The Duke In His Castle by Vera Nazarian Page A

hardly feel his face. He is glad for the dusk of the hallway, and almost indifferent to the muted paucity of air, for it seems he no longer requires it—no longer requires to breathe.
    “I expect she is unchanged since last night. She has been accommodated in quarters similar to yours, and cared for—more than adequately—by several of my servants. Indeed, there’s no need to be concerned on her behalf anymore, for she may take a long time if ever to regain her memory and her former ancient self. . . .”
    Words come out of him in a measured, punctuated stream, and he speaks so calmly that he is beatific, until the language peters out. Then, nothing remains but silence.
    “Oh . . .” the Duchess says. “But—but I assumed that she—I mean, I expected that she might come along with us, with me, that is. . . . After all, one might say she’s been placed into my care by the circumstances—”
    “Or, one might say, the circumstances of her restoration, the miracle of life returned to her through my efforts, indicate that she has been placed under my care.”
    All veneer of politeness is effaced. The Duchess glares at him, and she is once again a banshee. “What, my Lord? Your care? After the sorry muddle you’ve made of her resurrection? Admit it, she has the wits of a sheep and less than the awareness of a suckling infant!”
    The Duke is suddenly burning. Cold fury fills him so that he cannot breathe yet again, only now for another reason.
    “You dare to belittle my effort?” he exclaims. “What have you done for her but carry her bones around my castle? And my Lady, you must indeed think me a simpleton, for you have told me a blatant lie about this creature that we both seem to claim. . . .”
    He continues, “You are unaware that last night after I took my leave, I spent several long hours perusing the records of the royal houses of the realm, all genealogical lines of succession, going as far back as there is recorded history. And nowhere is there a mention of a Duchess or even a remote blue blood by the name of Nairis the Fabled One, or even just Nairis. She does not exist! I’ve found one mention of a Nairis who served as a companion to the third Duchess of Blue, but that ancient and long-dead female was no more than a servant of the chamber, and she died a crone in her ripe old age!”
    The Duke pauses, and the expression of his eyes is feverish. “And so, you lie, my dear. Your motives are unclear, and all I can now surmise is that this deceased young woman whom I resurrected last night is someone who matters to you in particular, and maybe there is even more to this convoluted story. Would you, at last, care to elaborate? I must have the truth!”
    The Duchess parts her rosebud mouth, her lips delicate and succulent, as she is about to rant or spin tales or further deceive. And then she shuts them and takes a deep breath.
    “First, Your Grace’s breakfast . . .” And with a slight inclination of her head and a mockery of a curtsy she motions the Duke into his study.
    The next hour is a haze of necessity. The Duke breaks his fast quickly by gulping down something he cannot remember to taste from a warmed tray brought up to him by Harmion (at the same time taking odd care to abstain from meat, for suddenly he is incapable of eating dead flesh, which might be another after-effect of his act of power), while Izelle chatters flippantly about the weather and the weave of the tapestries and the tomes scattered over his work table and all about the room.
    He knows he must eat, so he ignores everything until nourishment is consumed and piles warmly inside him. He is amused at her insistence that he eat and at how she is unaware that in fact he does so the for the second time since their dinner last night—that at four past midnight he consumes food in the darkness after leaving a certain chamber in the Mad Queens Tower.
    When the spirit and the flesh are drained, sustenance must be sought.