The Villa(45)
Noel pauses, turning to look back at her. “Is it gauche to bring up someone’s dead mother whilst journeying into the underworld?”
Recovering herself, Mari shrugs. “Probably, but when has a fear of being gauche ever stopped you from anything, milord?”
Noel laughs and turns back around, taking the steps a little slower now. Mari trails behind, her fingers brushing the stone as she says, “And yes. She did. Although the entire point of that story was that Lilith wasn’t a demon at all, just a wronged woman.”
Mari hasn’t read her mother’s writing in a while. When she was younger, she’d gobbled it up in secret, spending hours in the library with her mother’s one book in her hands, her fingers tracing the words. Mari’s father had kept Marianne’s writing in the house, of course, multiple editions of the book of short stories, all her articles cut out and carefully preserved in an oxblood leather album, but Mari had never asked to see them. She’d always felt that doing so would just remind her father that she was the reason his brilliant, talented wife was dead.
Not that he needed such a reminder, of course. She knew that now. But that’s how it had worked in her childish brain, and so Mari just had that one library copy, read and reread and finally, shamefully, pilfered in her satchel to be hidden under the mattress in her bedroom.
The same copy has come with her to Orvieto because it goes with her everywhere, even though it’s been some time since she’s opened it. Still, she likes having it near, likes the cracked spine and the title, Heart’s Blood and Other Stories, in faded gold foil on the green fabric cover.
“The First Wife” was the shortest story in Marianne’s collection, almost more like a poem, really, a metaphorical, lyrical take on the legend of Lilith, said to be Adam’s wife before Eve. But Lilith had been made of the same earth as Adam rather than made from him, and she hadn’t been obedient, which of course made her wicked.
Marianne clearly hadn’t thought so, and neither did Mari. In fact, she remembered the first time she’d read that story, sitting there at the long table behind the rows of books by old dead men, and thought how thrilling it was, having a mother who would write something like this.
It had caused a minor scandal on publication, Mari had later learned, throwing churches and priests all in a tizzy. Thinking of it now, Mari knows she’ll want to reread it once they get back to the house. Maybe immersing herself in her mother’s words will bring Victoria’s voice back to her.
“Listen, Mari,” Noel suddenly says, stopping so abruptly she nearly runs into his back. He turns around, looking up at her since she’s still on a step above him.
“I was only teasing about Johnnie earlier, but … truly, you’re not interested, are you?”
Mari’s brain is still on her mother, on “The First Wife,” so it takes her a moment to even understand what Noel is talking about, and even once she does, she’s confused.
“Because if you are, that’s certainly your prerogative,” he hurries on, “and let me not to the marriage of true minds—”
Rolling her eyes, Mari gives him another shove, this one slightly harder.
“Piss off.”
Noel gives an exaggerated grimace, but Mari thinks he’s actually a bit relieved, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Okay, so you don’t reciprocate young Johnnie’s feelings then. I didn’t think you did, but you’re a very hard girl to read, Mistress Mary. Still waters and all that.”
Coming from him, Mari suspects that’s a compliment, but she’s still slightly bemused. “What does it matter to you if I did?” she asked, and he glances up at her, one eyebrow raised.
“For one, there’s quite enough sexual intrigue in the house already, don’t you think? And two … well, to be frank, if you want to step out on Sheldon, you could do much better.”
For a moment, Mari wonders if this is Noel making some sort of play for her himself. They haven’t talked about what happened that night, and Noel’s behavior toward her hasn’t changed. But she suspects that if he were declaring himself, he’d be a great deal more forward about it. “I couldn’t ‘step out’ on Pierce,” she tells him. “It isn’t like that with us, we’re … open. Free. Which you should know better than most, frankly.”
Noel makes a rude noise at that. “Please. Sheldon may tell you that, may certainly practice that for himself, but something tells me that if you were ever to act on any attraction or desire without him present, it might be another story.”
Mari has sometimes thought that herself, but she doesn’t want to give Noel the satisfaction of agreeing.
“In any case,” she says now, “I’m not interested in Johnnie. Or anyone besides Pierce.”
“Wound to the ego, balm to the mind,” Noel replies, then sighs, shaking his head. “He’s a good lad, Johnnie. Sweet and loyal. Bit like a spaniel, really. Sadly, a rubbish musician.”
“I haven’t heard him play,” Mari replies, and Noel flicks that away with an elegant gesture.
“You haven’t missed anything, believe me. He’s desperate to get in on the studio time I have booked when we’re back in London, but he just doesn’t have what it takes. I keep him around because he’s gorgeous to look at, and he has a surprising talent for finding any kind of … let us say, recreational substance a man might desire, no matter where one is in the world. Last year, he managed to get hashish in the Outer fucking Hebrides. Otherworldly, I tell you. Honestly, I thought about letting him play on the album just as a reward for that alone, but Sheldon is right—if one element is out of place, the whole thing falls apart.”