House of Bathory(39)

“Wow,” whispered John. “Will you look at that!”

Betsy swallowed, watching her old lover—her ex-husband, the man who was mesmerized only by numbers and mathematical formulas—stroke his open palm over the image.

“What do you see?” Betsy said, kneeling down beside them.

“A huge gold gong and sea monster,” began John.

“He’s not a monster,” said Daisy, offended. She twisted her crucifix cord around her fingers.

“What are you talking about? Look at those fangs,” said John.

“It’s an underbite—the opposite of fangs. The fish has a benevolent look in its eye. It’s not attacking the boat—it’s protecting the voyager.”

“And what do you make of the shipwreck underneath?” asked John.

“What shipwreck?” Betsy said.

“Look, in the depths. There’s a boat that hit the rocks and sank.”

Betsy blinked. Until he said it, she had seen nothing. There it was. A sunken boat. And suddenly a thought shot through her mind as she looked at John and Daisy, their heads close together.

If we had a child when we were first married, she would be Daisy’s age by now.

“Wow, John. You are right, the wreckage of a ship!” said Daisy, tracing the dark green swirls. She looked up at her analyst.

“Come on, Betsy. What do you see?”

Betsy hesitated. She thought of the visit Morgan had paid her. She thought of her mother lost in Slovakia.

And from the hundreds of books on the crowded shelves, Daisy had pulled down The Red Book, the birthday present her mother had sent just last month.

Fuck the patient-therapist relationship.

“I see eyes. Eyes in the sea, eyes in the sky. Watching,” Betsy said.

Daisy nodded her head slowly.

“Yeah. I see them, too.”





Chapter 23

ČACHTICE CASTLE

DECEMBER 17, 1610





Vida dreamed of eyes, glowing cats’ eyes, watching from the darkness.

Everywhere she turned, the eyes followed, unblinking.

She woke with a start, a sudden cold draft curling under her throat. The door had been opened to the dungeon.

Vida buried her hands deep inside the woolen cloak she wore as a blanket. Her fingertips traced the outline of her ribs, skin stretched tight over bones.

She sensed an absence, a silence in the corridor. Sometimes the other girls, including the favorite Hedvika, left their servant chambers to accompany the Countess in what was referred to in whispers as “night games.” Tonight must be one of those nights.

Her stomach groaned. She could stand it no longer.

Vida pulled herself slowly to her feet, taking care not to make a sound. Her soft leather shoes made little noise on the stone floor and even less on the thick Turkish carpets, looted from Ottoman war camps.

She descended the winding stairway, not daring to light a torch. In the dark, she might step on a skulking rat. But she was too hungry to care.

Before she reached the door of the larder, she could smell the pungent aromas of the treasures within. Brona set rat traps next to the clay-lidded bowls, ringed around the vessels like a standing infantry.

Vida pushed aside the beeswax-sealed pots of preserved fruits, the small kegs of honey. She stood on a wooden cask, her hands searching for the goose fat.

At last, behind a crate of bacon packed in coarse grains of salt, she saw it. Brown crockery beaded with cold grease. For a moment her head spun. She gasped for breath to keep from fainting.

One hand seized the small pot, the other sunk knuckle-deep into the yellow fat. She plunged her hand into her mouth, sucking and licking at her fingers.

Then she heard the buzz of flies and she turned her head.

A pale-skinned man stared at her. He was dressed all in black velvets and satins, appearing from nowhere. He held an ivory cane aloft and with a sudden sharp movement brought it down and smashed the crock in her hands into bits.

Her scream echoed through the stony corridors of Čachtice.

He looked at her hands, embedded with shards of crockery, speckled with blood.

He met her eyes and smiled, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight.





Chapter 24

CARBONDALE, COLORADO

DECEMBER 17, 2010





You shouldn’t be here,” Betsy said. “It’s getting late and your mother must be wondering where you are.”

“It’s not that late. And she doesn’t care.”

“You still have to go, Daisy,” Betsy said.

Daisy closed the book and pulled herself to her feet. She made a couple of attempts to speak, but no words came. Only a hoarse rasping rattle. Her hand flew to her throat, her eyes widening like a frightened animal.

Betsy dropped her arms.

“It’s all right, Daisy. Look at me,” she said, her hands cupping the girl’s shoulders. “Look at me! Stay calm. Follow your breath in and out of your nose, like you were tracing it with a bright light. See it move in, move out.”