“But, master,” whispered Elizabeth, “they will need a surgeon, surely. They are torn asunder! Frances and I cannot—”
“Do it!” snapped Weyland, and then, taking the hands of the imps, marched from the room.
A minute later Elizabeth heard their feet stamping and pattering up the stairs. She breathed deeply, summoning her courage, then managed to get to her feet and walk over to where Frances lay.
She gave her a hard shake by the shoulder. “Wake, for God’s sake, Frances, wake up! I can’t do this on my own!”
Catling watched while Elizabeth finally managed to rouse Frances. As they began their terrible task she made no move to aid them.
Weyland escorted his imps up the stairs, higher and higher, until he reached the top floor.
The imps chattered between themselves, and wriggled about, as if uncomfortable in Weyland’s grip, but he paid them no attention. He was numbed by what he’d seen downstairs.
What he’d done downstairs.
With every step he justified his actions.
Charles had to be contained.
Noah’s suffering was the only means through which this might be achieved.
Charles had to be contained.
Noah had to suffer, it was the only way he could do it.
Charles had to be contained.
Noah was the only means by which he could…damn it. Curse it! Why was he trying to justify himself? Gods, he’d murdered tens of thousands throughout his many lives. Why quibble now over the cries of one simple woman?
But hardly “one simple woman”.
They reached the top of the stairs, and Weyland nodded at the door that led into his Idyll.
“There we shall rest,” he said, “and you shall hear how you may aid me.”
The imps nodded dutifully, and Weyland led them forward.
The door swung open as they approached and, hesitating only slightly (never before had he led anyone into his Idyll) Weyland took the imps through.
He let go their hands once they were in the vestibule.
The imps stood, their mouths drooping open.
“Well?” said Weyland, trying to inject some cheerfulness into his voice.
The imps, their mouths now closed, surveyed the vastness.
“Don’t like it much,” said one.
“Too gaudy,” said the other.
“Then find yourselves some shadowy corner and lurk,” snapped Weyland, “for I find myself tired of you!”
So saying, he abandoned the imps, and strode off deeper into the Idyll.
Idol Lane, London
NOAH SPEAKS
I had not thought even Weyland capable of such cruelty. This sounds naive, I know, but after I realised that it was he who had come to me and healed my back, and after I recalled how he had torn that repulsive man from my body…I had thought that perhaps the worst was behind me. I knew that he planned something terrible for Charles’ return into London, but I had never thought he would do this: tear both Jane and myself apart, and use our agony to send Charles a greeting on his arrival.
I had never thought…
I had never realised…
I had never suffered so as I did the instant Weyland set those terrible imps to tearing their way forth from Jane’s and my bodies.
I felt that imp slash its way through every single one of my pelvic organs on his frightful journey to the base of my spine. I felt him rip me apart, and thus torment became my entire world.
Nothing else existed.
All thought of Charles fled.
All thought of the Game vanished.
I even forgot that terrible moment when Weyland had mentioned asking me for shelter (and that little piece of terror had occupied most of my waking hours during those days he kept us trapped in the kitchen). But I was so consumed by pain, the only thought I had was to hope that death would snatch me sooner rather than later. Nothing else mattered. All I wanted was the relief of death.
But of course death stood by and did nothing, for Weyland had better things planned for me. I would be kept alive, but in agony, because that would amuse him and it would tear Charles apart.
What was it he’d spoken to Charles as I descended into hell (and Weyland had made sure that I heard this, too): Know that I only need her alive, I don’t need her whole.
I remained conscious until the imp tore his way through my back. How can I describe what that felt like? I can’t. There are no words for it. It would have driven me insane, I think, had it not been for…
Jane.
When Weyland had sent my imp on its rampage while I’d been at Langley House, he’d sent Jane into agony as well. Somehow we’d touched during that time, shared our suffering, and briefly comforted each other through that sharing.
It happened again as we both writhed about the floor of that kitchen, our bodies tearing apart about us. We met in some bleak wilderness of despair and anguish where, desperate, we touched and then clung to each other. It was somewhere beyond Weyland’s knowledge. I don’t know how I understood this, but know it I did…as did Jane. We had not escaped our agony in this strange wilderness, but we drew some small measure of comfort from our shared suffering.
It wasn’t much, and, eventually, it wasn’t enough. We could feel our flesh tearing away from our bodies, feel our blood drain away, feel Weyland’s eyes on us as we suffered. I think that we would have lost our minds, deliberately, as a means of escaping from the pain and horror, save that…
Save that, as we slid towards that welcome abyss of insanity, we heard a voice.
Follow me.
We paid it no attention. It had no meaning to what was left of our lives.
Follow me.
The voice was neither male nor female. We did not recognise it. We ignored it once more. The abyss before us was so tempting, and offered such an escape…who cared if Weyland took my mind? I no longer did. He was welcome—
Follow me!
This time the voice roared through us. It was full of such power that we shrieked, and I felt Jane’s fingernails tear through the skin of my shoulders.
Follow me, whispered the voice, and this time it was gentle and seductive, and, with no willpower left, Jane and I followed.
I blinked, then screwed my eyelids shut. I was aware of two things: that I still clung to Jane, and that my pain was miraculously gone (strangely, the absence of pain was almost as painful as its presence).
I gulped in air and felt Jane do the same.
I tried to open my eyes and this time succeeded if only to almost close them again as I squinted against the bright sunlight. We were outside, but where? And how?
Slowly my eyes became accustomed to the light, and, with Jane, looked about.
“We are in Tower Fields,” she said, her voice bewildered.
Indeed we were (my memory coming from my life as Caela rather than this life; the landscape, although much built over, had not changed a great deal). We stood in the open space just beyond the northern walls and moat of the Tower of London. In the distance we could hear the roar of the crowds—somewhere further to the west Charles was still engaged in his jubilant parade.
“But how…?” Jane said.
“By my aid, of course,” said a voice—that voice which had saved us—and Jane and I let go of each other and whipped about.
A woman stood some four of five paces away, surveying us with a self-satisfied smile.
The style of her dress gave me pause, for I was not used to seeing women dressed in the ancient Minoan manner standing about in the grassy fields of London.
The woman wore a flounced skirt of red silk that fell to just above her ankles, stiffened with many layers of petticoats, and a jacket of cloth of gold, embroidered with yet more golden threads and pearls and jade. It had three-quarter-length sleeves, wide stiffened lapels and a collar, and lay open to her waist where it was loosely held together with scarlet ties. She wore no blouse beneath it, and the open lapels of the jacket revealed her bare, firm breasts.
She wore little jewellery save for a collection of thin golden bands about her right ankle and her left wrist.
Her face was stunning: finely boned, yet giving the impression of strength rather than fragility, the woman had a broad, high forehead, large and elongated dark eyes further emphasised with an outlining of kohl, gracefully arched and drawn eyebrows, and a full and sensuous mouth that was painted the same red as her skirt. Her skin was the same rich cream of her breasts.
A magnificent head of hair crowned all of this bounty. Very dark, almost black, it rippled in bright waves down her back and shoulders.
If I had been a king I would have lusted for her, for she radiated power as well as beauty.