Revelations

Amata long has been suspicious
Of märchen told her as a child.
She noticed early those pernicious
Untruths they sell to those beguiled,
So much that even now she winces
At tales of farm girls wed to princes.
She sees the irony—she knows
The ways her life resembles those.
But bedtime stories oft conflated
The man you married with the one
You loved for pleasure and for fun,
And that’s the part she always hated.
Hell, even in her human day
She knew things didn’t work that way.
So when the Graf proposed they marry,
Romantic love was, from the start,
Unlikely and unnecessary;
This was no business of the heart.
Now as the Gräfin, she possesses
All that her heart could want—the dresses,
The title, wealth, security,
A handsome human devotee.
The Graf she lends through her indenture
The gloss of human normalcy,
Deflecting certain scrutiny
While Galen she enjoys sans censure.
A husband and a lover, too:
The perfect fairy tale come true.
Success at years of this endeavor
Suggests her point of view prevails.
She knows her husband well, however.
He has not lost his faith in tales.
And so it is with trepidation
She thinks on his new fascination,
This Kunigunde, knowing she’s
Descended from his enemies.
Let him bewitch the minds and senses
Of human girls. Why should she care?
Nor has she any thought to spare
For Heller pacts and consequences.
But his desire for this girl spurs
The Gräfin to protect what’s hers.
So Sunday, as the Graf is dressing,
The Gräfin knocks upon his door.
He stares at her, perhaps assessing
Whatever she could be here for.
“To what, my lady, do I owe this
Rare pleasure?” says the Graf. “I know this
Intrudes upon your privacy,”
She says, “But will you speak with me?”
He lets her pass inside. Unhurried,
He finds his vest and puts it on.
“I looked for you last night ’til dawn,”
She says. “Where did you go? I worried.”
He cocks an eyebrow, says, “Indeed?
I went with Timoch, out to feed.
“What did you want?” Amata planned her
Next words, but finds them hard to say.
He says, “I’ve always liked your candor.
Don’t disappoint me now, I pray.”
She takes a breath. “I ask permission
To transform Galen. In addition,
On him that empty fief bestow.”
He thinks for half a second. “No.”
She thought he’d say that. “Do consider
His years of service here, my lord.
Such faithfulness deserves reward.”
The Graf’s reply is slightly bitter.
“Believe me, Galen will be paid.
But that is not the deal we made.”
From her he turns to face the mirror.
She tries, “But now, you could arrange...”
He cuts her off. “Let me be clearer:
Your lover does not want to change.
A fact, my lady, I expect you
Would know unless, as I suspect, you
Have not asked Galen for his choice.”
She answers in a shaky voice,
And looks away from his reflection,
“You don’t know him as well as I.”
He carefully adjusts his tie.
“I know the signs of disaffection
That he has just begun to show.
I think it’s time we let him go.”
He slides his jacket off its hanger.
She says, “You mean to kill him, then?”
She first mistakes his look for anger,
And steps back, but is startled when
He breaks into a peal of laughter
That shakes the room from floor to rafter.
“I kill him? With Luzia there
To take my head if I should dare?
That’s madness. No. A gen’rous pension
Should keep him quiet once he’s gone,
And not one drop of blood be drawn.”
“Your plan rests on misapprehension,”
She says. “That man belongs to me.
He may not go so willingly.”
She pauses for his answer, wary.
He shrugs the jacket on, and smooths
The creases. “He was temporary.
You knew that then. But if it soothes
You, know they always are. It’s trying.”
He takes her hands and muses, sighing,
“A shame, my dear, we do not find
Such feeling here, with our own kind.”
There’s truth in that. He has been lenient
With her, but his years let him be,
Those hundreds to her seventy.
She says, “Yes, that would be convenient.
Our diff’rences are far too vast.”
She pulls back, but he holds her fast.
“There’s one more thing we must get settled.”
His eyes take on a fearsome shine.
“In your affair I have not meddled;
Now cease your meddling in mine.”
Her heart drops like a hammer, shocking
Her silent. Then they hear a knocking
And Timoch in the doorway stands,
The silver goblet in his hands.
“Forgive me, Sire, for my intrusion,
But plans have changed, if you’ll allow,
And you will want to drink this now.”
The Graf’s brow furrows in confusion.
Says Timoch, “You have company.
She’s sitting in the library.”
The Gräfin sees the knowledge breaking
Upon her husband’s face. The Graf’s
Hard grip releases her, and taking
The cup that Timoch brought, he quaffs
Its contents. “Timoch, God, she shouldn’t...”
“I know that, Sire, but still, I couldn’t
Just send her off. Or was I wrong?”
The Graf says, “No.” He takes a long
Look at his fingers, which he touches
To Timoch’s. Says the Graf, “Like ice.
This cup alone will not suffice.”
Says Timoch, “I gave you as much as
We have right now. There is no more.”
“But isn’t that what Galen’s for?”
The Graf asks Timoch this, while eyeing
The Gräfin. Timoch notes his glare
And measures it before replying,
“I can’t find Galen anywhere.”
His master growls, “Well, that perplexes.
I’ll manage, though.” Again he flexes
His fingers. “Good that you’ve arrived.
It seems the Gräfin’s been deprived
Of her companion, and we musn’t
Have that. So would you see that she
Gets everywhere she needs to be
Tonight? And nowhere that she doesn’t?”
Here Timoch nods. His smile is slight.
“With pleasure, Sire. Enjoy your night.”
Among the books, upon the floor of
The second-highest balcony,
Sits Kunigunde, with a store of
Old letters resting on her knee.
She’d shown up unannounced, begged entry
Of Timoch, ever-watchful sentry,
And he gave in, though she’s surprised
He left her here, unsupervised.
Once he was gone, she went directly
Toward the leftmost of the rooms.
’Neath where the Old Graf’s portrait looms
A chest stands. She recalled correctly
The notes inside and seized the lot,
Then brought it to this hiding spot.
It was a lengthy correspondence,
She sees here, just between those two.
She’s jealous of the two respondents
But starts, impatient to undo
The ribbons tied around. She sifts the
Worn papers, scans the writing, lifts the
Signed copy of the pact away.
What does the oldest letter say?
“My Lord Graf: My name is Maria.
I doubt that you remember me,
But I was there that night to see
You come before my father, he a
Sworn enemy of yours, to bid
Him make the deal with you he did.”
Hold on. What deal? Is this referring
To the accord? But Oma said
Maria made that deal, occurring
Upon her father’s death, and led
Them down a darkened path, and so on.
This letter isn’t much to go on,
But here’s the pact, and on the line,
The Heller patriarch did sign.
It seems her grandmother’s portrayal
Of these events is less than true.
What happened? Did the deal fall through?
Maria’s note shows no betrayal
So far, but Kinge reads with care
The rest to find what truth is there.
“As you have honor, I beseech you
Receive me ere this comes to woe.
I’ve risked my father’s wrath to reach you,
And there is something you must know.
To write it, though, would only worsen
The problem. We must speak in person.
You’ve read my words, and I shall wait
For your response outside your gate.”
No answers here. To take such action
Means something happened. Something bad.
Now Kinge wishes that she had
Some record of the Graf’s reaction.
But if he met her privately
To talk, of course there wouldn’t be.
Maria’s suff’ring comes through clearly
For all that. Kinge sees, at last,
A feeling person there, not merely
Some villainess from Oma’s past.
But while she feels tremendous pity
For poor Maria, who was pretty
Much her age when these lines were sent,
Uncomfortably evident
Is how the story parallels her
Arrival here tonight. Suppose
Romantic sentiments arose
Back then as well? Her instinct tells her
It cannot be, yet must concede
There’s plenty letters more to read.
“My Lord Graf: It is wrong to write to
The architect of all my grief,
But know I may explain my plight to
No other and expect belief.
When last I saw him, Papa glowered
At me and said I was a coward,
And he was right. How I have prayed
For peace and found none. I’ve betrayed
My father and I cannot bear it.
My brothers are no help, and I
Have no one else but you to try.”
The letter ends abruptly where it
Met paper’s edge and was dispatched
Without, it seems, more leaves attached.
“Dear Graf: My mood has been so gloomy
Of late, so dark my ev’ry thought.
Your visit was a comfort to me,
As was the golden cross you brought
Me for a gift; the gesture humbles.”
Here Kinge ceases reading, fumbles
Her pendant from its nesting place
Beneath her collar. Face to face
With only half the story, meaning
Eludes her, and if there’s a plan
At work here, she’s no closer than
She was before to finding out. She’s leaning
Against the shelving, worn and sore,
When comes a clicking from the door.
At this she holds herself so still she
Can feel her thudding heartbeat slow
Against her ribs. She waits until she
Hears someone call her name below,
Then breathes out. Doubtless he can hear her,
And smell her, too. She edges nearer
The wooden railing of her tier
So he may see her. “I’m up here.”
The Graf looks up at her, not straying
From where he stands, and nor does she
Begin to leave the balcony.
It’s he first breaks the silence, saying,
“Do tell me what you’re doing, please.”
She shows the letters. “Reading these.”
A page slips through her fingers, floating
Down like a dying butterfly.
He snatches it midair, and noting
The writing, asks her, “Why so shy?
These letters were not hidden from you.”
“I know,” she answers, “But, how come you
Gave her a necklace? What was she
To you?” The Graf asks, teasingly,
“Is that the cause of all this bother?
I liked her well. And in the end,
I think she might have called me friend.”
Says Kinge, “Though you killed her father?”
As still as death the Graf’s face falls.
He turns and gestures to the walls.
“This all was open, mid-construction,
In ninety-seven. I would say
It was the site of introduction
For Heller and his sons that day.
Most hunters were a peasant nuisance,
Or such had been my father’s view since
The Middle Ages. They were fair,
Rewarding prey. He killed his share.
Soon law and science had conspired
With time to push such hunters out
Of style. No longer so devout,
They died, or fled, or else retired
From digging in the village mud
For kin they claimed drank human blood.
“Not Athanasius. Pragmatic
Maria’s father was, although
By nature thoroughly fanatic,
He did not fear my father, so
Stout iron locks and reputation
Were poor defense against invasion.
Our human servants, hapless ones
Fell first, cut down by Heller guns.
From there, the pack of hunters headed
Below to where my father slept
Beside his Gräfin. Having crept
Inside, they both of them beheaded.
They left behind but scraps and ash,
And pilfered treasures from our cache.
“I found the scene upon returning
From buying books abroad. The air
Hung thick with bitter smell of burning,
The human dead still lying where
They fell. My parents gone. My anger
Would keep me from a mournful languor;
With Timoch I began to track
The author of this vile attack.
It took some time to find the sinner,
Which I used to devise a plan.
His house we circled while the man
Was home with all his kin for dinner.
We sealed the back—a captive hunt—
And let ourselves in through the front.
“His sons saw Timoch first and swarmed him
Together, which was asinine.
I seized Ath’nasius, disarmed him,
And brought his wretched face to mine,
Enjoying his distress. I wanted
To crush his heart for how he’d flaunted
His barb’rousness. And yet, would I
Be gratified, to watch him die?
Perhaps. What of his sons, his daughter?
Alive, they might retaliate.
But must I then obliterate
Their line entire? Such pointless slaughter,
For lifetimes, vengeance our excuse.
I cast him down and whispered, ‘Truce.’
“The man refused at first, as though he
Had any choice. But I was firm.
You’ve seen his signature. You know he
Accepted, soon enough, my terms.
Retreating to restore my castle,
For months I had no word or hassle
From them. I thought the problem solved.
And here Maria got involved.
Despite my mercy, Heller scorned me.
His daughter came here to entreat
Me, threw herself down at my feet
And begged me for his life. She warned me
In detail of his perfidy,
His foolish plan to ambush me.”
He pauses here, his head inclining,
Then says: “Your ancestress was brave
And honest, her worth far outshining
The man whose life she sought to save.
And I was touched by her emotion,
Her tears, her filial devotion.
I knew I never could forgive,
But promised I would let him live.
And from that night, she represented
Her family. When she was gone?
Her daughter, granddaughter, and on
As long as her line lasts. Presented
With Heller men’s duplicity,
I thought her sex might faithful be.”
He smiles at Kinge, kindly. “Under
The treaty, she and I were bound,
But never lovers, Kunigunde.”
For moments, Kinge makes no sound.
“What happened next?” she asks, unsteady.
“He came for us. And we were ready.
Alas for Athanasius,
The sunlight was no let to us
This time. We built a web of channels
Throughout the castle. Using these,
We tracked our enemy with ease.
A false door here, some hidden panels…
We trapped him in the very room
His knife had made my parents’ tomb.”
She’s listened to his tale unfold, her
Eyes bright with tears. But something in
His voice now makes her blood run colder;
There’s markèd paleness to his skin.
“You’ve learned Luzia’s vicious slander.
She hates me, thus I understand her
Desire to lie,” he says. “But you?
The woman I have taken to
My heart?” His words throw shame upon her.
“Not I, nor any of my kind
Killed Athanasius. You’ll mind,
I am a creature ruled by honor
And promises. Be satisfied
With that, or not, as you decide.”
The Graf completes his testimony.
There’s nothing Kinge thinks to say.
He shakes his head, his visage stony,
Then turns from her to walk away.
“Don’t go!” she calls, and now she’s taking
The stairs down, all her body shaking,
To stand behind him, speaking low:
“I’m sorry. Please. I didn’t know.
I am a Heller. You can’t blame me
For lies I’ve heard since I was two.
But look at me! I’m here with you.
I trust you. Georg.” At his name, he
Turns ’round to face her. He is proud,
She knows, but looks him back, unbowed.
And then, the quiet still unbroken,
He slowly folds her in his arms.
Forgotten, any harsh words spoken;
Forgiven, any thoughtless harms.
“I wrote to you,” he says, caressing
Her hair. She quickly nods, professing,
“I read your letter like a sign
From heaven. I loved ev’ry line.”
He frowns at her. “But if you read it,
Then why did you come here tonight?
Maria’s letters?” “No, not quite,”
She says, “Your note was lovely, yet it
Got one thing, one suggestion, wrong:
I’m mortal. Waiting takes too long.”
The Graf’s strong arms like iron wreathing
Her body, Kinge rests her head
Against his chest, contented, breathing
In deep his gorgeous fragrance, bred
Of books and leather, oak and cedar,
And candlewax. Beneath the sweeter
Of these does Kunigunde mark
A scent that’s warm, alive, and dark.
Somewhere inside, a tiny flicker
Of longing she had never sensed
So strong before now, pressed against
His body, makes each breath come quicker.
As if his thoughts with hers agree,
They kiss each other eagerly.
“You’re cold!” she sputters, so astonished
She puts her palm across her lips.
By his sad aspect then admonished,
She says, “You’re hungry,” and she slips
Her trembling hand in his, to warm it.
She thinks a question, fights to form it
Aloud. “Do you want me to go?”
His fingers brush hers softly. “No.”
He must divine her thinking, yet he
Wants her to say it, doesn’t he?
“Why don’t you take some blood from me?”
His smile for her is calm and steady.
“A gracious offer, that, but why?”
“I want you to. You’re hungry, I…”
“You’re curious. It is inviting,”
He says, revealing teeth, “I fear
My bite’s perhaps not as exciting
As you’re imagining, my dear.”
A little part of Kinge panics.
She’s not considered the mechanics
Of fangs and flesh in this whole flirt.
She stammers, “How much does it hurt?”
“A little. But I can…distract you.”
His gaze sweeps over her. Her face
Grows hotter. Back to his embrace
She goes. He asks, “Does that attract you?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. He nods. “I see.
Then we’d best do this properly.
“But not here. Come!” She, trusting, harkens,
And takes his lead as they depart,
Through passages that twist and darken,
To somewhere in the castle’s heart
Where lies a modest, cozy chamber.
Its shadows black are poised to claim her
’Til he lights candles in the dim,
Which gild the room, the bed, and him.
He strokes her face. Her human passion
Makes heat enough for both; his touch
Feels less cold. Any further such
He stays, in gentlemanly fashion.
“Before we can begin,” says he,
“Two questions you must answer me.
“The first is: Where? Where shall I bite you?”
He rests his lips against her wrist.
“Right here, perhaps. Would this delight you?”
The soft skin tingles as it’s kissed.
“Inside your arm?” There, touches tickle.
She bites her cheek as not to giggle.
The Graf looks thoughtful. “Elsewhere, then.”
She quickly nods. “Yes. Try again.”
His kisses start anew, but slower.
Beginning at her throat, they trace
Her pendant’s chain toward the place
The diamond rests. A pause. Then lower.
Her heart skips ov’r a beat or two.
“Oh yes,” she murmurs, “There will do.”
Her dress slips from her shoulders, drifting
To join his jacket, vest, and tie.
He holds her to himself, and lifting
Her to the bed, he comes to lie
Beside her. She awaits him, and to
Her great delight he moves his hand to
Her hip and lightly rests it there.
“The second question now, love: Where?”
His hand she seizes in her yearning
And guides to where she wants him best.
His mouth he presses to her breast,
The frisson from his kisses turning
To lovely sweetness through her skin.
She hardly feels his teeth go in.
There’s pressure as the Graf continues
To draw her blood, but no pain mars
The singing in her very sinews;
It builds, until the girl sees stars.
Returned to Earth, but senses reeling,
She reaches for her lover, feeling
Warm skin beneath her fingertips,
And tasting blood upon his lips.
She’s not sure what comes next. “So—should I…?”
He stops her hand. “There is no need.
I take my pleasure when I feed.”
“And, did you?” He but sighs, “How could I
Describe you something so sublime?
But get some rest. You’re safe. There’s time.”
Protesting, she already drowses;
The pillow’s downy pull is strong.
Her sleep is dreamless. When she rouses,
The candles show it wasn’t long,
But where is he? “Forgive me leaving.”
His voice seems near the door. “Believing
You might be hungry once awake,
I found some food, and this to slake
Your thirst.” She takes the proffered water
And gratefully consumes a pear.
He watches her, and she’s aware
Refreshment isn’t all he’s brought her:
Maria’s letters, newly bound
With scarlet ribbon all around.
“That’s ev’ry letter. Should you heed them,”
He says, “They’ll tell you what is true.
Take all the time you like to read them;
I’m making them a gift to you.”
The gesture fills her heart to breaking.
She can’t forgive her Oma making
Him out to be a monster, since
She knows him, in his soul, a prince,
And in his heart, a man. “You must be
Off home,” he whispers. “Let me stay
With you,” she begs. “I will some day,
Some night,” he says. “I want to, trust me.
But problems here require my care,
And Grandmother awaits elsewhere.”
“She’s horrible!” huffs Kinge as she
Climbs out of bed and grabs her dress.
“She has her reasons,” he says. “Has she?
I live with her, and it’s my guess
She just likes fighting and suspicion.”
He chuckles. “Family tradition.”
“But no, it doesn’t have to be,”
She says, and holds the letters he
Has given her. “Maria knew that.
My Oma’s old and full of spite.
When I’m in charge, I’ll make it right.”
“I hope you get the chance to do that,”
He says, his voice a mordant drawl.
“Your Oma may outlive us all.”
Her turn to laugh. He snuffs the candles
As hand-in-hand they leave the room.
She wonders at the way he handles
The pathways through the night-dark gloom.
But soon, though almost blind, she senses
That something’s wrong. The vampire tenses,
Holds Kinge tighter, slows his strides.
“Stay close,” he tells her as he slides
A panel open. Light comes glaring
From gas lamps in the hall. The glint
Is harsh enough to make her squint.
The Graf is unaffected, staring
At one approaching from ahead
Who, seeing them appear, stops dead.
The Graf speaks first. “Good ev’ning, Galen.”
The man steps back, and bows. “My lord,”
He mumbles in reply, so pale in
The face, like he awaits the sword.
“Explain yourself,” the Graf says, dryly.
But Galen looks at Kinge while he
Attempts his master to appease.
“I will, my lord, but not here. Please.
Permit me to escort this lady
Home first, and then…” “Oh, I think not.”
That voice roots Galen to the spot
And Kinge, suddenly afraid he
Might faint, says, “Yes. The choice is mine.
Let Galen take me home. It’s fine.”
Her fingers press the vampire’s arm. He
Looks unconvinced. She says, “And I
Am sure he wouldn’t try to harm me.
It’s hard enough to say good-bye.
Don’t drag it out.” She feels tears starting.
His lips brush them away, imparting
A tender kiss upon her cheek.
She lifts her face to his to seek
His mouth again, for one last fervent
Farewell. He says, against her swoon:
“Have courage. I will see you soon,”
Then turns attention to his servant.
“I think that I may bear your lack
For one more hour. There and back.”
Like that, he’s gone. She feels deserted,
His words to her but little cheer;
She turns to Galen. Eyes averted,
He says, “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Hold on!” He stops his walk. “What was it
Between you two?” she asks. “Because it
Sure sounded serious.” A groan.
“It’s something I’ll sort on my own,”
He says. “The first of our concerns is
That you’re all right.” She snaps, “I’m swell,”
And hugs her chest. “So I can tell,”
He says, his voice turned harsh. He turns his
Regard away, heads down the hall,
His coldness on her like a pall.
He grips the leather of the steering
Wheel tight. This ride, she hasn’t said
A single word within his hearing,
But he feels eyes upon his head;
It’s screwing with his concentration.
About to voice his irritation,
He stops when she so quietly
Asks, “Galen, are you mad at me?”
He almost laughs, but she’s in earnest.
She says, “When I saw you today,
You told me I should stay away
From him.” “And yet,” he says, “my sternest
Of warnings just meant squat to you.
You’re nineteen. Please. What else is new?”
He shrugs. “You made your own decision.
It’s pretty much what I’d have done
At your age, and in your position.
That’s if there had been anyone
To warn me then.” Of course, there wasn’t.
He thinks she’ll leave it there. She doesn’t.
She asks, “What’s wrong?” At this, a seed
Of something bursts in him, a need
To speak aloud what he’s been mulling
Since last he bore his lady’s bite,
Since Kinge’s smile in candlelight
At St. Paul’s church. He slows down, pulling
The car upon the verge a ways.
“I’m leaving Sternendach,” he says.
“I’ll drop you off and keep on driving
The whole night through. I plan on one
Quick stop for gas and food, arriving
In Poland early, with the sun.”
No answer. Is this news so stunning?
But then she says to him, “You’re running
Away!” and stares, her mouth agape.
He says, “I’m making my escape.
They’ll hunt me, once they realize it.
But with a nice head start, I could
Get lost in some new place. I’m good
At that, I hope. ’Cause otherwise it
Won’t matter. Still, I have to try.”
She shakes her head. “But Galen, why?”
“It’s this,” he starts his explanation.
“You understand that this is my
First honest human conversation
In years? This here, with you. And I
Want more.” “From me?” she asks him, blinking.
She presses ’gainst the car seat, shrinking
As if afraid to get too close.
“Not that,” he chides her. “Don’t be gross.
I look at you, and I’m reminded
Of all the many things I’ve lost
To have this life. And it’s a cost
That, up to now, I never minded.
But things have changed. I won’t condemn
Myself to live like this. Like them.”
“I thought you loved her.” There’s such sadness
In Kinge’s eyes, it stings in his.
He says, “You know, in all this madness,
I do. But I know what she is.”
“If it’s so bad,” she says, demurely,
“Then tell the Graf. He’d listen, surely.”
He laughs. “You heard the Graf, before.
He doesn’t trust me anymore.
He’ll kill me.” “No,” she says, “he couldn’t.
The pact.” “Then he’ll see me confined
To dungeons ’til I lose my mind
And kill myself.” “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t,”
She argues, “if he understood…”
“Come on, now, Heller. Yes, he would.”
This talk of dungeons slowly killing
Turns icy fingers in his gut.
He hides his face from her, unwilling
To show his anguish. Open, shut,
He hears her door behind him. Jolted
By fears his young charge may have bolted,
He curses. But she’s back inside.
She settles in the seat beside
Him, looking at his face intently.
“You’re wrong about him, Galen. Take
My word, this is a huge mistake.
The Graf will help you.” Confidently
She lists his master’s virtues, and
Then reaches out to touch his hand.
Her words and touch both soothe and scald him.
The girl sees with a lover’s eyes,
Like him, when Amy first enthralled him.
Intoxicating, yes. But wise?
Not very, no, and at this juncture
He feels a pressing urge to puncture
Her happy dreaming, quick and clean.
“You are a child,” he says. It’s mean,
And Kunigund’ looks close to crying.
She pulls away and sits there, dumb.
He ponders what he has become,
That he should find this satisfying.
More reason he should disappear,
He thinks, and throws the car in gear.
The Heller house soon darkly grows in
The windows of the car. They’re here.
But Kunigunde sits there, frozen.
“I’m sorry,” Galen says, sincere.
He almost hates to leave her, knowing
What threats remain. “You’re really going?”
She asks, “Then who will I talk to?”
Considering this point of view,
He asks, “Why not come with me? Sunder
All ties, be free?” “You’re joking, right?”
“Of course,” he says. His throat feels tight.
“Take care of yourself, Kunigunde.”
With that, there’s nothing left to say.
He lets her out and drives away.
Could anything she said prevent him
From leaving? Now, to her chagrin,
She’ll never know. She does resent him
For spoiling what ’til now had been
A perfect night. ’S not like he likes her,
Nor she him, but too late it strikes her
That she and Galen are, if not
Quite friends, the closest thing they’ve got.
A deep breath in begins dispelling
The weight that’s gathered on her heart.
The man is gone, and for her part,
She’d rather spend her hours dwelling
On all tonight that she has dared,
On secrets learned, and pleasures shared.
“I’m home,” breathes Kunigund’ to no one,
Relieved when no one answers back.
The coast ahead is clear, although one
Can’t see but shadows in the black.
She quickly sets about removing
Her shoes, a silent tread improving
The odds of getting up the stair
Ere anybody knows she’s there.
She hears her doom before she sees it:
The sharp click of a nearby switch.
Luzia stands in lamplight, which
Her glare makes cold enough to freeze it.
And Kinge feels her innards twist,
To see his letter in her fist.