Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“You draw well, Mr. Sizzlehorn. You have a deft hand, almost as deft as my own.”

“I do?”

Outside both of them heard the distinctive thump of Dr. McPhee’s footsteps approaching. But neither seemed to care, held as if in a spell by the attraction between them. Margaret, seeing that Alistair was hampered by protocol, took the initiative.

“Perhaps one day you might escort me to the show of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood at the National Gallery. They are controversial but quite brilliant artists, I believe.” Quickly she thrust her card into Alistair’s waistcoat pocket, a moment before McPhee burst through the door.

“Margaret! What is the meaning of this?” McPhee stood in the doorway, bristling with outrage. His niece immediately ran over and embraced him, which softened his fury considerably.

“Uncle! I grew tired of waiting for you in the lobby so I found my way here.”

“And how was that?” McPhee demanded, glaring at Alistair accusingly.

“A very nice lady at the entrance desk told me you might be found in this office.”

“Alistair, is this true?”

“Absolutely; your niece found her own way here.”

“Well, now she is leaving,” McPhee announced, taking the girl by the arm.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sizzlehorn,” Margaret managed before she was propelled back out into the corridor.

Five minutes later McPhee returned.

“I see ye have almost completed the catalogue, boy. As of tomorrow ye’ll be moved back downstairs where ye can compile a set of illustrations of Grecian vases from the first century A.D. I’m happy to report that the pastoral scenes painted upon these vessels are banal in the extreme. And, Master Sizzlehorn, if I should hear any rumor that ye are playing court to my niece, your employment will cease immediately. I hope, as a gentleman, I have made myself clear on this issue?”

“Perfectly,” his assistant responded, the throb of disappointment in his breast.

The clocks chimed five and Toby arrived as punctual as ever, wearing a festive frock coat of pastoral green rimmed with yellow velvet.

“These are my country rags,” he announced cheerfully. “I am to Whistlewaite this evening—my lady has begun the final preparations for the spring rite. She has told me you are to be collected on the eve of the twentieth, which is tomorrow, and driven to the estate, where you shall be washed and fed. The ritual itself is to take place at midday on the twenty-first. Are you prepared, sir?”

Alistair again wondered how much of a confidant Toby was for Lady Whistle. The juxtaposition of his extreme youth and savoir faire deterred the archaeologist who always felt hopelessly naive alongside the valet’s cocky worldliness.

“I am ready,” he replied faintly.

“Then put a smile on, sir, it should be an adventure. Most men would give their left testicle to be in your position. You’re a lucky man, sir, a lucky man.” The valet winked. His words shocked Alistair.

“But what am I sacrificing? Answer me that,” he responded, articulating his fears out loud. The valet smiled, then did a dance shuffle in his buckled shoes.

“Nothing you wouldn’t have sacrificed sooner or later, believe me.”

“Does Lady Whistle share all her secrets with you, Toby?”

“Me and Lady Whistle go back a few centuries. She trusts me and I trust her.”

“A few centuries?”

“A figure of speech, sir,” the valet finished mysteriously, then left carrying the last illustration for the catalogue.

There are times in a man’s life when his destiny takes on the form of a pendulum, swinging precariously between two directions; times when the normal constraints and social mores by which one lives are rendered as meaningless as melting snow. This was such a time for our protagonist.

As Alistair cleaned the shavings of charcoal from his desk, warmed his hands on the water heater, and looked one last time out of the barred window clouded by the shadows of nesting pigeons, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of doom. Sighing deeply he glanced about the office. On the one hand his senses were stretched as thin as a drumskin upon which excitement had begun its relentless beat; on the other, he felt paralyzed by the intuition that his life was about to change irredeemably. The question was: how?

Outside the museum, instead of turning left—his usual direction home—the apprehensive youth turned right and made his way across High Holborn, down Drury Lane, and toward the river. The waxing moon shone, making shadow witches of the trees and turning every iron railing into the turrets of a magical castle. Alistair was lost, not in thought, but in a rare fog of sensations; a harking back to a more primitive reasoning as something other than logic guided his feet.

What was his fear? He tried to rationalize his emotions. Was it the loss of innocence? It is merely a physical transition, another voice answered, a carnal voice bristling with impending adventure. Don’t worry, you will remain unchanged in essence. You will just gain experience, knowledge of how to pleasure another, it continued seductively.