Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales (12 page)

I consider myself a student of human behavior, and I did in fact study the workings of the brain, such as we know of them, when I was attending university in Massachusetts. This—combined with the inquisitive turn of my own mind, and a growing sense that I somehow know this gentleman—has rendered me perhaps less fearful than one
should
feel under such circumstances.

I am, however, no less eager to escape him. And since my knowledge of druidism is no more than academic, I must find some way other than walking out the door.

Rising to my feet, I examine the small chamber. It's comfortably furnished, with a narrow bed—the sort a child or nun might sleep in—a wardrobe, a writing desk and chair, and a squat stove with an ample supply of turf bricks stacked beside it. The stove is lit, its pipe carrying smoke up the wood-paneled wall to the ceiling, emptying through what I imagine to be another hole to the outside world. As none of the hole shows around the end of the pipe, I deem it too small to permit my frame to pass through. The layer of rock might be thin enough to chip away, but even had I a proper tool, I would not be able to reach the ceiling. Not even standing upon the desk.

I circle round once more, sighing in frustration, and finally give up the idea of a quick escape.

Upon the desk rests a tea tray, steam rising from the spout of a chipped, cornflower-patterned teapot. Upon the bedcovers is draped a dark gown, which I presume is the aforementioned change of clothes. Fashioned neck to toe from what look to be stiff and scratchy fabrics, it is not a garment I would ever choose for myself, unless perhaps I was mourning the death of a family member.

As the chamber is overwarm, I elect instead to reposition the standing screen between the doorway and the stove, strip down to my corset and petticoat, and dry myself before the fire. I pour a cup of tea, doubling my preferred amount of milk and sugar to keep up my strength, and settle upon a cushioned stool. Watching the steam rise from my overcoat, which I spread over the back of the desk chair, I try to clear my mind. My brain has been a powerful ally for many years, but in cases like the present, when apprehension threatens to overwhelm sense, I find it is best to take that organ in hand. Or at least to try.

When I've finished my tea, I remove my maligned headgear and comb my fingers through my curls so they, too, will dry.

The little stove is industrious and efficient, and by the time I hear footsteps approaching, I am nearly dry. Due to the uselessness of my timepiece I'm not sure how long it's been, but I think more than the promised quarter of an hour.

“Are you settled, Miss Kirk?” asks Mr. Ambrose from the other side of my screen. It sounds as if he's in the room with me.

“If by that you mean to ask whether I'm contented, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. But I am warm and dry, and I thank you for the tea.”

“Why have you not dressed?” His voice is edged with impatience.

“Because what you have mistaken for a gown is actually a torture device.”

A moment's pause from the other side. “And yet you must wear it.”

“Unless you intend to force me in that as well, you'll want to prepare yourself for additional disappointment.” My pulse quickens as I issue this second challenge to the deranged gentleman.

“I don't think there will be any need for force.” And with that, a hand comes around the screen and snatches up both my overcoat and wet gown.

“Mr. Ambrose!”

“You have five more minutes.”

I groan with exasperation as he leaves me again, and I walk out from behind the screen to further examine the garment. What kind of man would choose something so hideously gothic? The collar is a swatch of scratchy lace that would rise up my neck almost to my ears. The cuffs taper to points that would nearly cover the backs of my hands. The hem reaches all the way to the floor and farther, as it has a small train. It's as if he means to cover as much of my flesh as possible. Is it my figure that offends? Has he Presbyterian leanings?

He's a druid,
I remind myself. Perhaps it's only that he's more accustomed to the company of men.

Regardless, by the time he returns, I've retreated behind my screen without complying with his demand. Even had I the desire to comply, donning a dress like that would require another person's assistance.

“Very well, Miss Kirk. You leave me no alternative.”

I grip the back of the chair, dreading what's to come. I've perhaps been foolish, but my instincts tell me passive compliance will not improve my situation.

With a single swipe of his arm, Ambrose closes the folds of the screen and tosses it out the door, where it clatters to the floor. He stands before me—and I before him, in nothing but my undergarments. I will my arms to remain at my sides as his gaze drops from my loosed curls to the swell of womanly flesh only partially concealed by the band of silk above my corset. When his gaze rises, it's not to my eyes, but to my lips—which part as my breaths come faster.

My gaze trails down one of his arms to just above his elbow where the snowy fabric of his shirt has been neatly folded, then over the dusky flesh of muscled forearm to his hand, which clenches into a fist as it feels the weight of my gaze. I stand dumbstruck by the sensation in my breast—fear mingling with a less familiar emotion, one I can only think to call desire.

He is uncommonly—and inconveniently—well formed. And were it not for the circumstances of our meeting, I'd be not at all put off by the wildness of his countenance. Some of my interview subjects have spent most of their lives on the edge of a windswept moor or the shore of a primordial lake, and they have the same look about them. I believe they see things others do not, and like my ancestor, I am drawn to such people.

The gentleman sucks in a sharp breath before turning to exit my cell. He stops just opposite his druid arc to study me.

“You are a puzzle, Mr. Ambrose,” I say, a little breathless.

“I know I must seem so,” he replies, subdued.

“You told me beside the fairy pool that you know lifetimes of tales. I should like to hear one now.”

The dark brows lift. “What kind of tale would you like to hear, Miss Kirk?”

“The one that brought you to this point, sir. The point of abducting a stranger and locking her away belowground.”

“And if I insist that you first put on the gown I've provided?”

I frown. “Then I shall do without the tale.”

“Very well, Miss Kirk.” He folds his arms. “I shall tell you a tale of an ancient curse.”

I am careful to conceal my satisfaction and relief at winning this small point. It suggests that by degrees, I might escape this.

“As a folklorist, I find such tales fascinating,” I reply. “Please proceed.”

He reaches for the back of a nearby chair and drags it before the outer curve of the druid arc before seating himself in it, resting a booted foot on one knee. “Long ago, when the world as we know it was yet young, an unusual child was born to a young noblewoman. The boy's father was a fallen angel, and the child grew to be a very powerful man. A seer and sage. A master of alchemy, and a student of world-weaving magic. Ultimately, a maker and advisor of kings. He came to the world's attention when he led a young man to a sword that had been driven into stone.”

“I believe I am familiar with this tale, sir,” I remark. “Welsh in origin. You speak of Merlin, and of his protégé, Arthur?”

“I do. But my tale has to do with the sorcerer alone. A chapter that you and your Mr. Lang may not know. Or may not know as well as you believe.”

I nod in acceptance of this and wait for him to continue.

“Most accounts refer to Merlin as a bearded old man, but he was once young as that boy he led to the stone. In that time—a time before the recording of such things—a young woman fell in love with him. Merlin was ambitious and preoccupied with his studies. He did not return her love.”

“Unlucky for the young lady,” I observe, wondering how long it will take to bring us back to this century—and curious, despite myself, about what all this has to do with me.

He offers a pained smile. “Unlucky for all involved. For she had a brother who did not like to see his sister scorned. He was a druid and an adept at dark magic. He cursed Merlin to fall in love with a woman who would destroy him. Not just once, but over and over, until a time
beyond
the recording of such things.”

“Nimue,” I murmur.

He shakes his head. “Nimue was the name of the woman rejected by Merlin. Modern versions of the tale have conflated the two characters. His
love
was called Viviane.”

He's looking at me expectantly, but I'm hung up on part of his story. “What did you mean by ‘over and over'? The tale tells that the lady confined him in a cave—or in an oak tree, depending on the source. Some say for all of time, and some say until his death.”

“Let us just say until his death. For he lived again. And again. Many times through the centuries to come. Viviane, too, was set upon an endless cycle of death and rebirth. With each new life, upon his twentieth birthday, he became conscious of his past lives, and began to look to the coming of this woman so he might thwart her. Each time, he fell so strongly under her spell that the curse was again fulfilled.”

I stare at him, expecting him to continue. But ice water seeps down my spine as my brain makes the remaining connections.
Merlin Ambrosius
.

“You believe that you are Merlin.”

He leans his elbows onto his knees, resting his chin on folded hands. “I well know who I am.”

“And you believe that I am your Viviane?”

“No belief is necessary. I've known you for centuries.”

“You know me not at all, sir.” The degree of derangement is worse than I'd imagined. But I know that calling his sanity into question is not likely to avail. I must argue at his level. And there are holes enough in his tale. “The fact that my name is Viviane is hardly evidence enough to convict me as your treacherous lover.”

“I'm afraid there's no question, Miss Kirk. Even had I not centuries of practice at reading the signs, I would still recognize…the
pull
of you.”

His eyes move over me, and I begin to tremble. “If what you say is true, why don't I know
you
?”

“Do you not?”

“Until today, I never…” I've all but forgotten the sense I felt earlier—of knowing him somehow before this. But it was likely a trick of my mind. A factor of the unusual circumstances. Yet how to explain the heat I feel at the touch of his gaze, when he has treated me so brutishly?

The
pull
of you
.

“You feel it too,” he says, eyes pinning me like a specimen in a butterfly collection.

The combination of his self-assurance and my growing confusion manages at last to render me truly fearful. And this piques me. “If all you say is true—and I do not for a moment allow that it could be—one might argue that the
last
thing you should have done, in light of your objective, was to bring me into your lair.”

The gentleman sits up, eyes bright with answering anger. “One
might
argue that the first thing I should have done is
end
you the moment I recognized what you were.”

My throat works to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. “And why haven't you?”

“Because I am not a murderer, Miss Kirk.” My chest loosens enough to allow breath to enter. “Even were I to commit such an act, the cycle would only repeat, forcing me to employ the same remediation over countless lifetimes.”

“You imagine imprisoning me will weigh more lightly on your infinite conscience, is that it, Mr. Ambrose?”

“It is the lesser of evils, Miss Kirk. And by controlling the nature of our relationship—by limiting your power to act upon me—I hope to buy time to study and unlock the mechanism of the curse.”

“My power to act upon you!” My anger has at last run away with me. “Of all the egotistical, nonsensical—” I huff in disgust and turn from him. “And how do you find that is serving you, sir? Controlling the nature of our relationship.”

The gentleman keeps his silence behind me.

What I do next, a part of me condemns as both rash and scandalous. But as an academic, I must regard the evidence. I have learned through our discussion that it is not in him to kill me. And I have deduced that his reason for imprisoning me is that he is as much afraid of himself—perhaps more so—as he is of me. (Recall the widow's gown.) My action is desperate, yes. But not ill-considered.

I turn to face him, meeting his gaze, and I raise my hand to unhook the lace suspender that wraps round the back of my neck, holding the silk that covers my breasts in place. Then I begin unfastening the hooks of my corset.

His gaze follows my fingers, and the raw and helpless desire that lights those intelligent eyes stokes a fire that raises a shameful heat to my cheeks. I let the corset fall, which also releases the silk blouse, and I stand naked from the waist up, my hair curling over my shoulders and around my bare breasts.

Ambrose rises and takes one step forward. “Cover yourself, Viviane.” His voice is thick and hard.

“I will not. If you will hold me here against my will, I shall do as I please in my confinement.” I raise my hands to my breasts, heart beating furiously against my ribs. I stroke the undersides lightly with my thumbs, and the nipples pucker and harden. “How do I compare, Mr. Ambrose? Am I as lovely as the others?”

Jaw muscles tighten. Eyes widen. “
Cover
yourself,” he barks, voice dry as winter leaves.

“I'm afraid if you wish to control me, you shall have to come and
take
control.”

I reach for the drawstring of my petticoat. He kicks the chair over and flees with a growl.