The Monster's Wife(68)

In her mind’s eye she saw moths fluttering at candles, spinning around in dizzy circles, their bumbling wings an ungainly echo of flame’s golden dance. She was face to face with the light, with a girl who had pale, freckled skin and wild, red hair. Her eyes were large, the whites yellow in colour. Behind her ear, the ghostly skin puckered around black stitches. It looked like a bad cut. Eve stepped back. The girl’s face shrank. Eve hugged herself and took a wary step forwards.

The girl’s face grew, the skin between her eyes knitting together, the lips tight and frowning. The skin under her eyes was bruised, but there was something in their look that was familiar, in the whole face. It was like looking at the backs of her hands. She glanced down at the raw knuckles, the freckles, the bloodstained fingertips. She reached for the square of light until her fingers touched other, cool fingers.

Now there was a dark hand in front of the face, reaching out to touch her in turn. She flattened her own hand against it. The two fitted. She leaned in close to kiss the face. The girl’s lips were cold and smooth. Eve fell back, her head fuzzy with that old fury, the gathering storm. She raised her fist, drew it back, forced it towards the light. A dark hand blotted out the face. The square smashed. The face burst into pieces. Her hand burned and bled.

The lock clicked and the door creaked open. The man held out his hand, “Come.”

She faltered, remembering the sting of his fingers. She glared at the broken square, stained red. “I killed that girl…”

The man smiled. “Shame. She was rather lovely, I thought.”

Eve shrugged. “She looked sick so I ended her pain.”

He took a step towards her, “Do you not recognize that girl in the mirror? That’s you, Eve.” He rested his hand on the scar between her breasts. “Your heart is special. Did you know that?” He rested his face on her chest, pressed his ear to her skin. “Listen. It beats beneath your breastbone like a wolf’s heart. It was so broken, I never believed it would work.” His lips slid over her skin, caressing the fused flesh. She rubbed her bloody hand over his fair hair, down the slender nape of his neck.

It looked so fragile.

They left the room and Eve’s eyes darted around at new things, ticking, flickering things, red and pale, furred and smooth. With her newly bandaged hand, she gripped the man’s arm until he muttered something and peeled her fingers away. They came to a big room with a long table. Plates and glasses and knives and forks and spoons were set on it. As they walked along the length of it, Eve had a dreamy memory of rubbing beeswax into the top of a table like this and teetering on top of it to dust the glass pendants of the light. At the end of the table, they stopped and he drew back a chair, gestured for Eve to sit.

She obeyed, shivering. “Why are we here?”

“I want you to meet someone. It’s a sad day, but also a happy one, so let us toast.” He lifted the stopper from a decanter and poured two glasses. He handed her one.

She looked down, unsure. She was thirsty, but the red liquid smelled sour.

He clinked his glass against hers and sipped. “You’re promised to an acquaintance of mine.”

She choked on a mouthful of sour stuff. It ran down her chin. She stared at him, hoping he’d smile and say it was a joke.

“Oh, Eve, don’t behave like a child.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. When she turned it over in her hands, she saw it was the one with her blood on it. She dabbed at her mouth with a clean edge, watching the man’s hands close over a white box that sat in the centre of the table. He picked it up and opened it, handing her the thing inside - a small red bag.

“Look inside. Go on. Do not be afraid.”

She undid the small gold clasp. Inside was a small mirror and a pot of something red, a bottle, a knife. When she saw the last one, she snapped it shut and handed it back. “No.” Her eyes itched and blurred and she gulped back the stone in her throat.

He shook his head. “The hour has almost come, Eve. You’ll have need of these. The bottle holds a sleeping draft. When your new husband has taken his fill of you, I want you to slip the contents of the bottle into a drink and give it to him. When you’re certain he is slumbering, use the knife.”

Tears ran down her cheeks and the side of her nose. She couldn’t see. “I don’t want a husband.”

He knelt in front of her, clutching her hands until they ached. “The man you’re to marry is a murderer. If you do not kill him, he will most certainly kill you.” He let her go, stood up, paced.

She closed her eyes and let her tears run down, hearing the man’s angry coughs.





60


The man paced and drank. When his glass emptied, he poured himself more. Each time he passed by Eve, a floorboard creaked. Her teeth clenched and her hair bristled when he came too near. It was too dark outside to make out land or sea or croft, but she could hear the storm blowing. In the hall outside, the big clock ticked away the hours. Her skin pimpled with cold and her shoulders sagged towards the table, gathering in like petals. The jug ran down to its lees.

“Our visitor is late.” His fingers shook on the cork of the second bottle.

Red liquid splashed on the starched tablecloth. He pushed a full glass towards her and she pretended to sip at it, dribbling wine into the handkerchief when he turned away. He sighed, stretched, leaned on the mantelpiece, watching dots of rain spatter the window and run down jaggedly. She thought of the man who was coming. Maybe it was some new test she had to pass. The things in the bag – the knife, the sleeping draft – were things from a fairy tale. She should open the small bottle, slip the contents into the decanter, then she could go.