"A mistake, my dear." Charles smiled at her from where he stood against the wall. "You should have left things as they were. Well, no matter, soon you will be with me and then we shall have time to do all the things once you dreamed about."
Charles who had died long ago and who had been her early love. But now she had no need of him so why did he insist on returning?
"I don't love you," she said. "You know that."
"Do I?"
"Earl is my man now and for always. Leave me, Charles. You disturb me."
His smile thinned as his shape began to dissolve and became a part of the decoration of the bathroom. Delusia or had she almost fallen asleep in the warm water? Stayed asleep as she left the tub? Remained in a near-coma as she dried herself?
"My lady?" Her maid was at her side, her eyes betraying her concern. "Is anything wrong, my lady?"
"Yes. No. Bring me a drink. Something strong." Then, as the girl hesitated. "Hurry, damn you!"
The brandy helped, the stinging astringents helped still more, and the phial of pungent vapors which she inhaled finally drove the fuzziness from her brain. Did all women feel this way, she wondered, when their bodies became the receptacle of a new life? Her hands lifted to touch her breasts, fell to caress her stomach. And yet how could she be sure? There were tests which would answer the question one way or the other and yet she was reluctant to use them. It was an added joy to guess, to wonder if her missed periods were the result of love or physical disturbance, a baby growing in her womb or a metabolic upset caused by the fulfillment of desire. Such things happened to others so why not to her?
And who could be normal in time of war?
Bleakly she looked into the mirror as the girl dressed her hair, remembering, thinking of the wounded carried back into the castle, the dead cremated in heaps where they had fallen. Too many wounded and too many dead. Drugs and surgery could help the injured but how to replace the fallen?
War-a time of much sadness. Who had said that? Charles? No, he was the confirmed cynic. Roland? Perhaps when they had walked the upper promenade and he had touched her hand and mused on the workings of the universe. How long ago now? A year? A decade? A lifetime?
"My lady?" The girl had stepped back, her task accomplished, the mane of hair lifted and crested to show its bar of silver to best advantage. A crown for the smooth perfection of her face; shimmering, beautiful in its ebon profusion.
Would her daughter have such hair?
"It pleases you, my lady?" The girl was anxious, of late her mistress had been the victim of strange moods and sudden violences. "A touch more perfume, perhaps?"
"No." The girl had an animal-like instinct for preservation. The offer, rejected, had broken Lavinia's introspection by giving her the opportunity to make a decision.
Now she made another. "The ruby necklace and pendant earrings. The matching tiara and a ring. A large one."
Gens to adorn living flesh then, studying herself, she felt a sudden revulsion at her choice. Rubies-was she mad? At a time like this to wear the color of blood?
"Take these away." The jewels made hard, rattling noises as she threw them down. "Bring me pearls-no!" Pearls were tears of pain. What then? What? "The crystals," she finally decided. "Bring me the crystals."
Faceted stones backed by metallic films graven with lines to form a diffraction grating which reflected the light in glowing spectrums. An inexpensive novelty bought when she was little more than a child when bright and shining things had held a peculiar attraction.
As war seemed to hold a terrible fascination for men.
Madness, of course, a destructive urge which caused them to volunteer and to go out and face injury and death. Would women be so insane?
Her reflection told her the answer. Fight, she had demanded. Protect what is ours. Kill if it comes to that but stand against those who would rob us. Words-when translated into reality what did they mean? The answer lay in the infirmary whimpering in pain. Rose on columns of black smoke to the sky. Was in the red eyes of bereft women, the wondering gaze of deprived children.
When would it end? For the love of God, when would it end?
"My lady?" The girl was patiently waiting. "Is there anything else?"
"No." There was nothing else. Just a thing which had to be done because, once started, there was no choice. "You can go. No-a moment." Lavinia looked at the face reflected in the mirror, that of the girl's looking, it seemed, over her shoulder. "Do you have anyone in uniform?"
"No, my lady."
"No one? Not a young man?"
"Certainly not." The girl was offended. "That would be foolish, my lady. He could be killed."
"Yes," said Lavinia. "How right you are, girl."
Dressed, perfumed, adorned she made her way downstairs to find all her preparations wasted. Dumarest was not to be seen. Roland sat alone at the table crumbling bread into little balls with the fingers of one hand.
"Earl?" He shrugged at the question. "He's busy somewhere. Did you know they brought in a prisoner? They're questioning him, I think. Lavinia-?"
But she was gone and, again, he sat alone.
The room was small, bleak, lit with a somber light from suspended lanterns. A place with a bare, ugly floor, a table, a chair on which a man sat his body held by ropes.
He seemed little more than a boy then she saw his eyes, the way they roved over her body, and Lavinia knew this was no boy but a man slow to age with a cynical disregard for others and a selfish pandering to his own whims. Dumarest glanced at her as she entered the chamber.
"Leave."
"Earl? Who is he?"'
He said, again, "Leave."
"Please, my lady." Gartok was more discreet. "There is something which must be done and it may not be pleasant."
"Torture?" She looked at the man tied to the chair. "You intend to torture him?"
He was leaning back, smiling, his hair cropped and his nose uptilted a little. His clothing bore stains and the fabric over one thigh was red with blood. His lips were sensuous and his teeth even and white. Time would harden his features and rob him of the spurious youth-if he was given time.
"Earl?"
"I asked you to leave."
"And I asked a question." Then, as he made no answer, she added, bitterly, "Has it come to this, Earl? Are we to lose the very last scrap of decency? To torture a wounded man!"
"He has a choice. He could talk but refuses to do so."
"But he will talk," said Gartok. "He and I are in the same business and I know a man when I see one. He's made his protest and acted the part but now its over. Now he will talk. Right, my friend?"
"Go to hell!"
"You see, my lady, how stubborn he is? Looking at that face you would never guess that he gouged the eyes from a helpless man and laughed while he did it. Nor that he shot an unarmed boy in both knees and left him to crawl over rocks as sharp as broken glass. I know him. I saw it done. And there was a woman-but I'd better not mention her. And he will talk, that I promise. Now let me get to work."
"Outside, Lavinia."
"You too, Earl." Gartok was blunt. "If I get nothing else out of this war I'm going to have this. Don't try to stop me. Just take your lady and go."
Lavinia was silent as Dumarest led her to the great hall. She remained silent as Roland rose, sat again as he was ignored to toy with more bread. A servant deftly served the first course. Irritably she pushed aside the plate.
"How can I be expected to eat?"
"And how can you expect men to be other than what they are?" Dumarest was harsh. "I told you once that when you hire men to kill you don't expect to get monks. Well, Kars is a killer and lives by his own code."