Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

Marianne was sorely tempted to follow the suggestion. She went to the rose parlor which overlooked the garden, and stood at the window looking wistfully out. All the roses were brown and withered now, and most of the trees were bare. The clear light and wide blue skies drew her, but she had promised Carlton not to go out; and, although she was sure his fears were groundless, she would not violate her word. Feeling very sorry for herself, she went to the music room and practiced for an hour on some of the pieces she most disliked.

Upon leaving the room she was surprised and annoyed to see Victor standing by the stairs, apparently intent on the design of a handsome Ming vase that stood on a table there. She would rather not have seen him, but she had no intention of going out of her way to avoid him, so she advanced resolutely toward the stairs. Victor looked up.

"Ah, Miss Ransom. You don't ride today?"

"No."

"But the weather is tres beau, n'est pas? What a pity to stay indoors."

Marianne did not reply. She ascended the stairs without looking back. She sensed that he continued to stand there watching her, and she had an equally strong impression that if she had turned she would have found that his obsequious smile had changed into an expression more indicative of his real feelings.

She was sufficiently upset by the encounter and by Victor's belated attempt to ingratiate himself to ask the Duchess how much longer the tutor would be with them.

"Only until I can find a replacement," was the reply. "I have written to friends in Edinburgh asking for recommendations and with luck I shall begin interviewing applicants this week. Why do you ask? The man has not bothered you, I hope?"

The serenity of her tone showed how far this possibility was from her mind. Marianne saw no reason to disabuse her. "I was only wondering," she said; and so the subject passed.

Another uneasy evening followed. The party broke up early. As Marianne was leaving, the doctor asked for a private word with her.

"I am sorry to keep you from your rest," he said formally, closing the parlor door. "I assure you I will not keep you long."

"Indeed, you need not apologize. I have been so anxious to talk to you! Only, I did not want to intrude."

The doctor smiled sadly. "You understand what is happening, don't you? You are fond of her too, I daresay."

"I love her," Marianne said simply. "It breaks my heart to see her accepting – nay, embracing…"

"Death. Strange, how hard it is for us to pronounce the word. Or perhaps not so strange, since we fear the actuality so much. I am afraid that in my own grief I have been selfish. I ought to have talked with you earlier. The position is difficult for you."

"Is there nothing we can do? Mr. Carlton suggested -"

The doctor's eyes flashed. "Carlton! Where is he, when I need him? He went off without so much as a word or a by-your-leave; most heartless and inconsiderate of him! Any suggestion of his would be absolute balderdash… But now you had better go to bed. You are very tired, I see."

Marianne put her hand to her head. "I do feel dizzy."

"Small wonder. Your nerves are under a great strain. We will talk again – tomorrow, perhaps. It will comfort both of us, I think."

He patted her hand. So natural was the gesture that Marianne could not even remember when he had taken her hand in his.

"Sleep well," he said softly. "Sleep well and soundly."

Marianne was so tired she had to drag herself upstairs. She got ready for bed without bothering to summon Annie, tucking her hair helter-skelter under her nightcap and kicking her slippers carelessly into the corner. As she reached for the candle, to snuff it, the light caught the gem on her finger and set it into a blue blaze. The ring fit her perfectly. She decided she would never take it off. It would always be a reminder of the dear friend who had given it to her.

Perhaps it was the thought of one kind elderly lady that recalled Mrs. Jay to her mind, with such vividness that she actually turned, half expecting to see the familiar, black-gowned form sitting in the armchair by the fire. The chair was, of course, empty. Marianne rubbed her eyes. She was becoming fanciful. Small wonder, as the doctor might have said.

She was about to get into bed when she remembered she had not locked the door. Foolish it might be, but she was determined to neglect no precaution, though she was now so weary she could barely force her limbs to walk to the door and back. She left one candle burning. Scarcely had her nightcap touched the pillow than she was asleep.

Deep in the grasp of nightmare, Marianne moaned and turned, flinging her arm free of the bedclothes. It was the same dream that had haunted her before: the eerie dream landscape, dim with fog, the jeering, hating faces. But this time Mrs. Jay did not scream curses at her. Marianne seemed to see her leaning against a column of rough dark stone whose top faded into the lowering mist. Her face was so thin and drawn the girl scarcely recognized it, and she wrung her gnarled hands. Her lips parted; but instead of the well-known, incisive tones Marianne heard a hollow, distant wailing, in which only a few words were audible. "Danger… care… beware…"

The mist curdled and lifted and Marianne saw that the support against which her old friend leaned was not a column but a cross, and that the tormented figure it bore was a living man, twisted in agony, the dark blood streaming from His pierced hands and feet.

She felt her lips part and a scream form in her throat. Before she could utter it, something was forced into her mouth, something coarse and crumpled that tasted, bizarrely, of tobacco. Gagging, she tried in vain to spit it out. The dream landscape had dissolved and blown away; darkness was all around her. Rough hands touched a body that belonged to her, but over which she had no power of control. She felt cold air on her bare legs and tried to move her hands, to adjust her nightgown. They would not respond. Something came over her head, down the length of her body and limbs; hands fumbled at her ankles. With an effort that made perspiration spring out all over her, she tried to break through the nightmare by opening her eyes.

They were already open.

She was close to fainting, then, and indeed the smothering gag and the muffling folds that enclosed her would have given her good cause to lose her senses. But as she was about to succumb, something peculiar happened. It was almost as if the failure of her normal, waking senses had freed some other entity that lay curled, silent and unsuspected, in the deepest recesses of her mind. A small, cool voice pointed out that there was no point in fainting; better to keep her wits about her – such of them that remained – and try to understand what was happening.

So Marianne lay still and listened; and she heard a voice growl, "Be quick about it, can't you?"

"Ah, that's better," was the reply. "The gel must've swooned; she's stopped squirming."

Marianne now realized that she had been enclosed in a blanket or a bag or something of the sort, which covered her from the top of her head to her feet and was tied around her ankles. Scarcely had she deduced this when she was hoisted up, bag and all, and tossed over a hard surface, from which she dangled ignominiously, her head hanging down on one side and her bare feet on the other. It took little exercise of intelligence to know that she was lying over a man's shoulder. The hard bone and muscle cut painfully into her diaphragm, making breathing even more difficult.

"Hurry, hurry," a third voice urged.

Marianne would have uttered an exclamation then, if she had been able. She knew that voice, though it was almost as high as a woman's. Victor! He sounded as if he wanted to scream. How on earth had such a limp custard of a man gotten the courage to abduct her, or the money to hire confederates? For there were at least two other men present.