When I came to, it was late afternoon, with both of us—all three, in fact—already delivered once more to our lodgings. Dr. R— stepped in from the next room, where he had been tending to my Iris; he caught me by the arm, attempting to calm me, then told me she was still in a species of fit, having fallen down in the very midst of that bloody pagan ceremony of theirs. Felled by sunstroke, or so he maintains. In Dzéngast, I later learned, they say of one to whom this happens, “he—or she—has been crowned by the Witch, forever fixed between the minute and the hour.”
Apparently, the Kantorka and her attendants had allowed her to lie there in the heat and the dirt until their prayers were done, then dragged her back on a traverse made from shawls, far enough that the village’s men might bear her away. When Dr. R— first saw her, she was sunburnt and filthy, her hair and dress full of rye. In that moment I thanked God I had not been conscious at the same time, for I knew I would surely have performed murder on whoever had delivered her to me in such a fashion.
As it was, I went straight to my luggage and withdrew a small pistol I kept there, for defence during rough travel. I loaded it and went to seek out the Kantorka.
“What do you do in those fields?” I demanded. “Women’s business,” she had the gall to reply, so I showed my weapon, brandishing it in her face, and watched her supposedly blind eyes widen. “My wife may be dying, you old witch,” I told her, coldly, as Dr. R— shivered beside me (I having yet once more forced him to accompany me, to translate our discourse), “and I will have no compunctions over sending you along with her, if you continue to refuse me. What do you do in those fields, therefore, which left my darling as she is now?”
The girl who kept her fire looked pale, but the old woman merely smiled. “We salute the Lady,” she said at last. “We beg the favour of Her absence, that She may turn her gaze elsewhere. And we give Her offerings.” I nodded. “My wife’s painting,” I said, and she smiled again, more narrowly, so I could see the sharp tips of her teeth.
“That was what she brought, yes,” she said, with relish, “not knowing, as yet, what else she might have to give. But I do not think that was what the Lady accepted.”
The hell? I wondered, turning the page.
I paid a heavy price to extract my darling and I from Lusatia’s grasp both quickly and cleanly, the next section continued, leaving Dzéngast as far behind as possible. Dr. R— advised against such haste, for the Kantorka’s implications had caused him to examine Iris once more, confirming that she was indeed with child—perhaps as much as four months along, in fact—yet I could not by any means suffer us to stay, let alone allow our son to be born within those hellish precincts. So it was, with great effort and expenditure, that we reached the nearest port and chartered a ship home, racing nature itself to make sure we reached shore before Iris might be taken to bed. I can only thank Christ Almighty that we were within time, however, for her consequent suffering proved long, difficult, and (in the end) bloody.
Yet I do have a son now, Adelhart—an heir. His name is Hyatt. Likely the only child we will ever see, or so the doctors say. He is large and healthy, beautiful in all his parts as only befits one plucked from my darling’s lovely flesh, but there is something troubling in his very sweetness, his quietness, his lack of robust protest. Sometimes he seems more a doll or a pretty toy than a boy-child, accepting whatever we put before him with the same dignified equanimity. His eyes are dreamy, turned ever-inward, like hers when caught in the throes of creation; if nothing troubles him for long, it seems more and more likely that that is because he simply does not perceive most things in the same way we do, though he is hardly blind. Sometimes he stares at nothing and smiles, laughs, as though he hears singing, or is danced attendance upon by ghostly playmates.
Worst of all, however, is the knowledge that though my wife—my Iris—tries not to show me so, I know she is disappointed, or feels she has disappointed me. That she blames herself, somehow, for Hyatt’s condition—as though I would ever lay it at her feet, when there are so many other places for such a load of guilt to accrue! To myself, for example, for thinking I could solve her mysterious obsessions through some mere quest, that I could buy her lasting happiness. For sending her “home” in the first place, allowing that disgusting old woman to mar her mind further, exposing her to whatever horror they bow to between the furrows of that awful field, a place which surely deserves to be burnt to its roots and sown again with salt . . .
Well, enough of that. All will be as God wills it from now on, and always would have been. I accept that, fully and without regret, not least because I have no other choice.
My darling I will no longer over-trouble with marital attentions, I have decided, even after her recovery, seeing we have no reason or duty to keep trying. There are French methods after all, as you know; other possibilities, did she prove amenable. But she is an innocent girl still, for all her oddities, and in my own conscience, I cannot require of her anything she does not wish to offer freely—not loving her so dearly as I do, and always shall.
I am & remain yr own loving cousin, with a full heart & troubled mind,
In Christ Our Lord, amen,
Art. M. W.
Folding Mr. Whitcomb’s letter, I lay back, the general sound of jumping, yelling, and tinny harmonization from the next room having finally faded, at least enough to make studying the ceiling more restful than annoying. The box lay heavy in my lap as my eyes drifted closed. Outside, the streetlights were just starting to come on.
In the red dusk behind my lids, the weird synchronicity with which my own life was starting to line up with Mrs. Whitcomb’s was becoming undeniable. Headaches and insomnia, check; life-wrecking obsessions, check. Infinitely patient and supportive husband who’d do anything for her/me, check. Child with special needs, check. Seizure—sunstroke-related, supposedly—while investigating Lady Midday, check . . .
Mr. Whitcomb swum in front of my eyes, transposed from his wedding photo—celluloid collar askew, facial hair bristling, pistol in hand. He’d blamed himself, obviously, for how Hyatt ended up, just as there was virtually no doubt but that Mrs. Whitcomb had probably come to blame herself, too, over those first few months of recuperation, let alone later. The both of them stuck in painful orbit, barely able to acknowledge their own sick guilt to themselves let alone take comfort in each other—god, what a fucking tragedy.
As for the rest, though, all this gothic shit. Was that true? Could that possibly be true?
(No.)
He thought it was true, though. Why say it if not? Why write the letter at all?
Because guilt, I told myself, firmly, or general Victorian fucked-uptitude, whatever. Guy’d just decided to never have sex with his wife again, “for her own good,” and without even consulting her. No wonder their marriage fell apart.
Through the bedroom door, I heard my iPhone ring and Simon answer it, but I tuned out when he told the caller that I wasn’t available at the moment. I stayed there a few minutes more without moving, vaguely intending to get up and turn off the bedside lamp; my limbs pressed down, leaden, a mounting warm numbness spreading all over. Wondering if there was a point to walking anybody else through what I’d just read—Simon, Safie, Jan Mattheuis. Forget factual, was it even pertinent? Well, maybe as a further motivation, an explanation for the way she chose to sequester herself after Hyatt’s disappearance, channelling her pain into murals, then Spiritualism, then films—
Yeah, Kate-Mary des Esseintes and her meetings, plus that guy, “the boy.” Vasek Sidlo. I really needed to find out more about him.
With a tap on the bedroom door, Simon peered in, iPhone still against his face; he was wearing a flat expression that I’d long since learned meant, if not necessarily trouble, then something serious enough to require total attention. It was enough to snap me back and make me sit up.
“Lois?—okay, good. Yes, she’s awake,” he said into the phone, “and I think you should tell her what you just told me.” He came in, handed me the phone, and dropped into his chair, watching me intently. I put the phone to my ear, unnerved.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lois? It’s Val Moraine calling—you remember, from the Vinegar House, up in Quarry Argent?” Val’s voice was oddly subdued, as if trying to keep from being overheard. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, just thought I should check and see how you are.”
“Oh, well, that’s, that’s really nice of you,” I said, a little
nonplussed. “Nothing to report, really; tests were all clear, I’m starting a drug regimen soon . . . Is that all you wanted to know?”