Fanchon's Book(62)

But I hearkened no longer, I was too busy worrying about how Kristi would react to the news. The money involved wasn't enough to commit murder for. Hardly. Compared to the millions we had dreamed of, it amounted to little more than a widow's mite. Kaputt were our cloud-woven castles in the air.

Castles?-nay, dungeons! Reserved for me. That most dreadful of dungeons once occupied by Rosalba-mine now? No, my rival's reality hadn't yet evaporated; I had bartered her dismissal for a promise I couldn't keep. No murder, no money-and I had a debt to discharge. What could I do but take Rosalba's place in the horrid dungeon? Take her place (literally!) and tilt my head back and" open my mouth and-ugh!-but what else did I have to offer?

It preyed on my mind as I headed homeward after lunch. Doomward. And yet I was already attuned to the inevitability of it-as if I had known all along that such a degradation would some day be my destiny. Kristi owned me. Didn't I have to be whatever she wanted me to be? Yes, even a murderess, if things had worked out that way, and was this any more monstrous?

Then again I may have been magnifying my misfortune somewhat or so it appeared, at least, after she heard my verbatim recital of Oliver's jarring disclosure. The news upset her, of course, but she remained less than rabid; no tantrum, no trauma, nor did she take me to task over the Rosalba-trade. Just the same, though, I sensed the terrible tension and was aware that somebody (guess who!) was going to pay for the bursting of her hope-bubble-and I had few doubts about how and where the propitiation would be made. I just didn't know when. And without even a threat-by-innuendo to guide me, I could do nothing but cross my fingers and wait.

So I waited. But I didn't need any squall-warnings to tell me that a cyclone was brewing, and I clung desperately to my attitude of premeditated acquiescence; after all, it was just another case of taking the bitter with the better, and if I kept myself expecting it-composed, prepared, actually primed for it-then maybe I wouldn't mind so much when the storm broke. Perhaps I might actually find it inoffensive. Or even quaintly intoxicating: the spirit of Rosalba, as it were. Hah! Some joke. The spirit of Rosalba. Gallows humor-a bit of dry wit gone soggy. Ho-hum, into each life a little rain must fall.

Only it didn't. Nary a drop. The impending storm just went right on impending and my unpredictable angel went into a sulk. A solitary sulk, dismal, endless, the kind that hurt, hurt deep down inside (how could she act so distant toward me?) until I couldn't bear it any more and in a wail of wistful impatience I asked if there wasn't some way I might cheer her up.

"Thank you, Fanchon. But it's my own problem."

"You're sure I can't help, darling? Oh, it's such torture when you're brooding all the time, it makes me feel so estranged from you. And guilty, too, I guess, even though it couldn't have been my fault. Are you blaming me because my stupid husband really turned out to be the poor-but-honest type of politician?"

"No. I hate him, but you're not to blame."

"Then why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not angry."

"Indifferent, then, and that's just as bad. Darling, you've got me so confused; won't you even talk about it? If you're annoyed with me then there has to be a reason, isn't that so? Please, sweetheart, I know you're disappointed about the money, but why are you taking it out on me? Is it, uh… oh, I just don't understand-could it be because of Rosalba?"

"Huh? Rosalba?" A smirk, momentarily quizzical; then her lips recovered their permanent pout. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I'll bet you miss her. And I made you get rid of her."