Chapter 50: I Am A Princess
by CollinsKid
Voice-Over (Alexandra Moltke): "My name is
Victoria Winters, and this evening
the Great House of Collinwood, as it existed in the
year 1897, has a visitor.
The visitor is not a stranger, yet not welcome in the
house. It is not a
malcontent, yet is still regarded with disdain and
horror. It is as old as time
itself, but to so many of the old, it seems as young
as the day gone by. Death
has come to the Great House of Collinwood, and
tonight, Death sings a beautiful
tune..."
god
He kissed her eyes, her neck.
(i drank wine once. it tasted like...)
His hands, wrapped under her waist, crushing her. He
was so solid, all around,
and his eyes, his *EYES*...
(...apples...)
"apples," Charity mumbled, and he stopped.
Looked at her.
"What's that?" Not loud, not harsh, not
loving, not much. Just there, and
mellifluous, and bathed in simple, owned power.
He wasn't holding her now. Charity squirmed back into
his grasp. "Nothing," she
said softly, and clung to him.
They were in her room now, a small and bare place, and
they were in the dark,
listening to rain. She held to him like a life
preserver, and felt her heart
against his nothing.
"You know you'll have to keep quiet about
me." Almost a command, almost loving.
She nodded. "Yes," she willowed, hair in her
eyes. Then:"I wouldn't want to
share...you...anyway."
"I will come to you when I need you."
Just the SOUND was like the voice of God, like what
they used to tell her about
in Study and what her father had ranted to her about;
like the rapture, which
she'd long sought and long thought that she knew and
felt, but now knew she'd
only been pretending for Father's sake...and maybe her
own. This was rapture,
pagan and priceless. This was God.
"yes," she murmured. Almost crying. In need.
There was a pause. "Is something the
matter?" Almost concerned. Her heart
leapt.
Charity choked back a sob of...what? "No,"
she said hastily, hand to her brow.
"Um. No. I just...I guess I..." She trailed
off.
"Come on. Out with it." Commanding now.
Father.
Charity bowed her head. "I've been waiting for
you, is all," she mumbled. "When
I was young -- I was waiting. We would go down to the
South in the summers, to
visit the revivals, so Father could see the preachers,
so he could commune. We
would see all the people, so devoted and, and pious
and loud, and...it was a
hot place, you know..." -- she licked her lips;
had no spit left -- "...and we
would sweat in the heat, like pigs, in our expensive
things, and watch them all
*feel God,* and I knew then what I know now. That I
didn't. I *writhed,* you
don't know how much; all my life, in my bed, under a
duvet, eleven years old,
begging for God to come and help me feel. I fooled
myself that I did. I wrapped
myself up, all wool and pins and shawls, just like
Mother. I felt white and
sacrosanct. But I'm not." She looked up at him;
into that sinkhole doom she
craved so much. "I writhed and I pleaded and I
bled and I begged, and now that
I'm with you I can see. I know. I don't want to be
white and sacrosanct. I
don't want to be wrapped up. I don't care. You're the
missing piece. You're not
the devil but you might be God, but you don't judge
me, you're just down here
with me -- writhing -- bad..."
There was an odd light in her eyes. "i've been
waiting for you."
A pause. Rain in the eaves. "I will come to you
when I need you," he repeated,
and now he sounded hasty; she'd frightened him, stupid
stupid stupid.
"I'll be here," she breathed.
He was gone.
Charity writhed.
Jenny watched her.
-
my love is like...
oh, my love is like a red, red rose....
The song played in her mind's Victrola over, and over,
and over, parched
music-ment on a rotting grinder. Jenny felt her way
through the dark, wall by
wall, edge by edge, claw over claw. She was more than
Jenny now and less than
Quentin -- though she'd always come up short, in
comparison to her godlike man
in the moon -- yes, now she was a hunter, un animale,
woman and beast, crawling
and clawing her way through man's (Judith) evil awful
jungle made of walls and
boards and tricks and slopes. Snakes and ladders and
wrong step and oh bad
Jenny.
Find a seam and dive in. Careful now; slip in and peek
about. Into the walls.
Narrower now, dark and slender, like her, like blood
on the moon, too. Slip
through the orifice, Jenny-oh-Jenny; don't be the
rabbit, be the rabbit-*hole.*
Oh, yes. She would. She had an appointment to keep. An
appointment with her
love. With the moon.
She came to the place. His place. A beautiful bungalow
in the heart of the
house. A rose-colored music machine. So many books for
such an educated man.
She remembered it all now, and indeed, she saw much of
it, through this old
peephole of the Collinseseseseses gone by. A little
shiver-thrill as she
spotted the Victrola; then, those beautiful curtains.
Oh, yes, it was all
there. And it was just about time, just about time to
reunite --
That was when she heard a giggle -- that *giggle!* --
and her eye cast about in
the hole, desperate, and then she saw. A girl. Some
slut. Blonde hair, in
tresses. An ugly rust-colored dress. Eyes like dirty
glass. In Quentin's arms.
Kissing him. Loving him. Jenny reared back from the
peep-hole in apoplectic
agony. Her heart's violin abruptly shrieked.
It was all so simple, and so stupid, and she
remembered why she'd HATED him
then, oh yes, hated him; she remembered as her
god-hero-Lumiere-moonman
disappeared with a poof and that slavering adulterer,
wolf with a lamb's eyes,
came back into focus; oh, yes, she knew, it was all
'going into town jenny' or
'mind the house jenny,' or all those *people;* 'oh
YOU'RE the new mrs. collins,
um, i see, how nice, well excuse me i must go over
here,' and then there was
please quentin just stay in tonight i don't want to be
alone with all those
friends of your sister's 'now jenny-oh-jenny don't be
difficult.' yes, he came
into focus now, and as rage and love vied for time and
speaking parts jenny
gnashed her teeth and tore at her hair and felt her
heart coil and roil...
In the room, Quentin ravaged the girl -- some young
idiot from town; wanted to
be a schoolteacher if she could just scrounge up
enough money, you know,
*somewhere* -- over and over again. She was not the
first of the day, nor would
she probably the last. They made love all over the
room, amongst other places
in the house, before they and the night were through
and she left with a
"I'llgetintouchwithyou."
And Jenny, with electric eyes that were now made of
growing anger, watched it
all.
-
tea + crumpets
"...quite a time that was; anyway, there we are,
as they say -- don't you
agree, Victoria?"
Vicki snapped out of her profound pondering of the rim
of her tea cup to
concerned glances from Edward and the assembled
idiots, I mean, guests. "oh.
Oh! Yes, yes, Edward; you're right. There we, um,
are." What were they talking
about? Nonetheless, polite laughter all around.
Vicki wanted to throw herself from the Hill. It had
been another thrilling
morning as the would-be brood mare of Edward Collins,
and this morning
consisted of yesterday morning's itinerary -- Meet
Idiot, Sit Idiot, Drink
Idiot, rinse, repeat. Today Idiot was Mr. and Mrs.
James Hume, banker friends
of Edward's from New York; you know, dear, from the
old school, and Vicki had
stared for a dumb moment, then blinked and said, 'oh
uh yes' and batted her
eyes. They drank bad, bad tea (served badly by Edward,
since "that damned Beth"
was nowhere to be found -- Vicki's heart went out to
the undoubtedly
beleaguered maid) and Vicki stared at her teacup as
Edward droned on, and as he
did she wondered if she could not perhaps kill him by
smashing the teacup over
his head and raking at his flesh with the individual
shards, if necessary.
Playing wifey was full-time duty, and awful. The
children hated her, and put
things in her bed and room. Things like live or dead
animals, depending on the
mood. Judith probably secretly hated her, or at least
watched her every move,
and made sure Beth and the servants did too. Charity
Trask thought she was
quite the unbecoming very young new wife for Mr.
Collins and Mr. Collins'
children; after all this wasn't "Jane Eyre"
now was it? And Quentin, well,
Quentin wanted to sleep with her, just like her
Quentin, except this Quentin
was a braggart lech. Even though they were one and the
same. Oh, never mind.
They Goodbye Idiot, and Edward pecked Brood Mare Vicki
on the cheek and mumbled
something like 'so sorry darling must go kill a
drifter' but she thought he
probably had really said 'see the banker,' and anyway
he was gone again, thank
God. As Vicki retreated into the drawing room, she
realized she was in fact
living the dream of A Victorian Marriage, and resolved
to burn all her novels
when she got back to the future. If she got back to
the future. Oh, where was
the sherry?
"I hope you've got a life preserver."
Vicki put her glass down and turned from the cabinet.
Quentin, at the door.
Smiling like a scoundrel.
"For the stuff, I mean. That's a tall glass and
there's some, shall we say,
tall drink in that bottle."
Vicki realized she was still clutching the huge
decanter, blanched, and put it
down. "I don't drink," she said primly.
Quentin chuckled, stepping into the room. "Not
this minute, anyway. Not til I
leave."
"And after that."
"Oh ho! You're a tougher man than I."
Quentin smiled at her, then lounged on
the divan in one swift movement. "I have to drink
just to keep up with the
banality. It's fast and furious, you know."
More prim. "I don't know what you're talking
about."
"The devil you don't," Quentin retorted
dryly. "I've seen you in here, meeting
and greeting. You look ready to rip your finger out of
its socket just to get
that ring off of your finger and this place off of
you. It's okay; don't be
embarrased! It's a natural reaction, first time round.
I sympathize."
I'll bet. Vicki's turn:"I understand you're very
good at that. All over town."
Quentin grimaced with mock pain. "Oh! To the
heart! I'm mortally wounded, Miss
Winters."
"Victoria."
"Right, right." He leaned into her.
"Say, tell me; do you really think so
little of me?"
Vicki restrained a smile, despite herself. "I
think more of you than you do --
I think."
"What a tongue-twister. You sure you haven't been
drinking, girl?"
"Positive," Vicki said. "I don't think
you're the devil, Quentin. But I also
don't buy that you're the brooding poet. I know you
don't buy it yourself. I
think you're some sort of tragically unhappy
medium."
He laughed again, but his eyes hid something. "A
smart girl. Fit to be a man."
She smiled this time. "What do you want, Quentin?
Do you want to have me, is
that it?"
He paled, never confronted so directly. "Oh,
well, hey now -- "
" -- Because I've been had before. Edward is not
the first and only. Just so
you know. But also, just so you know, when I'm with a
man, I now prefer to have
*him* just as he has me. It is not a one-way street.
Though you might think
so."
"There's that thinking little of me again,"
Quentin jested, desperately trying
to banter. "I'll have you know, I'm a lover, not
a slave trader. Why, I haven't
bartered in people since the ripe young age of twenty
-- "
But Vicki was in the lead. "-- So no, I'm not to
have. Now, I like you,
Quentin. You're a smart and decent man, under all that
pomp. I'll be your
friend if you'll be mine. But don't go looking for
more than that. My prospects
here are nil." She corrected herself:"That
is to say, I'm promised elsewhere."
Quentin stared at her. "You're quite bizarre."
Vicki blinked. "Thank you?"
"No, no," Quentin said, shaking his head.
"I...it's strange. There are no women
like you. Not on the Eastern Seaboard, anyway. It's
all fishwives or trophy
girls. Placekeepers or pieces of lint. Nothing
full-bodied, with substance, a
mouth and eyes. They talk about women like that in
books. I've never seen it."
He licked his lips. "I think maybe I have
now." He laughed sharply, wistful,
then, turning grave, he clasped her hand, and now he
was the drowning one.
"Please, Victoria Winters. Don't misunderstand
me. Be my friend. I've
been...bored a long time. Asleep. I think you might be
able to wake me up."
Victoria was crimson. "All right," she said,
patting his hand. "And now, if
you'll excuse me -- "
"Why," Quentin said, back to a brash grin,
his sudden attack of solemnity
forgotten. "Forgive me for making the comparison,
as you're like night and day,
believe you me, but you're the most interesting one
round here since old
Laura."
Vicki stopped dead.
"What?"
Her blood was ice.
"What did you say?"
Quentin stared at her, brow furrowed. He laughed
nervously. "I, I said you're
the most interesting one of the lot since Laura."
Then, suddenly, a penitent
schoolboy, very unlike him:"I'm sorry, I
shouldn't've said that -- you're
nothing like her, believe me -- but that's, that's a
good thing -- you see,
when I say there are no women like you, you must
understand I...Laura was not a
woman. Not a real one, or a good one. Laura was
something very, very
different."
Vicki stood there like a mannequin. Eyes wide. Heart
jackhammering.
(laura collins. 'mummy.' in egypt.)
(my god.)
Quentin was watching her, guarded and worried.
"I've upset you," he said,
genuine worry in his voice.
She struggled for her bearings. Turned to him, forced
a smile. "It's not you,
believe me...not that, either -- I just remembered
something -- I've got to go
-- some letters -- " And she was out of the room.
Quentin stared after her, somewhat concerned. Then, it
was gone, he broke into
a wolfish, more characteristic grin. "But don't
go too far!" he called after
her. His heart felt like liquid fire.
And in the wall, through the hole, Jenny's heart felt
like steel.
-
prospects
Angelique watched him, through the glass. Watched him
move, watched him talk.
She was getting to know Quentin Collins now.
It was essential for what she wanted to do. She'd come
out of that fire and
into that cottage, and now she had things to do. If
you wanted trouble you
should never have sent for her. So goes the story, and
it was all true.
She was the girl of Barnabas' dreams, and intended to
stay that way, for now.
What better way to get in touch with her love again
than through the avenue of
the ether that had held them both for so long? He had
killed her and she had
ended him and together they were bound forever, in
flame and ice, wrapped in
hate, bound by a ribbon of all time.
As for Quentin, he was another story. He had
possibilites. He had prospects. He
was the key to so many things, and he didn't even know
it. All he knew was that
he was about to go out and find another girl at the
tavern and have his way
with her, and then after that he might drink some
more. What a corona of a
future. What an idiot. What she had planned could only
help him.
Quentin left, and Angelique moved on, heading deeper
into the forest before
returning to the lawyer's. She plunged into the nets
and let the tendrils carry
her, and as she felt the sun on her tresses she
reveled in being a ghost-alive.
She was the unknown element now. But soon -- very soon
-- her dawn would rise.
Angelique writhed.
-
baby bird (isis)
What Nora knew of Egypt she had read in books. Books
her mother had loved.
There were pyramids, and there was sand. There were
different, odd gods --
Thoth, and Anubis, and of course Ra, and then Isis.
Nora didn't really know
what Isis did, but she loved the name. I-sissss.
Whenever she said it, she
thought of the lady behind the name, and saw in her
mind -- beautiful, and
dark-skinned, with black hair, wild and spun ebony,
coursing down her back,
whipping in the hot Egyptian (or some such) wind,
covered in pearls and dressed
in the most unladylike things. She thought of Isis,
and her heart did a little
flip as she knew someday her mother would come home
from her vacation with
Isis, Beautiful and Terrible.
And so it was Isis she saw as she lay in her bed that
night, dreaming. In her
dream she was racing through the desert, through oasis
and dune and past
thousands of storybook tableaus, until she got to her
destination, and in the
golden sunlight, with that mighty yellow orb high
above, those huge *pyramids*
loomed over her, and the palm trees danced in the wind
of the gods. She saw her
mother, suspended in air, streaming with light, eating
the sun, and as a
thousand dark men kneeled in supplication Nora thought
'all this will be mine
one day' and the birds screamed, her mother came down
from her throne in the
sun and landed next to her, in the desert.
"Do you remember the story?" her mother
whispered in her ear, and tongues of
flame whickered around Nora's cheek. Her mother's hair
was made of fire, and
beside her, Isis, the dark-skinned and wonderful
princess, stood at attention.
Nora thought Isis' tiara was on too tight.
"Yes," she said.
"Good," Mummy said, and raised her arms to
the sky. The sun cracked, and Isis
and her men went to their knees again, and the sky was
black and the pyramids
were melting. Suddenly, Nora was frightened -- but
also, kind of exhilirated.
Kind of in love. Like she was
(in her mind's eye she saw a boy, notjamison, floating
above a bed, and her
uncle quentin saying some gibberish -- 'astuaamenra')
part of this. Kind of amazed.
Burning stars rained from the sky, and as the dark men
screamed Nora knew it
was her mother that had done this to Egypt. She didn't
know how or why, but she
knew. The stars were orange and black and horrible and
beautiful. One grazed
her shoulder and Nora winced with the heat. Inside,
there was heat much hotter
in her, in her heart, in her chest, in her throat, in
her brain. Inside, she
was afire, which wasn't right because little girls
weren't supposed to be afire
and powerful, but Mummy was and now maybe she was too.
Inside, she was
blossoming.
Mummy turned from the black sky and death rain and
looked at her, and her eyes
were made of fire. "Astua," she said.
"Amen ra," Nora whispered. Then the world
went white.
Nora woke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. She
didn't scream. She didn't
cry out. She didn't anything. She just gasped awake.
What a dream, she thought as she lay back, staring at
the ceiling. She wouldn't
tell anyone. Father wouldn't approve of her mentioning
Mummy again, and Jamison
would just twist her arm like he did. No, she would
keep it to herself. Keep it
to herself and wait, and wonder -- about Ra, and
Thoth, and Isis, and Mummy,
all out there in the dying Egypt --
There was a rustle at the window, and Nora sat bolt
upright. Spun to the
window. What she saw there made the blood drain from
her face and her heart
skyrocket.
Laura Collins clung to the windowframe, bedraggled,
gown torn. Blood on her
face. Bruises on her arms. She struggled to speak, as
if every movement was
pain. She stared at Nora, eyes like a blind sibyl.
"do you remember the story?" she croaked to
her daughter, voice like broken
kindling.
Then, she collapsed.
Nora screamed.
-
i am a princess (jenny and quentin)
Quentin stumbled through the atrium of the West Wing,
crashing over the ornate
table near his door. He was quite drunk. He'd had that
wonderful talk with
Victoria, then celebrated his burgeoning relationship
with a day -- and night
-- down at that club in Bangor, carousing with Samuel
Cramer and Julie Dawson
and Leo and Frannie and all those numbskull friends of
his of old oh boy.
They'd watched the comedy routine, and the picture
show, and then they'd gotten
down to some real nonsense involving roleswapping and
other kinks that old
Sammy loved so much. He was very, very drunk, and had
come in through the back
way so as not to catch hell from Sisterdear or Beth
the weeping widow, and so
as not to upset Jamison, should the boy still be up,
as boys are wont to do.
He arrived at his door and let her face float through
his mind as he fumbled
with the doorknob. Victoria Winters. His brother's
woman. Another of his
brother's women. She treated Edward like a curio, and
a pet. She was not for
him. She had insisted she was not 'for' Quentin
either. Smart girl. Unlike all
others. Just like Laura. But with Laura came the fire,
and Quentin wanted no
part of that anymore. With Victoria, it seemed that
what you saw was the truth,
and Quentin desperately needed some truth in his life.
Oh God praise the Lord
Jesus save Charity Trask, *yes* he did. And maybe he
would get it.
Quentin finally got the door open, and stumbled into
his room, whistling that
old juke tune from the show. And froze in place, as he
saw what sat in his easy
chair.
The Victrola was going, playing his beautiful song,
and as it crackled and
bumped over the notes, Beth Chavez sat in his chair,
blood pouring from a gash
on her brow, her hair undone. Her face was a mess of
bruises and welts, and her
dress was torn, and she lay there like a broken doll.
Quentin felt both heat
and horror rise up his spine, and as she lay there,
insensate and unconscious
he thought that he would murder her new man who must
surely have been the one
to do this to her, and he felt his fists clench and
unclench, then disappear as
he prepared to tend to her and wake her and ask her
soothingly, but firmly,
where the bastard who did this to her was, and as he
moved to do so he heard a
humming.
He spun round, and saw the face of his destiny.
Jenny Rakosi Collins stood by the Victrola, in her
black dress, all netting and
slip, her red tresses a bouffant madness. Her eyes
were piggish yet brilliant,
hard gems glittering with incandescent blacklight. Her
teeth were yellow and
black and rotted and glittering with a madwoman's leer
of love/hate. She rubbed
her lizard-like hands together, like a crafty imp, and
hummed at her agape
husband. Then, she stopped abruptly, clasping her
hands behind her back, and
stared at him. Her gaze was quiet and patient, and
utterly terrifying.
"jenny," Quentin mumbled, his voice choked
with despair.
She spoke.
"My mother was a princess. And *I* am a princess.
And when I raise my hand and
say die...then, people will die."
Behind her, her hands played with the folds of her
dress, feeling for something
in her pockets.
Jenny smiled.
"Quentin," she whispered.
TO BE CONTINUED.
No comments:
Post a Comment