set in.
I was suddenly glad of the restraints, for I suspected my nerve might have failed me then, and I was certain my knees would have.
I did not close my eyes.
I merely waited, forcing myself to breathe slowly and evenly, a patient lamb waiting for the slaughter.
Suddenly, he stopped and dropped his arm.
“You might stop muttering the Lord’s Prayer, you know.
It is thoroughly distracting.”
“Oh, how curious—I did not realize I was.
Odd, I am not even religious.”
“Shall I pause whilst you sing out a few verses of ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ or do you want to move directly to committing your soul into the hands of Jesus?
I can wait.”
“I am ready,” I said firmly.
He resumed his throwing stance again, and this time I did not have a chance to give way to my nerves.
I felt a whisper next to my ear and a hard thud, and the next thing I knew, a blade quivered beside my head, a breath away from my face.
“Hm.
A little too close.
I ought to correct for that,” he said blandly.
“That would be an excellent notion.”
The next blade was on the other side of my head but a little further out, and the one that stuck in just above me was perfectly positioned.
He placed a dozen knives about the outline of my body, most of them sitting precisely where he intended.
He unfastened the restraints and gave me his hand.
I stepped forward and felt my knees give way instantly.
His arms went tightly about me, holding me upright.
My head was pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, and I could hear the slow, solid thud of his heart under my ear.
It was exquisitely comfortable, but I swiftly regained my footing, pushing him firmly aside.
“I am quite steady now, I assure you,” I told him.
His features were stony.
“Mind you don’t do that tonight.
Neither one of us can afford it.”
He strode to the target, where he wrenched the knives free, then stalked away.
I did not wonder at his sudden churlishness.
We had been thrown together under difficult circumstances, and in spite of his casual air, I knew he was keenly aware of the fact that every time he hurled a blade, he held the power of life and death over me.
I thought of the baron then, and his assurance that he was trusting my life to Mr. Stoker’s hands—and I wondered if he could ever have imagined how literal that promise would become.
A few hours later the camp stirred to life in preparation for the evening’s performance, and I found myself unaccountably restless.
I knew it could not be nerves, for I do not have a nervous temperament, but I decided a sip or two from the flask of aguardiente would not go amiss.
I was still drinking from it when I heard Otto’s accordion begin a seductively rousing song, beckoning the townsfolk to the show.
I could hear the professor reciting his patter, charming and coaxing the local people, seducing them into parting with their money as they visited the various tents.
He lauded the Herculean strength of Colosso, a hero straight from myth, and rhapsodized about the size and beauty of Tilly, the Fattest Woman in the World.
Colosso’s musculature was certainly impressive, but his long flesh-colored garments of an unmentionable nature and the furry loincloth he wore over them somewhat detracted from his Olympian appearance.
And Tilly, while enormous indeed, was not quite as advertised, given that the professor promised she outweighed a steer.
Only Madame du Lait lived up to her name, happily lifting her blouse for an extra copper to show the audience her ancient bosom.
The image was not a pleasant one, and I drank a little more to banish it.
Just then Stoker appeared in his altered black suit, the seams straining dangerously and the shirt open at the collar.
“You need a
cratav,” I told him grandly.
“A what?”
“A
vacrat.
Wait, that isn’t right either.
You know, that thing, that cloth that ties about your neck,” I explained helpfully.
“You mean a cravat?”
“Yes!
Precisely.
Oh, you are clever,” I said.
I brandished a bit of scarlet silk.
“Salome gave me a castoff scarf.
I think the scarlet will do quite well, don’t you?
It ought to hide the blood quite nicely if you miss.”
He started at me, comprehension dawning slowly.
“Holy Christ, you’re drunk as a lord!”
“I am not the slightest bit
incoxitated!
Really, Mr. Stoker, the very suggestion, the very idea.
My aunts were on temperance committees.”
He reached for the flask of aguardiente and took a healthy draft for himself.
“Did you at least eat something?”
“Oh yes.
The hairy fellow, looks like a lion.
He brought me something to eat.”
I was smiling broadly at him.
For some unaccountable reason, I felt quite happy and very relaxed about the prospect of permitting him to throw knives at me, and I decided to tell him so.
“You know, Stoker, I am really quite content that you should throw knives at me.
I have perfect faith in your
abitilies.”
“My
abitilies?
Yes, they are quite remarkable,” he said.
“Now, I want you to stay here.
I have a quarter of an hour to sober you up and I guarantee you shall not like it.
Do not move.”
He disappeared and returned again before I could find my slippers.
Salome had given me a pair of high-heeled satin mules beaded with crystals.
I swayed on them as I walked, but I fancied that was rather the idea.
“Mr. Stoker.
I cannot seem to find my slippers.”
“They are on your feet, you daft woman.
Now, pay attention.
I want you to drink this coffee.
It is black as the devil and twice as strong.
Drink it all.”
I did as he bade, pulling a face at the taste of it.
“Good girl.
Now, pull back your hair,” he instructed as he placed a basin of water on the table in front of me.
I tried, but the locks kept slipping through my fingers.
With a muttered curse, he strode behind me and gathered up the hair in his hands.
There was no warning for what came next.
He pushed me forward, holding my face under the cold water for a full ten seconds, then lifted me out.