The Duke In His Castle Read Online Free Page B

him. Maybe something with yellowing parchment and crumbling pages, with smooth dark lines of symbols rendered in cursive. Follow the curving script into a trance, embark into a bright place of meaning. . . .
    But no, she is still here.
    “Come now, aren’t you going to ask me more about her?” Lady Izelle says. “About Nairis?”
    He asks instead, “Where is that accursed merchant, the filth who brought this thing inside and then dared threaten me? Is he at least gone? What did he really want?”
    Izelle shrugs. “Oh, he’s gone. And he wanted only one thing—to be paid. What else? And so I paid him, freeing her from his vulgar clutches. She is but some poor bones, now. But she also happens to be a deceased ancient beauty and heiress. Small wonder the merchant thought there was some worth to be gained. At first he was trying to have her revived, supposedly by means of your secret powers. Then he was willing to just sell her off in whatever condition.”
    The Duke stares with incomprehension.
    “Indeed,” she says. “How very odd of him—to think of secret powers, of all things.” And a smile engages the rosebud mouth, serving to irritate and yet somehow to beguile. “In any case, as you yourself surmised, m’Lord, she’s my means of blackmailing you. Not only have you proved how much the relic sickens you, but on my way in I happened to overhear your man Harmion speak of your peculiar and pronounced dislike—and I stress the word dislike —of dead things.”
    “Why, my Lady, you really are despicable,” says the Duke, taking a step toward her. His stance is aggressive. He has been frozen all through their conversation, and suddenly he is on the move. The light from the window suffuses the fine edges of his hair with violet, while the line of his silhouette is drawn in gold.
    “If you must, I don’t hate her half as much as you think,” he says softly. “I don’t dislike or fear death any more than does any man. What I do is exaggerate my distaste considerably for the sake of unwelcome visitors such as yourself. Don’t presume for a moment that your blackmail will succeed. Because I’m about to have you thrown out before you say another word.”
    “You don’t hate her? Really?”
    She snatches the box from its place on the cluttered table and thrusts it almost in his face.
    Rossian gasps, quickly attempts to stand back, his expression filling with recoil.
    “Don’t, please. . . .” He speaks in a faint voice, for in that moment it seems he is robbed of lung capacity by an ancient pneumonia. He raises one hand, as though to summon Harmion, anyone, then breathes in a deep shudder, and is miraculously once again composed.
    “Why?” she persists, standing so close to him, holding the infernal box between them as a shield, or maybe a sword. “Is it because it has something to do with your sorcerous powers? Your secret? I knew it! Come, tell me—speak!”
    “No,” he says, straightening. “Because it smells like old mold.”
    And then a sad smile of resignation comes to his lips. “My Lady, would you join me for dinner?”
     

II: Things Somewhat More Serious
     
    E arly dinner is served in the great Hall of Violet. It is a cavernous place, beautiful as a thing of antiquity, for it too is crumbling, and repellent as a den of decay. Everything—from the great arched vault of the ceiling, the decorated frieze, the upswept pillars, and the decrepit linen tablecloth draping the long ancient table, down to the stones of the walls themselves—is in tones of purple, lavender, heliotrope, lilac, violet. Even the wine poured in their goblets by the liveried servants has a rich glint of plum and lilac when the candlelight falls on it. Candlelight is fierce and plentiful, for the Duke enjoys seeing his food and watching the play of fire upon glass and crystal surfaces, such as the chandelier that is suspended over the centerpoint of the long table in a cloud of radiance.
    They dine alone.