his story. To gain my sympathy so he could use
me. And yet, when I gave him his chance, he turned away from
me.”
Christine stepped out of her gown and tossed
it carelessly onto a nearby chair, then began removing her chemise.
She tilted her head to one side, recalling more of Vincent’s
words.
“Yet I do appeal to him. He told me
so,” she remembered, slightly comforted by the thought. It was so
strange. She had always thought of beauty in terms of face and
fashion. It hadn’t occurred to her that her body could be a source
of fascination.
Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hands to
her breasts, then ran them experimentally over her body, sensing a
new awareness of her physical form, a new yearning, a foreign
hunger. She conjured up a mental picture of Vincent’s body, the way
his muscular firmness had felt as she had pressed her softness
against him.
A shudder racked her body. “Oh, Vincent,”
she breathed on a sigh, reliving their impassioned kiss in the
garden. “I’m so sorry!”
How she had tempted him in her innocence,
her silly, juvenile stupidity! He was, after all, a man, with a
man’s yearnings. And she was a woman, feeling the first real
stirrings of her womanhood.
Love, to Christine, had always meant holding
hands, and kissing, and thinking sweet thoughts. This feeling, this
sudden warmth mixed with mounting frustration, she knew without
being told, was another side of love. This was loving. This was
needing. This was wanting.
She willed her hands back to her sides.
“There seems to be a whole wealth of
information Aunt Nellis has neglected to impart to me,” she decided
thoughtfully, quickly removing her remaining garments and nearly
diving into the concealment of her heavy cotton nightgown.
She mounted the small wooden steps and crept
onto the wide bed, sliding her feet under the covers to touch the
now cold brass warmer. Her tears were back, silent tears that knew
nothing of shame but much of understanding.
“Dearest Vincent,” she whispered into the
darkness. “How much you must love me, if you are willing to send me
away.”
Fifty feet. Not an insurmountable distance.
It would take him less than half a minute to close the gap. Two
doors. Just wood, easily disposed of by depressing the right
triggers. No great barrier to keep him from what he wanted. No
hindrance at all.
He raised his hand to hold it suspended six
inches above the candle in the holder beside his chair. He couldn’t
feel the heat. But, if he lowered his hand, the heat would do more
than warm him. It would burn him. If he could hold his hand three
inches above the flame for a count of fifty, surely he would
deserve a reward.
He closed his eyes and carefully lowered his
hand until he could feel the heat radiating into his palm. “One...
two... three...” he began, slowly counting the numbers out loud the
way he had done so many times before in so many other private games
meant to keep him from going insane. He barely noticed the
discomfort.
“.... nine... ten... eleven...” The heat was
beginning to penetrate his skin. Or was this madness itself,
twisted around to make him think he was sane? Had his solitude
finally served to unhinge him? Was he seriously considering such an
asinine, juvenile stunt to be a game? Did he really believe he
could use this trial by fire as justification for traveling down
that fifty-foot-long passageway to claim Christine for his own?
He pulled his hand away, disgusted with
himself, and flung his body back into the chair he had been sitting
in, sulking in, when Christine had crept into his chamber. “I must
be mad,” he muttered, dropping his chin onto his chest as he glared
into the fire.
The firelight danced over his sprawled
figure, reflecting in his eyes, highlighting his flawed perfection,
revealing his inner torment. He looked into the flames, but he saw
only Christine. Christine, kneeling at his feet, her dark hair
tumbling away from that slight widow’s peak to flow
me. And yet, when I gave him his chance, he turned away from
me.”
Christine stepped out of her gown and tossed
it carelessly onto a nearby chair, then began removing her chemise.
She tilted her head to one side, recalling more of Vincent’s
words.
“Yet I do appeal to him. He told me
so,” she remembered, slightly comforted by the thought. It was so
strange. She had always thought of beauty in terms of face and
fashion. It hadn’t occurred to her that her body could be a source
of fascination.
Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hands to
her breasts, then ran them experimentally over her body, sensing a
new awareness of her physical form, a new yearning, a foreign
hunger. She conjured up a mental picture of Vincent’s body, the way
his muscular firmness had felt as she had pressed her softness
against him.
A shudder racked her body. “Oh, Vincent,”
she breathed on a sigh, reliving their impassioned kiss in the
garden. “I’m so sorry!”
How she had tempted him in her innocence,
her silly, juvenile stupidity! He was, after all, a man, with a
man’s yearnings. And she was a woman, feeling the first real
stirrings of her womanhood.
Love, to Christine, had always meant holding
hands, and kissing, and thinking sweet thoughts. This feeling, this
sudden warmth mixed with mounting frustration, she knew without
being told, was another side of love. This was loving. This was
needing. This was wanting.
She willed her hands back to her sides.
“There seems to be a whole wealth of
information Aunt Nellis has neglected to impart to me,” she decided
thoughtfully, quickly removing her remaining garments and nearly
diving into the concealment of her heavy cotton nightgown.
She mounted the small wooden steps and crept
onto the wide bed, sliding her feet under the covers to touch the
now cold brass warmer. Her tears were back, silent tears that knew
nothing of shame but much of understanding.
“Dearest Vincent,” she whispered into the
darkness. “How much you must love me, if you are willing to send me
away.”
Fifty feet. Not an insurmountable distance.
It would take him less than half a minute to close the gap. Two
doors. Just wood, easily disposed of by depressing the right
triggers. No great barrier to keep him from what he wanted. No
hindrance at all.
He raised his hand to hold it suspended six
inches above the candle in the holder beside his chair. He couldn’t
feel the heat. But, if he lowered his hand, the heat would do more
than warm him. It would burn him. If he could hold his hand three
inches above the flame for a count of fifty, surely he would
deserve a reward.
He closed his eyes and carefully lowered his
hand until he could feel the heat radiating into his palm. “One...
two... three...” he began, slowly counting the numbers out loud the
way he had done so many times before in so many other private games
meant to keep him from going insane. He barely noticed the
discomfort.
“.... nine... ten... eleven...” The heat was
beginning to penetrate his skin. Or was this madness itself,
twisted around to make him think he was sane? Had his solitude
finally served to unhinge him? Was he seriously considering such an
asinine, juvenile stunt to be a game? Did he really believe he
could use this trial by fire as justification for traveling down
that fifty-foot-long passageway to claim Christine for his own?
He pulled his hand away, disgusted with
himself, and flung his body back into the chair he had been sitting
in, sulking in, when Christine had crept into his chamber. “I must
be mad,” he muttered, dropping his chin onto his chest as he glared
into the fire.
The firelight danced over his sprawled
figure, reflecting in his eyes, highlighting his flawed perfection,
revealing his inner torment. He looked into the flames, but he saw
only Christine. Christine, kneeling at his feet, her dark hair
tumbling away from that slight widow’s peak to flow
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