Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No.”

“Perhaps I should leave and let you go to bed.”

“Please do not go— please .” Her eyes were suddenly frightened.

“Of course, I shall stay if you wish.”

She bit off a piece of bread. “I am being foolish. Go if you wish. I only... I am tired now, but when I lie down I grow so... restless. How can I be so weary and yet not sleep?” The question had an undercurrent of anxiety.

“You are overly tired. Let me give you something, and then I shall stay until you fall asleep.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You really are a generous person.”

“Oh, do stop it, Violet! I assure you, I am no paragon, no angel in womanly form. You know better.”

“Ah, but you are an angel in womanly form, that bearer of the divine spark, that divine vessel meant to guide the errant nature of your husband onto the spiritual plain.”

“Now you are delirious. Whatever have you been reading?”

“All that is needed are the darling children, four boys and four girls.”

“Rather more than I had in mind.”

“But there will be children?” Her dark eyes were fixed on me.

“Oh, yes. When we are ready.”

“Ah. The Princess of Wales was quite worn out when she was our age. She had borne the Prince, our future king, six children by the age of twenty-six. Her reward was that he took up with Lily Langtry, the first of his whores to be publicly flaunted. Have you seen Mrs. Langtry on stage? They say she is still a beauty but has gotten quite fat.”

“Violet...”

“I am sorry. Please pardon me. My mind sometimes does cartwheels. Perhaps you should give me the magic potion so you can be off.”

“I can stay as long as you wish.”

“You are very kind, but I have imposed on you long enough. Besides, I am so exhausted I can hardly think straight. Do you ever wish you could shut off your mind? Mine just seems to go and go like some mechanical thing, the same tired thoughts repeating themselves endlessly.” Her eyes had an unhealthy glint.

I took her empty water glass and filled it from the pitcher near the bed.

“All of life seems like clockwork,” she said. “It all just goes, the wheels and cogs turning ceaselessly. The key has been wound, and now the machine must run. It is out of my hands. I thought I was controlling it, but I am only one tiny part, one more cog. There can be no retreat, no turning back.”

I gave her so curious a look that she laughed.

“Surely by now you know not to pay any attention to my ravings.”

I added a few drops of an opiate to the water. “Drink this.”

She took the glass, swirled the liquid. “Will it keep me asleep? I... I do not like waking in the early morning.”

“It will,” I said, knowing that my firm pronouncements were often more effective than my medicines.

She raised the glass. “ A ta santé, ma chère amie .” She drank it down.

“Now get into bed.”

She stood up and swayed slightly. I stepped forward and seized her arm. Again I had a sense of being so much larger than she. She smiled at me. “I am only a little dizzy. It is nothing.”

I led her to the bed and drew aside the covers. “Do you sleep with your robe on?”

“Yes, the sheets are cold—icy.”

I thought of the familiar warmth of Henry beside me at night, and something seemed to catch in my throat. I drew the covers over her. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. I turned and walked toward the fire.

“Michelle!” She had sat up in bed, her eyes wide open.

“I am only getting a chair.”

“Oh. Yes.”

I brought the chair over to the bed and turned down the flame of the nearby lamp.

“Do not turn it off.”

“I shall not.”

I sat down by the bed. Violet smiled at me. The drug already seemed to have soothed her agitated mania. Her pale thin face showed all her weariness. She had dark circles under her eyes, her mouth pinched. She looked so ill it frightened me. I reached out and took her thin white hand in mine.

“You are so cold.”

“I am freezing. It was nice by the fire.”

I put my hand on her forehead. “You have no fever.”

She gave a restless sigh. “If only I could sleep.”

“You will, and I shall be here until you do. You have my promise.”

She smiled. “Did your mother tuck you in when you were a child?”

“Yes, she did.”

“I wish I had known my mother. My nanny tucked me in, and sometimes my father. He would tell me bedtime stories.”

“I’m afraid I cannot remember any.”

“His stories usually had insects in them. The ants were very good, very civilized, while the beetles were bad.”

I laughed. “I would have liked to hear one of those stories.”

“They were wonderful. I like stories, except ones with gypsies.”

“We shall not talk about gypsies. Besides, Sherlock believes there are no gypsies involved. Whoever is behind it, he will catch them.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“Yes. He is very tenacious. He will not rest until he figures things out.”

The wind rattled the windows again. “Do you like the sound of the wind?” Violet asked.

“When I am inside, warm, and comfortable!”

“I do not like it. It makes me feel frightened. Mr. Holmes is very different from how I thought he would be.”

“In what way?”

“He is not such a machine, and he is so interesting. And he has hungry eyes.”

I laughed. “So you noticed that?”

“Yes. But it is not mere appetite as with the Reverend Killington or Donald’s father. I thought women would not interest Mr. Holmes, but they do.”

“You interest him very much.”

“I wish... I wish I had not met him this way. I thought I had him all figured out. If only... But it is too late.” She had closed her eyes.

I wanted to take her hand again, but she was nearly asleep. “Perhaps it is not so late,” I murmured.

“It is too late. Years too late. It...” She paused mid-sentence, then she began to breathe very softly and regularly.

I sat back in the chair. “Oh, Violet, whatever am I to do with you?” My voice quavered slightly.

I walked back to the fire, then sat down and put my boots back on. Outside the wind had grown fierce. I wanted to stay awhile, but I could not keep my eyes open. Finally, I stood up. Violet was obviously sound asleep, but she looked so sick.

I closed the door softly behind me and went downstairs. Lovejoy insisted on fetching a carriage, and I had a wild, wet, windy ride home. As soon as I saw Henry, I rushed into his arms.

“What is it? You are so cold. Are you...?”

“Just hold me for a moment,” I said.

“Gladly. I did miss you,” he murmured gently, and his tone of voice, his touch, seemed to resonate through me as if I were a harp or other instrument, the feelings—the melodies—beyond my control, some mysterious law of harmonies guiding me. As we went upstairs, I told him I would talk about Violet in the morning. We lay together in the darkness, and I clung to him as if I were cast adrift in frigid waters. I fell asleep almost at once, but my dreams were troubled. Violet’s ghostly face with its corona of black hair stared at me. I kept reaching out for Henry.

Eight

When the morning light fell on my face, I put a pillow over my head and went back to sleep. When I finally woke up, I rolled over and felt with my foot for Henry, but he was gone. I was very warm and comfortable, but then memories of the night before came back. I glanced at the clock.