Birds in a cage, p.8
Birds in a Cage, page 8
Old noble family’s sigil. What the hell will I do with that?
She rested on her back as light left the room. The walls and ceiling blurred into a cream-yellow ghost. The window curtain billowed gold across the entire room so it acted as a glimmering canopy. Marcy blinked, and the silver-horned goat-woman towered over her, exposed, taking a sharp nail above her left breast and dragging it so she bled. Marcy tried to open her mouth to scream, attempted to jerk her arms out of their lead state; she tried to speak, to say No and Stop, but her vowels were the white of the dandelion, a clump scattered by the spring wind.
The goat-woman touched her neck with her right hand, the left clasping Georgina’s wrist as a sinister promise should Marcy dare to break out of her stupor.
“Love will have its sacrifices,” the goat-woman murmured. “No sacrifice without blood; the blood is the life.”
The thought of consuming blood terrified and excited Marcy. The blood on the blade, on the floor. To have that control, she craved it.
But this wasn’t control.
No water, no blood, no death. A hand clenched itself in her hair and, yanking her scalp, the goat-woman forced Marcy to her bosom like a wetnurse feeding her squealing charge; Marcy was frozen, all except for her unwilling swallowing of the blood. It rained down in sobbing torrents and puddled down her neck and collarbone.
She tried to choke on the blood so loudly her friend would wake up and somehow save her, so the puppy would bark and the canaries would scream, but the river granted her its bog-asphodels from the goat-woman’s yielding flesh, and Marcy was thrown to her pillow, her temple against the down; she was still aware of a lingering presence between her legs, nails scraping her thighs, but she was too frozen by the hotness running down her lips and cheek.
Throughout it all, Georgina was as still as a corpse.
9
Marcy collapsed into blackness, the demon fading into vapor, wisps of moonlight seeping back into the sky. The white scorched her vision, and she was no longer in bed. She was in a golden and scarlet room, hand on Calla’s elbow. Classical meadow paintings adorned the walls, and women lounged about and smoked, their limbs strewn across the chairs and tables.
Sweeping a hand around the room, Calla gushed, “My dear girl, I’m so glad you’re here! I thought you’d never come back, and I’ve missed you every day, you know—of course you know!”
Do I? Marcy said, chest aching from a pleasant tension, “I wanted to take you up on your offer.” Enough waiting. Enough fearing. She was tired of burying her nails into her palm and curling into her bed, a seashell hollowed out by the ancient, ravishing sea.
“Oh?” Calla put out her cigarette. The sleeves of her silver-trimmed jacket were a deep violet. She smelled like she tasted: sweet and bold. “And what is that?”
“I want you to paint me.”
Calla, whose beaming lit Marcy up, set her hands on Marcy’s shoulder. “Would you mind being with Liz when I do it? She’s been asking about you.”
Marcy had to pause to consider it. She wasn’t quite sure what she and Calla were, unless “kissers” was a viable title, and she wondered if such titles mattered at all. She didn’t know if she could fully trust Liz, but maybe Calla would make her behave. If that was feasible. “So long as it’s the three of us.”
Calla grinned in a way Marcy, despite her inexperience, pinned as suggestive. “She’s a fresh ol’ bearcat, isn’t she? She means well, believe me, and I think she likes someone who gives her a bit of a chase too. You’re like the Adonis to her Venus. What is the metaphor in that poem, the hawk swallowing bones and meat?”
Marcy squeezed her aching palm. “Romantic. I’m not much of a runner, you know. Or a bone.”
“You can’t expect less from the Bard. Anyhow, come with me. Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy this!”
They went hand in hand upstairs to a door farther down the hall than the bedroom Liz guided Marcy to over a week ago.
Calla, swiveling, patted Marcy’s cheek. “Wait here, darling.”
“All right, I’ll try to be patient,” Marcy teased, crossing her arms as Calla closed the door.
Voices emerged from the room. Calla’s high, easy cadence and Liz’s deep, measured words.
Calla simpered, “Of course, of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to think . . .”
“Are you lying to me? We’ve been over this. God, you can’t—”
“Darling, of course not. Don’t you trust me? It’s not one of those paintings. I only paint you that way.” The words became hushed, and when Marcy leaned to hear more, the door unlocked, and she hastily adjusted herself. Calla, with a porcelain smile, ushered Marcy inside. Marcy strolled inside the brightly lit scarlet room with its easel and many loveseats, and—dear God.
Liz slouched on a scarlet, beveled loveseat with her arms draped like willow moss on her white stockings-clad knees. At first, Marcy mistook her for nude, which would’ve been strange if she hadn’t already seen more breasts in the past month than the rest of her life, a reality she wasn’t ungrateful for. Liz wore pumps and that same vanilla-white, lacy, sheer lingerie all the other women seemed to have; she wondered if they all purchased the attire at the same place. It was innocent and elegant in its obscenity and shamelessness, the chaste Lilith attire of modern sylphs.
The most striking feature wasn’t Liz’s lush hair or appealing—to others, probably—garments, but the silvered belly scars dipping into her lower undergarments, and Marcy cursed her own thought trajectory. It was then she realized Calla had been speaking for an extended time.
“—with me? I was thinking of this scene like a Fuseli oil painting. An intriguing aspect of those sort of old, Gothic scenes, I’ve found, is the dark allure and mystical powers you see where one party dominates the other, but there’s this sort of pleasure, a Christ-like adoration of the suffering. A grace, if you will . . .”
When Marcy’s vision blurred, and jazz music played in the cobwebbed gramophone of her head, Liz abridged Calla and said to Marcy, “Come rest under me.”
Marcy curled her fists and rested them on her hips. To Calla, she said, “I want to be the one above her, not the other way around.”
Liz started, “I—”
Marcy interrupted, “No dice. This is a three-way agreement, isn’t it?”
Liz’s countenance spread into something like curiosity, and Calla furtively glanced between them. Calla said to Liz, “Is there an issue?”
Liz grinned ruefully, hand swaying languidly. “Not in the least.”
Marcy asked, “Am I expected to undress? Because I . . .”
Calla waved a hand. “Oh, no. Dear girl, forgive me in advance for being forward. You certainly have a prime form, but even so, only do what you’re comfortable with. This is all at your request.” Calla leaned to whisper in Marcy’s ear. “And feel free to slap Liz’s bum if she’s too forward.”
Marcy’s brow rose. “Wouldn’t that only encourage her?” Aren’t you supposed to make her behave?
Calla guffawed.
Marcy’s mind turned into a blank, gray ocean horizon for a minute, and she was towering over Liz with Calla adjusting her neck, hair, and arms softly. After all the adjustments, Calla was at the easel, the wet brush of paint on the canvas lulling Marcy into a deeper, pleasant stupor. Being on top was quite a delightful experience, honestly, though her arms grew numb, and sweat tickled her hairline. She didn’t hear when Calla told Liz to lower her brassiere and almost fumbled when Liz exposed herself further without a change in emotion. Her breasts curved down, and looked rather nice. Not that Marcy cared, or noticed. Because she didn’t care.
Marcy’s legs seized, she mentally traced the curve of Liz’s lips, and—
“Oh, dear,” Calla said, adjusting her skirt as best as she could with paint-streaked fingers. “I forgot the purple. I’ll return shortly.” She rushed away and left the two other women assuming the compromising position.
Blinking, Marcy asked, “Do you really want to do this?”
The lines in Liz’s face darkened, making Marcy too achingly aware of her own youth. “What sort of question is that?”
“Concern, you âne. I overheard you two arguing. Was Calla planning on painting us being intimate?”
Liz couldn’t have looked more disinterested if she were sorting tax files. “She wanted us both nude, not quite that. I told her you wouldn’t be ready.”
“Why?”
“Must we discuss this? Paintings don’t need to talk.”
Marcy leaned back and put her entire weight on Liz’s belly.
Settling a hand behind her dark hair, Liz huffed and narrowed her eyes. “Must you?”
“Paintings aren’t supposed to talk.” She grew pensive. What an odd position they were in, and not just literally. Strangers, yet near-intimates. “I don’t get out much. These ways are more forward than I anticipated. All of them.” The air, smelling of paint, parchment, and an errant musk, stilled between them.
Out of the silence, Liz said, “Hm. You’re quite well-spoken.” It was clipped, but sounded like it was meant to be a compliment at one point. Yet, Marcy detected the omitted surprisingly and fumed. She had only said that to incense her, this, this—!
Realizing how ridiculous she looked, her dress stifling, Marcy crossed her arms. “Are you shocked? Anyone can throw around a big word. Does it make them better than someone who doesn’t?”
Conversationally, Liz asked, “Do you feel safer at home?” Liz swiftly moved so she was on top, framing Marcy’s hips with her thighs.
Marcy glowered. She wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t wilt away. She had survived Hell. She could survive this. “I loved a girl, but it ended poorly.” It came out with little thought. She wanted to surprise Liz, to prove herself more experienced in the tortured ways of life than this condescending woman expected.
Liz reapplied her brassiere. “Hm. Calla told me as much—nothing specific.”
Marcy realized tears came to her eyes. “She died, all right?” Her throat hurt. Out of everyone she wanted to speak to about—no, not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “I can’t.” She hoped this would make Liz back away, but instead, Liz stared with an expression Marcy couldn’t decipher.
She said plainly, “First loves are always the most tragic.”
Marcy sniffed loudly and hoped to control herself. “She died protecting me from someone else.”
“Was it the fire in the child-killer’s home?”
Marcy rolled, so Liz fell to the floor. Liz spilled down, grunting as her hair fanned the burgundy carpet. Marcy stood above her, fists clenched and seething.
“How do you know about that?”
When Liz regained composure, she remained cross-legged on the floor. “I’ve read accounts about you, about the fire and child kidnappings.”
“Oh, have you?” Marcy spat. “Funny, you never mentioned that. Were you going to mention that before or after you bedded me?”
Liz held her hands out, speaking more quickly, “It wasn’t my intention to lead you on. I—Calla and I realized you were indeed the same Marcelle from the paper, the executioner’s daughter from the paper, but has it changed anything?”
“Yes!” The executioner’s daughter, that was what everyone called her, as if she had no motivations or accomplishments besides Papa’s work.
“You saved those children. You were a hero.”
“What happened isn’t your business. You tried to entice me—”
“Because you’re beautiful.”
“Sure, use that excuse. You tried to provoke me—”
Liz had the audacity to look baffled, and where was Calla, again? Why was Liz staying on the ground and letting someone leer over her? “I—did I?”
“What do you think? How can you expect me to believe you care?”
“I don’t—expect you to believe me, that is. I can only say what I say. And I must say I—admire someone who’d risk their lives for innocents. I’ve never done anything so noble.” Two nights, that was how long they’d had their cool spats. This wasn’t a sweeping romance, and Marcy was all right with that, except for everything winding her up right now. “That man, he was a monster. He almost seemed beyond the natural world.”
Marcy shook her head. “People do horrible things. It’s not a matter of humans and monsters.”
“Wise words from an executioner’s daughter.” Marcy’s jaw twitched. “Were you one of the children in his pit?”
Marcy exploded.
“Why? Must I justify my reluctance? My anger? My sadness?” Damn it all, she was crying again. “Am I too frigid for you?” Her lungs were submerged in water, her palm on fire. At this rate, she’d either drown or combust. “Are you afraid I’ve been taken before you could have a chance? That I’m spoiled by whatever sordid definition you have?”
Lizzy’s forehead knotted. Far from her aloof first impression, she looked perturbed, or more aptly, confused. “You wouldn’t be spoiled. What happened to you and your cousin wasn’t your fault.”
Marcy seethed. Her heart threatened to burst. Where the hell was Calla, anyway? Was purple that hard to find? What did she need purple for? “Don’t bring André into this. How dare you think you could ask about this like you’d ask about my favorite childhood toy?” She balled her hands and paced, desperately plying her fists down her cheeks to wipe away evidence of her body betraying her. The water was rising, reaching her throat.
If I found the pit faster, he wouldn’t have been in those shackles, and Rais and his minions wouldn’t have . . .
Cheeks and neck burning, Marcy sobbed into her hands and decided whether to flee. When she looked up at the other woman, who was standing, Marcy, even in her strife, was sickly delighted at the blank confusion she saw.
Liz said, “You likely won’t believe me, and that’s suitable, but I truly never meant to make you uncomfortable.”
Marcy glared. “Then you’re rather ineffective.”
“Yes, I know. It seems when you hardly interact with anyone besides servants, you lose your ability to socialize without everything sounding like an order.”
She’s one of those.
Wrung out, Marcy said dryly, “Ah, what a terrible life you’ve led. I sympathize, truly.”
Liz wrapped a red robe around herself; she looked different person from the hawkish woman who had stalked around the room and manipulated even the most insignificant minutiae. Still, given their height difference, Liz had to bow her head to meet Marcy’s stinging gaze. “I deserve no sympathy. I’ve been learning more about people the more I’ve been with Calla. It . . . hasn’t been a simple lesson. May I touch you?”
“What?” Marcy tightened the hold she had on herself. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Just an embrace, for comfort. Nothing untoward. You look like you need it, but you don’t have to.” When nothing happened, Liz continued, more than a little flustered, “In fact, forgive me, I was wrong to suggest—I haven’t—”
Sighing, Marcy leaned her head against the thick wool, Liz’s collarbone. Liz wrapped both arms around Marcy’s back, her hold loose and awkward, and yet it was warm; it was the first embrace Marcy had had that wasn’t from her family or Jehanne. Despite herself, she basked in uncertain warmth before she remembered herself, remembered Jehanne, who all but screamed under her flesh.
When Marcy broke away, Liz briefly held Marcy’s left hand with both her own, and Jehanne was calm.
“I need to go,” Marcy croaked, returning the hand to herself as a frail shield.
Liz’s brow furrowed. “The painting isn’t finished.”
Jutting her chin up and arching her shoulders, Marcy strode toward the door. “Fuck the painting.”
10
Marcy woke up with the taste of spilled pennies in her dry mouth and a dull headache. The sheets were twisted around her legs like she was a skewered mermaid. Sunlight seeped through the curtains, and Georgina snored with her back facing Marcy. Georgina, soft where Liz had been hard; delicate where Liz had been iron. Marcy touched the side of Georgina’s neck, withdrawing when she could affirm her friend hadn’t died in her sleep. The puppy stretched and yawned between them.
Sliding away quietly, Marcy donned her old taffeta robe and felt the corner of her mouth with two fingers. Something was crusted there, so she rushed to the boudoir and its smirking glint to see that the only thing there was dried spit.
Ambling to the living room, she peeked out of the curtains with both knees on the couch cushion. The sun shone, and the songbirds warbled and twittered. No patrol cars on the street. Only one auto in the driveway.
