Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty

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.