“Don’t be afraid,” the Factotum consoled her, not that she could reply. “Wondrous things await you. But you must have faith!” And he thought of sacrifices, of warm hearts plucked from opened bosoms and held high to the eyes of gods. He thought of the flesh consumed, and the blood drunk fresh from newly sliced veins. Time immemorial, his pondering persisted. All of history wears the same face. Good and evil are only masks which change like the seasons. The designs scarcely matter. It was all the same in the end. Heaven or hell. Abstinence or pleasure.
Denial or truth.
The Factotum chose truth. It was his own god which beckoned him now, with providence, with truth.
What a wondrous acknowledgement!
“The balm,” he instructed. “Calm her down; she’s terrified.”
Zyra knelt and opened the tiny hand-blown bottle. The bottle looked ancient. She dribbled several drops of the warm leahroot oil onto the gagged woman’s bare abdomen, then gingerly massaged it into her skin. She did this with great care, caressing the slippery oil over the plush belly, breasts, and legs. A pleasant, cinnamony fragrance rose up with the woman’s body heat. The fervid squirming began to wind down, then abated altogether when Zyra gently rubbed a few more drops between the abductee’s legs. Now the strained face relaxed, and her eyes—previously pried open by sheer terror—narrowed against the seeping repose of the balm.
“There,” the Factotum whispered. “That’s better.”
And it was. Everything was better. The Factotum felt becalmed in his surmise of the future. The silence, now, hung about his baldhead like a halo, or a static tiara as he lent a final, smiling gaze to his acolytes. “Take the corpse up,” he instructed Lemi, then, to Zyra, “And take her down.” His gaze seemed radiant on them. He thought of them as his children.
“Soon,” he added, “it will be time to begin.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vera slowly closed her bedroom door, noticing the unopened bottle of Grand Marnier on the antique nightstand. Below it lay a one white rose, a snifter, and a little note:
Dear Ms. Abbot,
I hope that your first day at The Inn proved a rewarding one, and one of countless such days. I’m indebted to you for the expertise that you have so enthusiastically brought to this endeavor, and I’m delighted as well as proud to have you as one of my staff.
Sincerely,
Feldspar
What a lovely gesture, and how fitting. The day had been long and hard, and Vera knew that they would all be like that; a nightcap right now was what she needed. She uncorked the bottle and poured herself a drink, twirling the pretty liquor around in the wide glass to let it aerate. But why the rose? she wondered. It had been plucked of its thorns. She took it to the veranda doors with her drink. Certainly Feldspar was not making a romantic gesture—the rose was just an appreciative token. Still, she contemplated this, and herself. It seemed almost bizarre to her. Despite Feldspar’s clipped, businesslike demeanor and squat looks, she felt remotely attracted to him. Is he married? she wondered. Is he involved? Somehow, she didn’t think so; she couldn’t picture it. And why am I thinking about this anyway? What did she foresee? A potential relationship with him? An affair? Ridiculous, she scoffed. Besides, she knew full well that the biggest mistake a manager can make was getting involved with people she works with. Still, the notion tickled her.
Maybe I’m just horny, she flightily considered. The day and all its work was over now. This fact cleared her head, and left her to ruminate her own life outside of work. What did Paul think of her leaving? What was he doing now? This she could only wonder about for a moment until the awful imagery returned, and the wretched scene she’d walked right into. Even the thought of his name gave her a quick shock. I hope I never see that cheating, lying, demented son of a bitch ever again, came the bitter words.
But it made her feel naive, embarrassed. How long had she been fooled by him? How many times had she come home from work to make love to him without a clue as to what he’d been up to earlier in the day? Drugs, bondage, kinky sex. The whole thing made her positively sick.
She let the sweet liquor buff the edge off her thoughts. At least it was all behind her now, and thank God she’d always used condoms with him. Who knew what kind of diseases people like that had? Probably all of them, she thought.
The French doors offered only a view of deep winter dark now, but it was warm in the bedroom, and cozy. Then another thought—an unbidden and crude thought-popped into her mind. I wonder how long it’ll be before
I get laid again? It would require some adjusting to; she’d been sexually active with Paul for the last two years, but now, like a gavel striking its pad, the outlet was closed. Well, Vera, she joked, if things get too high and dry, you can always take Kyle up on his swimming offer. She wondered if he pulled the same come-on with other women. What a hound. Sure, Kyle, I’ll go swimming with you, but only if you wear a chain-mail jock strap with a lock on it.
She poured another drink and ran a warm bath. Even the bathroom shocked her in its opulence: a lot of gorgeous, swirled marble, bright brass fixtures, mirrored walls. The sunken bath, encircled completely by stark black curtains, was as big as a hot tub. It even had jets. Live it up, girl, she thought. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.
She undressed and eased into the froth of bubbles. The warm, fragrant water cloaked her; she nearly drifted off to sleep. There was too much to think about; her mind felt desperate to decide, so instead she thought about nothing. That felt much better.
Yet inklings kept betraying her. Sexual inklings. She sipped the sweet liquor and began to wonder more about herself. Am I attractive? Sometimes she thought she was, sometimes not. The fact that Kyle had made a pass at her was no proof of desirability. Guys like Kyle made passes at watermelons if they could put holes in them. Attraction was not something she gave much thought to—she’d always believed that physicality was a veneer, and that veneers had no valid use in relationships. But my relationship with Paul is over. So, as a single, unattached, successful, and possibly attractive woman, where did that leave her?
Alone in a bathtub, well past midnight, a million miles away from everything, she answered herself. But that was good, for now at least. Prevaricating prick that he was, Paul wouldn’t be forgotten overnight. She’d spent two years with him, a block of her life. It wasn’t something you could blink your eyes at and erase. Being so far away, however, would make it easier to deal with and, eventually, get over. She couldn’t imagine how unpleasant it would be to still live in the city. She knew so many of his friends, and she’d be running into him all the time, at the Undercroft, downtown, at restaurants, etc. A grim consideration. Here, though, she’d never have to worry about that. She could devote her full energy to making The Carriage House work.