The Shape of Night(32)
I am ready to play his game.
Thirteen
That night I sip wine as I take a long bath in the claw-foot tub. When I emerge I am flushed and rosy. I smooth lotion on my arms and legs and pull on a sheer nightgown as if preparing to meet a lover, even though I don’t know if he’ll appear tonight.
I don’t even know if he’s real.
In the darkness I lie in bed, waiting to catch the first whiff of the ocean. That is how I will know he’s arrived, when I smell the sea that took him, and where his bones now rest. Hannibal lies curled up beside me, his purrs vibrating against my leg. Tonight there is no moon and only starlight glitters in the window. In the gloom, I can faintly make out the shapes of the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp.
Hannibal’s head snaps up and the cold, bracing scent suddenly engulfs me, as if a wave has roared into the room. This time there is no premonitory swirl of shadow, no slowly forming silhouette. I look up and there he is, fully formed, standing over my bed. He is silent, but I can feel his gaze stripping away the darkness between us, leaving me utterly exposed.
He reaches down to take my hand. At his touch, I rise from the bed as though magically weightless and stand before him. Clad only in my nightgown, I am shivering from both anticipation and the damp sea air.
“Close your eyes,” he commands.
I obey and wait for his next command. For something, anything to happen. Yes, I am ready.
His words are just a whisper: “Behold, Ava.”
I open my eyes and gasp in wonder. Although we must still be standing in my bedroom, I do not recognize the green velvet drapes hanging at the windows nor the chinoiserie wallpaper nor the massive four-poster bed. In the hearth a fire crackles and the light from its flames dances on the walls, gilding everything in a golden glow.
“How can this be?” I murmur. “Is this a dream?”
He presses his fingers to my lips to silence me. “Do you wish to see more?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Come.” Still holding my hand, he leads me out of the bedroom. Looking down at our entwined hands, I see lace at my wrists. Only then do I realize my flimsy nightdress has vanished; in its place is a blue gown made of shimmering silk, like the bolts of fabric that once arrived aboard The Minotaur. Surely I am dreaming. At this moment, do I slumber in my bed while dream-Ava is led out of the bedroom?
In the hallway too, everything is different. The carpet is woven with a pattern of vines, and on the walls, candles burn in brass sconces, illuminating a series of portraits I do not recognize. In silence he leads me past the paintings and opens the door to the turret staircase.
The steps are in shadow, but a sliver of light shines under the closed door above. As I place my weight on the first step I expect to hear the familiar creak, but the board is silent; the creak is yet to come, in a century that has not yet dawned. All I hear is the whisper of silk against my legs, and the thud of his boots as he leads me up the stairs. Why are we going to the turret? What awaits me there? Even if I want to retreat, I cannot; his grasp has tightened and is now inescapable. I have made my choice and am now at his mercy.
We emerge into a room bathed in candlelight.
I stare, enchanted. Mirrors hang on every wall and I see reflection after reflection of myself, a multitude of blue-gowned Avas stretching into eternity. Many times have I stood in this same room and seen carpenters’ tools and disrepair. Never had I imagined it as it is now, glittering with light, a room of mirrors and…
An alcove.
Red velvet curtains conceal the space that until last week was closed off by a wall. What lies behind those drapes?
“You are afraid,” he observes.
“No.” I swallow, and then admit the truth. “Yes.”
“Yet you still submit?”
I stare up at him. Here is the man I saw in the painting: windswept black hair, face like rough-hewn granite. But now I see more than a mere painting could reveal. There is a hungry glitter in his eyes that warns of dangerous appetites. I can still retreat. I can flee from this room, from this house.
But I don’t. I want to know what happens next.
“I submit,” I answer.
His smile sends a shiver through me. He is in control now, and I feel as na?ve as sixteen-year-old Ionia, a virgin in the hands of a man whose cravings will now be revealed. With the back of his hand he strokes my face, and his touch is so gentle I close my eyes and sigh. Nothing to fear. Everything to look forward to.
He leads me to the alcove and draws aside the curtain, revealing what lies beyond: a bed, draped in black silk. But the bed is not what rivets my attention; no, it’s what dangles from each of the bed’s four oaken posts.
Leather cuffs.
He grasps my shoulders and suddenly I am falling backward, onto the bed. My dress splays out across the sheets, silk against silk, blue on shimmering black. Without a word he wraps a leather cuff around my right wrist, drawing it so tight that I have no hope of slipping free. He circles the bed to secure my left wrist, moving with inexorable purpose. For the first time I am afraid, because when I look in to his eyes, I see a man who is in complete control. There is nothing I can do now to stop what is about to happen.
He moves to the foot of the bed, sweeps up the hem of my gown, and takes hold of my right foot so suddenly that I gasp. In seconds the leather cuff is looped around my ankle and pulled tight. Three of my limbs are now restrained. Even if I want to, I cannot free myself. I am pinned and helpless as he wraps the final strap around my left ankle and secures it to the bedpost. I lie spread-eagled, my heart battering my chest, waiting for whatever comes next.