The timepiece read 10:20. It was inset with lapis lazuli and had been her father's gift on her eighteenth birthday, July 8th, a little over two months ago in Hong Kong. So much has happened since then, she thought. I'll be so happy to be back in Paris, in civilization, never to return, never never nev-- Abruptly she realized that she was almost naked under the sheet. To her astonishment she found that her nightdress only clung to her arms and shoulders and was totally split down the front and scrambled up behind her. She lifted the two sides in disbelief. Wanting to see better, she slid out of bed to go to the window but again the slight soreness.
Now in the day's light she noticed the telltale smear of blood on the sheet and found a trace between her legs.
"How can my period..."
She began counting days and recounting them but the addition made no sense. Her last period had stopped two weeks ago. Then she noticed that she was slightly moist and could not understand why--then her heart twisted and she almost fainted as her brain shouted that the dreams had not been dreams but real and that she had been violated while asleep.
"That's not possible! You must be mad--that's not possible," she had gasped, fighting for air, fighting for space. "Oh God, let this be a dream, part of those dreams." She groped for the bed, heart pounding. "You're awake, this isn't a dream, you're awake!"
She examined herself again, frantically, and then again but this time with more care. She had enough knowledge to know that there was no mistake about the moisture, or that her hymen was split. It was true. She had been raped.
The room began to spin. Oh God I'm ruined, life ruined, future ruined for no decent man, eligible man will marry me now that I'm soiled, marriage a girl's only way to better herself, have a happy future, any future, no other way...
When her senses settled and she could see and think, she found herself lying across the bed. Shakily she tried to reconstruct the night. I remember bolting the door.
She peered at it. The bar was still in place.
I remember Malcolm and the foulness of his room and running away from him, Phillip Tyrer sleeping peacefully, Dr. Babcott giving me the drink and go upstair-- The drink! Oh God, I was drugged! If Babcott can operate with these drugs, of course it could happen, of course I would be helpless but that doesn't help me now! It happened! Say I get a child!
Again panic overwhelmed her. Tears gushed down her cheeks and she almost cried out. "Stop it!" she muttered, making a supreme effort for control. "Stop it! Don't make a sound, don't! You're alone, no one else can help, just you, you've got to think. What are you going to do?
Think!" She took deep breaths, her heart hurting, and tried to slam her jumbled mind into order. Who was the man?
The bar's still in place so no one could have come through the door. Wait a minute, I remember vaguely... or was it part of the dream before the...
I seem to remember opening the door to, to Babcott and, and the naval officer Marlowe... then barring it again. Yes, that's right! At least, I think that's right. Didn't he speak French ... yes he did, but badly, then they went away and I barred the door, I'm sure I did. But why did they knock on the door in the night?
She searched and re-searched her mind but could not find an answer, not truly sure this had happened, the night pictures slipping away.
Some of them.
Concentrate!
If not through the door he came through the window.
She squirmed around and saw that the shutter bar was on the floor, below the window, not in its slots.
So whoever it was got in through the window! Who?
Marlowe, that Pallidar or even the good Doctor, I know they all want me. Who knew I was drugged? Babcott. He could have told the others but surely none of them would dare to be so evil, would dare risk the consequences of climbing up from the garden forof course I shall shout from the rooftops...
Her whole being screamed a warning: Be careful. Your future depends on being careful and wise. Be careful.
Are you sure that this really happened in the night?
What about the dreams? Perhaps... I won't think about them now but only a doctor would know for certain and that would have to be Babcott. Wait, you could, you could have ruptured that tiny piece of skin in your sleep, twisting in the nightmare--it was a nightmare, wasn't it? That has happened to some girls. Yes, but they'd still be virgin and that doesn't explain the moisture.
Remember Jeanette in the convent, poor silly Jeanette who fell in love with one of the tradesmen, and allowed him, and excitedly told us all about it later, all the details. She didn't become pregnant but she was found out and the next day she was gone forever and later we learned she'd been married off to a village butcher, the only man who would take her.
I didn't allow anything but that won't help me, a doctor would know for certain but that won't help me, and the idea of Babcott or any doctor being so intimate fills me with horror and then Babcott would share the secret. How could I trust him with such a secret? If it became known... I have to keep it secret! But how, how can you, and what then?
I'll answer that later. First decide who the devil was. No, first clean yourself of this evil and then you will think better. You've got to think clearly.
With distaste she shook off the nightdress and threw it aside, then washed carefully and deeply, trying to remember all the contraceptive knowledge she possessed, what Jeanette had done successfully. Then she put on her robe and combed her hair. Using tooth powder, she cleaned her teeth. Only then did she look in her mirror. Very carefully she examined her face. It was without blemish. She loosed her robe. So were her limbs and breasts-- nipples a little red. Again she looked deep into her mirror.
"No change, nothing. And everything."
Then she noticed that the little gold cross she had worn forever, sleeping and waking, was gone. She searched the bed carefully, then underneath and all around. It was not buried in the bedclothes or under the pillows or caught in the curtains.
Last chance--hiding in the lace of the coverlet.
She picked it off the floor and went through it.
Nothing.
Then she saw the three Japanese characters, crudely drawn on its whiteness, in blood.
Sunlight sparked off the gold cross. Ori was holding it in his fist by the thin chain, mesmerized.
"Why did you take it?" Hiraga asked.
"I don't know."
"Not killing the woman was a mistake. Shorin was right. It was a mistake."
"Karma."
They were safe in the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms and Ori had bathed and shaved and he looked back at Hiraga with level eyes and thought, You're not my master--I will tell you only what pleases me, nothing more.
He had told him about Shorin's death and climbing into the room, that she had slept soundly and had not awakened but no more, only that he had hidden there safely, then had taken off his ninja clothes knowing he would be intercepted and had camouflaged his swords with them, shinned down into the garden with just enough time to gather some fallen branches, to pretend to be a gardener before he was spotted and how, even after recognizing the man from the road, had managed to escape. But nothing more about her.
How can I express in mortal words and tell anyone that because of her I became one with the gods, that when I had spread her wide and saw her I was drunk with craving, that when I entered her, I entered her as a lover and not a rapist, I don't know why but I did, slowly, carefully, and her arms went around me and she shuddered and held on though she never truly awoke and she was so tight and I held back and back and then poured forth in a way inconceivable.
I never believed it could be so marvelous, so sensual, so satisfying, so final. The others were nothing compared to her. She made me reach the stars but that is not why I left her alive. I thought about killing her very much. Then myself, there in the room.