I could see exactly what was happening. He was shaping her into the woman he thought he’d always wanted. When he met her, she was unmolded clay with a modicum of talent. With Jackson pulling the strings, Claire Hunter became the marionette of his dreams.
On nights I grew bored, I replayed their greatest hits, hitting Rewind when something particularly special came up. I sat in the dark with a glass of wine by my side and a hand down my pants, alone, so damn alone, the night bleeding around me like a storm. I listened to their secrets. Their hopes for the future. Their dreams. Their plans.
They were destined for one another.
Destiny. Bullshit. There is no destiny.
Life is a series of chance encounters that arrange themselves into meaningful moments on a sliding scale between happiness and sadness, and then you die. We all die. Deal with it.
14
The Blood Fitting
I am cold, so cold, icy and shaking, but the chill comes from inside of me, deep in my chest, spreading out through my limbs.
Eyes closed, I sense the remnants of a dream: a woman with red hair and pale skin, her white gown in tatters, rain streaming down her body, her mouth open in a scream. So frightened. Is she calling out a warning? Or crying for help? She is choking, choking, a hand to her throat. Blood-red tears begin to stream down her face.
There is the slightest pressure, almost a whisper, against my forehead, as if someone is checking me for a fever.
My eyes shoot open and I jerk fully awake, sitting up with a cry. I swipe my hand frantically across my forehead, wiping away the strange lingering feeling, the horrible sense that I’ve stepped through an invisible cobweb and the silk has enveloped me, sticking to my skin like a shroud. I can’t catch my breath, I can’t swallow. I’m choking...
The pearls. The pearls around my neck, so tight, so unfamiliar. They’ve gotten twisted around the collar of my shirt and are pressing against my windpipe.
I yank them away from my skin, drag in an unrestricted breath. The clasp gives, but the strand doesn’t break, the hand-knotted silk strong even after all these years.
I pant for a few moments, until my mind catches up with my body.
You fell asleep. It was a dream. Only a dream. You’re fine. You’re okay.
Gingerly, I remove the necklace and look at the clasp. It’s bent a bit, but the safety catch held. I breathe a sigh of relief. I hardly want to tell Jack I’ve ruined his great-grandmother’s pearls the first day I’ve worn them. Careful not to break the ancient clasp, I squeeze the metal back into place and return them to my throat. They feel warm against my skin, alive.
My God, what a dream. I’m relieved to be awake. I glance at the clock; it’s nearly four. I slept for almost an hour. Wow. I need to get moving. Make myself presentable.
I resist the urge to curtsey in front of Venus as I cross the room. I settle for a simple “Hey, V. Do me a favor. Don’t let me get knocked up just yet, okay?”
It would be so much easier if she only had a head.
The French doors to the terrace stand open, and I close them for some privacy. I don’t know why I bother, it’s not like anyone can see me from here.
The bathroom is combined with a closet and dressing room. Marble vanities, thick, fluffy white towels. A huge double slipper claw-foot tub begs for me to sink into the water; when I glance up, I realize the ceiling is bisected with white rafters and painted lavender. It is an utterly romantic room. Our bags have been fully unpacked. Fatima’s doing, probably. There are expectations to be met for the new Mrs. Compton. I’m mildly uncomfortable with this. But again, I must get used to how the Comptons work.
I glance at the trashcan, sitting empty. How long will it be before the Comptons’ servants know everything about me? There is remarkable intimacy in the service of people who live in your home. They know all of your most private details. The things you choose to keep to yourself, and your physical state, simply through your daily detritus. I try to remember they are caretakers, have been in their positions for years, attending to the family’s needs, and they will take care of me now, too.
I step on something sharp and curse aloud. What the hell? I fall into the chair and draw my foot up onto my left knee. A shard of glass is sticking out of the ball of my foot. Wincing, I maneuver it out, press a tissue to the cut. Damn, that hurts.
The floor itself is travertine but the throw rug glitters in the light. It is covered in broken glass.
Carefully, I gather up the edges and tip the rug over the trashcan. The glass tinkles into the decorative metal. Well, there’s no way to get all of that out and put the rug back down. I roll it and set it to the side of the trashcan. I’ll tell Fatima, or Jack, that someone broke a glass and the rug needs to be washed.
The bleeding has stopped but the cut is deep enough that I don’t want to go sticking my bare foot in my shoes without some protection. Looking for a Band-Aid, I pull open the top drawer on the left side of the double vanity, quickly realize this is Jack’s side. His comb peeks out from beneath a piece of notepaper, folded in quarters. Suffused with curiosity, I unfold the paper.
Don’t you miss me, darling?
* * *
It is not Jack’s handwriting. I don’t recognize it at all. What in the world?
I eye the paper warily, read the note again and again. Surely this is a lover’s note from my betrothed; Jack calls me darling, has from the beginning. Instead, in strange handwriting, it feels implicitly like a threat.
Was this meant for Jack, not me? It was in his drawer, after all.
I feel anger bloom inside me. Who would send such a thing to an almost-married man? Who should my fiancé be missing?
It’s a mistake. Or a joke. Whatever. I crumple the paper and toss it in the trashcan with the broken glass, use the restroom, wash up, run my fingers through my curls to fluff them, and tear off the scopolamine patch, carefully disposing it wrapped in a tissue, as the instructions demanded. I won’t be needing it anymore.
I look at the pearls in the mirror, encircling my throat like a dog’s collar. I’ve never been one for necklaces, but these are quite beautiful. They set off my collarbones, making them look less bony and more elegant.
The French doors are open again. There must be a problem with the latch. Another thing to mention to Fatima. I pull the doors closed again, this time making sure they are secure. I mustn’t have closed them all the way before.
In the living room, in addition to amber bottles of whisky, the wet bar has an automated espresso maker, teapot, and a small fridge full of Orangina and Evian and snacks. I make an espresso and pour sugar into it. It is rich and delicious, and so strong I feel life pouring back into me. A banana and a bag of almonds later, I’m feeling more like myself.
There is a gentle knocking on the door, and a woman’s quiet voice.