43
THE POISONER
When returned to the home, I was conveniently allowed to roam the entire floor instead of the confines of my room. No one was allowed on the upper floors but myself and the security detail who kept me. No shackles, as a sign of goodwill.
My task seemed to be invisibility, to not burden anyone while they prepared their duties for the Appraisal.
The parlor had quickly become a favorite place of leisure. Giant houseplants like fig trees and palms, ferns tucked in corners under crystal cloches, hand-painted vases that could fit an entire body or two under the dirt.
I lay on one of the lounge chairs, the cushions gentle on my neck as I stared up at the clouds through the giant oval window in the ceiling, then made my own as I watched the cigarette smoke dance above.
“Would you like coffee and pastries before we take them away?” Amelia asked above me. I shook my head, taking another inhale of tobacco. “You’ve also been requested in the gallery.”
“Gallery?”
“The large room to the left when you come through the front. Both doors on either side of the receiving room’s fireplace open to it.” She stopped speaking when she realized I wasn’t sure. “Would you like me to escort you?”
“Yes.” I handed her my cigarette. “I thought it was being used for another purpose this week.”
“Sometimes we clear it out and use it as a ballroom.” She quickly put the ash out on a used plate. “It’s multipurpose, not often used every day. We just finished putting the furniture back.”
“So we have to house and entertain them too, while they put us on trial?” I shook my head. “Diplomacy is as irritating as it is expensive.”
“Grateful it’s not on my dime, I couldn’t imagine,” she mumbled, gesturing me to follow her.
“Am I allowed down there?” I glanced at the men standing in each corner.
She smiled politely. “Yes.”
We ventured through the halls then down to the ground floor. It was always quite an entrance coming down the wide staircase into the grand foyer.
The maid stopped before the fireplace guarding the gallery, doors closed as always. She gestured toward the door.
“I suppose you’re not coming with me?”
“I don’t think it would be wise, it wasn’t requested.” She nodded politely, leaving me to my business.
I touched the doorknob, unable to bring myself to fully grasp it.
There’s only one more person I could think of who would want to see me.
Could it be that our last encounter had put him off me completely? It was fair for him to be angry, but he knew I had little say in my role here, or the nature of my new body.
There was an urgent matter we needed to discuss anyway.
I shouldn’t assume the worst. This could be a simple request for time, to sit down and truly talk. Though Silas was not a man of words, especially those of reflection, so I wasn’t optimistic.
In turn, I could ignore this request altogether and go back to sleep. But my curiosity was getting the best of me and there was only one way to end the mystery.
I opened the door to grand ceilings, no windows, but art served as more than enough scenery.
The art pieces were large, a masterful collection.
Somehow they found a way to fill every blank wall space with some kind of scene.
Most contained antiquated depictions of monsters and myths, then some were portraits.
Much like the parlors, furniture filled the room in different pockets and styles, except most were positioned to observe the art, as well as whoever may wander the gallery.
In the middle of the room were two sofas, a chaise, and two armchairs gathered squarely around an antique rug, possibly of South Asian design.
All the furnishings, now that I looked at them, seemed as old as some of the paintings.
A purely eclectic showcase to make the room feel like it was more of a showroom than a place to gather.
I suppose his home in London was the same.
A man so desperate for memories that he collects them.
Within the center gathering, the back of a blond head.
He looked quite small in a room so grand. Just a man and his things. Will I be one to add to the collection one day? I wondered. Will I be a prisoner or a lover in his home after this?
His head turned slightly when I stepped in.
In a place so large, every small movement was announced by echoes.
“Will you still treat me with silence, even if I am here at your request?” My voice carried through the room, unsure if it would land on the only other ears present.
His fingers tapped against the sofa as his arms draped over the top. Then his arm hinged by the elbow, the gesture beckoning me to join him in the room.
I pulled my robe closer to conceal the sheer nightgown. There was very little desire to ever again wear the dress his father chose for me. Amelia was instructed to burn it.
He didn’t look at me. As I stepped into the clustered sitting area, even as I eyed him, his gaze remained far off, staring at the center of the rug.
I went to sit on the sofa across from him, but he snapped his fingers at me.
He pointed to the center marked by the designs woven into the carpet.
The design included two chimeras, lions with their talons locked, an extra head of a ram and the tails of snakes twisting about.
I stepped forward, my shoes between the lions’ mouths. A chill crawled up my neck, biting at the nape. My limbs felt cold, bare.
My eyes met his reluctantly, but he didn’t speak first.
Even if we were both dressed quite casually, it didn’t keep me from feeling like the one exposed. All black attire, nice shoes, black pants, shirt, he even kept his gloves on. His forearms bare through rolled sleeves in a lax posture.
“What is it?” I turned my chin up. “Do you wish me to beg for you to speak to me again?”
Even when I was standing tall over his seated posture, I did not feel I had any control of the situation.
His presence was demanding, more so than it had ever been.
The light, cocky posture had turned to something more.
He had gone from a stray cat to a loose panther, a predator that had lost the joy in playing with his food.
His eyes wandered, surveying me as if I would dissect myself before him for his own entertainment.
“Take it off,” he said.
I froze. The lack of specificity made me guess what exactly he was referring to. I wouldn’t be generous with my interpretation and assume he meant the robe.
The knot tied in front loosened as I pulled the tails, the silk slipping from my shoulders as I tossed it to one of the other seats.
The gallery chandelier above acted as a stage light, shining down on me. Every ripple of the gown, the shadow of my body, everything on display yet still veiled to the eye. The phantom shadows only appear to tease the imagination.
As he rose from his seat, his eyes never left me, which made it hard to keep contact in the first place. I didn’t have to be naked to feel exposed, his level of scrutiny was enough. With my eyes to the ground, he stepped around me, polished shoes stark against the rich woven patterns on the floor.
He lifted a piece of hair, letting it fall from his gentle grasp as he moved. Behind me, he brushed his knuckles against my tailbone, then dragged them upward. Each vertebrae straightened further into place as he touched. Silas didn’t resurface in my peripheral vision.
His fingers traced the back of my shoulders, pushing the neckline of the chemise nightgown wider. It fell past my shoulders, then to the floor.
Somehow in a closed room with no windows, I felt a chill. The eyes of the paintings looked to follow me, and I couldn’t see the unforgiving glare of the Creature who kept me company.
“I’ll leave if this visit is pointless.” I turned my head over my shoulder to speak.
His fingers dragged through my hair before brushing over the backs of my arms. Say something. I stared straight ahead.
“You look good,” a smugness to his tone, “nourished.”
My heart was struggling.
His hands touched my waist, palms pressed flush to the skin as he smoothed down my hips, then to the front. His fingers brushed against the vertical scar of my abdomen. His fingers twitched, then I felt an exhale beside my neck.
Silas’s body pressed to mine, his touches so gentle, so restrained.
“Are you angry with me?” I asked.
His hands left my waist to gather my hair over my shoulder. He brushed his lips against my ear, then kissed behind it. “That is far too weak a word.”
“Then say it plainly for me,” I mocked.
He wrapped some of my hair around his palm. It triggered the most delightful shiver, tickling my scalp, as if even my hair could anticipate the sensation.
“Wroth,” he said against my neck. “Ireful,” his voice strained. “Despitous.”
“Quite archaic,” I breathed, and his grip tightened in my hair. “Go on, pull the thread until my will is undone. It won’t make it better.”
He pulled my head back so he could look me in the eye. “I could kill you,” his violent words against my lips, “you know it, I know it.”
He jolted me, the sting of his fingers against my scalp making my eyes water.
“Do you hear me? I could kill you now, and I can’t decide if I would be relieved or broken.” His teeth clenched together so hard as he spoke, as if the manifestation were an animal clawing at the cage just behind the fangs barring it in.
I was shaken, truly, because I believed him.
I always did.
The problem was that I never cared if I lived.
He let me go but did not move away.
When I turned to him, it looked as if he was deciding whether it would be better to cut me down or cut me loose.
“You have caused me enough pain to span lifetimes,” he said, so slow and pointed.
My heart broke for him as much as for myself. We loved her. There would be nothing that would allow me to bring her back or close the wound. I had hoped we could stitch ourselves together, to make it right.
“And yet I still love you,” he continued. “I will love you and hate you in a cycle of guilt and longing until it eats me from the inside out.”
I stared silently, no further words to add. There was nothing to do but let him say his piece or else he would never hear mine.
“I do not know if you deserve such power over me, woman. You have ruined me. Entirely,” he laughed, “and I will forgive you in every lifetime because I just can’t help myself. I am weak to you.”
“I hear you,” I said slowly. “I see you, Silas.”
For the first time, genuine disgust. But it didn’t seem to be for me; it was pointed within.
“Will you hear me now?” I asked gently.
He puffed, opening his hands wide as if he expected me to hit him.
I knelt down on a knee, which only confused him further. I slipped off my shoe and picked it up. I stood before him without fear of consequence, because I had what we both needed.
The mirrored glass cast a metallic shimmer as it was presented between my fingers. I held it between our faces, and I made sure I held his gaze in mine.
He looked unsure of whether he should be looking at my eyes or the glass.
“It was arsenic,” I said, “and I know who did it. You do too.”
His eyes narrowed on me, silent.
“She was poisoned, weakened and vulnerable to injury just as a person would be. My bite should not have killed her.” I shook my head. “Chronic exposure right under our noses.”
Even without a single word from him, I heard his heart pick up.
“I have a plan. But do you trust me?” I tilted my head at him, placing the glass in his hand. “We know what’s about to happen. We can get justice for Phoebe, for us, and for everyone who came before and all those who will come after.”
He turned his gaze down to the glass, hand brushing against the metallic mirror.
“What do you want from me, then?” He didn’t look up from the glass.
“Talk to Amelia.” I tucked a piece of folded scrap paper into his pocket. “Secret recipe.”