The Night Remains

One moment of flicking through her phone turned into another, and she felt as if there was something more she could be doing for him. Something that would make him happy.

"What shall I do for you, Monsieur?" she asked sweetly.

His eyes flicked up from her phone. "Stay." He regarded her, daring her to test his authority, but she stayed as still as she could, even her breathing tentative. He went back to her phone briefly, then reverted his attention to her. "There is no need for an exhaustive vocabulary tonight. Until otherwise asked, I wish for you to do only as I instruct, and I instruct that all you shall say for now is, 'Oui Monsieur' or 'Non Monsieur.'"

Her grateful eyes became half-lidded, smiling up at him. Bobbing her head, she gave him a cute nod, her messy bun bouncing a half-second behind. Her mouth grew into an open smile, and happily she gasped out, "Oui Monsieur!"

He patted her head, and it made her tingle and throb in all her most secret places. Her shoulders swayed, arms hanging perfectly straight beside her as her wrists bent and her fingers curled excitedly—delightedly—that she should hear his praise again.

The old house whispered then, its words muttered, but the power of it was unmistakable. It moved through her as if she were an aspect of the house touched by its air, a part of it that could be opened and penetrated and manipulated as easily as an unlocked door. She had a compulsion then to stick out her tongue as if she were catching snowflakes.

With her tongue out like a little puppy, she realized what she was doing, and her breath quickened. In embarrassment, she winched her little tongue back into her head, and tried to look away from Monsieur Margot.

He smiled at her. "Do not worry if the house speaks to you, my girl."

She swallowed, trying to think of what that meant. Questions tried to rise to the top of her mind, desperate to come out of her mouth, but the only thing she managed was a babbling, "Oui Monsieur."

"You have been busy taking photos, I see."

"Oui Monsieur." Her heart felt like it was breaking—like she'd let him down.

"I know you have questions about this place," he said. "I have heard that you have asked many people about what it is. About why we keep it. And I have good news for you, Abigail Stephanie Morse. Tonight, I will tell you everything you need to know."

Her eyes lit up. "Oui Monsieur!"

"So long as you are a good little girl, I will give you more than you could ever hope."

"Oui Monsieur," she said, practically panting in delight.

Finally, he seemed content with her phone, and he put it into his waistcoat's pocket. His attention turned back to her, and she was glad to have it.

"Our guests will be here soon. Wait for them by the door. Give each a kiss on the cheek as they arrive, then show them to the study."

"Oui Monsieur!" Her eyes sparkled with new purpose.

The first to arrive was Richmond's mayor, an older man with a wrinkled forehead. Abbie waited for him on the black carpet atop the stairs in her fine black maid outfit, and as he approached she bent forward and puckered her lips, kissing the air next to both cheeks. She marvelled at the feeling of it, how each kiss formed on her lips like she were saying the word "oui," each kiss feeling as warm as submission.

She turned with little steps and led the mayor to the study. At the door, she invited him with a wave and a smile to seat himself as he liked. Across the room, the black book sat on the pedestal, but her sense of wonder had been pulled out of her. The part of her that wanted to know had become docile. It didn't matter now what was in the book. All that mattered was making sure tonight went perfectly. She curtsied deeply to the mayor, then went back to the main doors.

The rest came in ones and twos. A younger man in an expensive suit came in a chauffeured car with his younger, extravagantly dressed partner, and Abbie gave each a big, expressive kiss before leading them to the study. Then came a man in a simple blazer with burnished patches on his elbows, and when she kissed his cheeks he reached out and took her arms, making her giggle. She gasped when she saw Hal Francis, her father's editor, but she did not shy from her duties. She kissed the air by both of his cheeks, then smiled warmly at him. His own smile was coy and devilish, and it made her hold her breath as he walked behind her to the study. The rest filtered in, and by the time the last man arrived—he was woefully underdressed in simple slacks and a half-opened dress shirt—the driveway was filled with expensive cars.

She stood at the opening of the study, watching as the last of Monsieur Margot's guests made themselves comfortable, then she turned back to the kitchen to see if there wasn't something she could bring.

The house groaned, only its intent was now clear. It was speaking to her with a soft and gravelly voice. She did not understand what it was saying, but her cheeks burned red as the voice crooned, teasing her with the warmth and levity of a gentle and domineering father. The voice said something, then paused, as if waiting for a response, and instinctively her mouth opened and her fizzy brain reacted.

"Oui Monsieur," she whispered obediently.

It let out a growling laugh, and she grabbed the front of her skirt at the sound, trying to hide herself as a sudden wetness surged between her legs. The pink lips of her mouth parted, and she took in a breath that made her so very light-headed.

She went to the kitchen, where Desmond was hard at work. He had assembled ten flutes on a large circular tray, each filled with a pink, bubbly champagne. With a towel in his hands, he picked up a tray and put it into the oven, then he turned and stopped as he took her in. He stood tall and still, as if he wasn't sure what to do or say. She pressed her lips together, silently picking up the tray, then she offered him a curtsy that made her feel warm and giddy and left with it.

Nervously, she stepped back to the study, the voice whispering sweetly as she walked. Its words were the unmistakable sounds of sweet nothings, the sounds of temptation, and though she spoke not its language, the voice's words filled her with such a heat in her cheeks that she could only feel aroused. None of the guests seemed to notice her or the voice, and they continued to mingle in pleasant conversation.

Monsieur Margot appeared behind her at the door. Hopefully, she looked up at him. Twice he tapped his cane on the floorboards, and all conversation stopped. The guest's turned-backs swivelled, and their attention fell on him.

Abbie held her breath, the tray shaking in her hands.

"Ladies. Gentlemen." Monsieur Margot smiled, his arms outstretched. The ruby-headed cane lingered between the fingers of his right hand. "Welcome to our night everlasting."

"Serve," the voice of the house commanded, deep and dark, and only as she stepped closer to the others did she realize its words had come not in English, but French, and she had understood it perfectly.

No other soul in that room regarded the voice. Abbie's head turned left and right, her bun bouncing behind her as the others took their seats. She went to the chair nearest to her and reached for one glass to serve it, but Monsieur Margot's voice stopped her.

"Please." From just behind her, he laid his hand out flat, pointing her towards the channel. "From within the circle."

She nodded. "Oui Monsieur."

Monsieur Margot moved to the lectern and folded his hands upon it. Each of his guests had taken their seat, and now their attention turned to her.

She swallowed and snuck into the open channel that led to the table's interior. It was wide enough that she could easily step through without difficulty, and when she stood at the head of the channel she realized that the entire floor in the table's open middle was made of a glass laid flush with the floor. She tiptoed onto it, worried it wouldn't support her weight, but it did not even make a sound. Just beneath the glass, there was a mirror reflecting up, and she saw herself in its silvery face, her cheeks red, her black skirt puffed out like a drop of ink in water—and for a moment she did not recognize herself.

"If you please," Monsieur Margot encouraged.

She nodded. "Oui Monsieur."

Stepping onto the glass, she began to take the flutes off the tray. The table was at least four feet across from the inner ring to the chairs, and she found herself making little pleasurable noises as she bent over the table to place the flutes in front of each guest. Each time she bent forward, the skirt lifted off her bottom, exposing her to those behind her. Her cheeks burned, feeling their eyes on her—ravenous for her—and with each deposited glass, she gave a meek curtsy of obedience to the guest before her.

In the candlelight, their dark eyes watched, raking her with emotions and intentions that she could not fathom. The tension was thick in each of their faces, and she found herself eager only to please them. When she finally set the last flute down, she was back at the channel. She offered one last curtsy to Monsieur Margot from within it, then she went to leave.

He raised his hand and moved from behind the lectern to the opening of the channel, blocking her way.

"Stay," he commanded.

"Oui Monsieur," she said in a small voice.

With the backs of his fingers, he motioned for her to step back into the centre of the circle, and she did.

Monsieur Margot stepped back to the lectern, his fingers excitedly dancing over the cover of the too-black book, and something stirred inside of her as they did. She wanted him to open it. She needed him to.

"In Tibet," Monsieur Margot said, his voice like a low roar, "one-hundred-and-fifty-four years ago, in an ancient temple beyond depiction, my great, great, great grandfather found a book."

He set his cane against the lectern's side, and he opened it. Black poured out of it onto his face as if the book itself cast not light, but devoured it, leaving in its place only a terrible shadow. The candles of the chandelier thrummed, then dimmed, and the shadows from the corners of the room loped ever closer.

"This was a special book, Abbie." He flipped a heavy page, and the sound of the pages turning was like rapturous heaven to her. "And it was bound in a leather so black that it repelled even light." He flipped more pages, and she gasped delightedly, feeling a tingle between her legs. "This is that book—what my grandfather called the Canticle of Eventide. It has revealed things to us. To all of us. Things about ourselves, about humanity. About what comes next."

"Are you lonely, pale daughter?" the voice of the house whispered, and she whimpered in submission to it. The sound rumbled in her neck, making her muscles tense as if its spirit stood next to her. She took in a deep breath, afraid to even release it and laid the tray flat across her body, hiding herself from those eyes still on her.

"I am honoured, my friends. Honoured"—Monsieur Margot pounded a fist to his chest—"that you have stayed devoted after all these years. After the profound absence of the Margot family in Richmond. After it seemed as if we would never complete our greatest work. Others left. Others forsook our calling. But not you, my friends. Not you. And I am honoured that each of you has come to see its culmination."

"The night remains," they chanted in unison.

She spun, her skirt fluttering as she tried to look at each of them, overwhelmed by their strangeness. Against the smothering hold of this place, she struggled, but the more she struggled, the more she seemed to settle into it like quicksand, tight and restricted in every way.

"Be not afraid, little thing," the voice of the house whispered. "You will know comfort soon."

"Tonight, the comet will be overhead." Monsieur Margot let out a smile that was as wide as it was unholy. "And, at long last, the Great Shadow will pass through the mirror into our world." He stepped away from the lectern.

Abbie's feet turned inwards, her hands clasped together atop the tray held before her body, and she lowered her head to her chest as he prowled towards and around her in the centre circle.

"We have, now, everything we need," he said quietly. "The fruit. The book." He stopped behind her, his hand finding the small of her back. "The maiden."

"Yes, you, my little swan—my little maiden," the voice of the house growled in her ear, and she felt the hardening of her nipples as the voice said it. "I will have you—devour you—and you will welcome it."

Monsieur Margot stopped circling her. He grabbed the tray and threw it outside of the circle where it danced on its edge with a wap-wap-wap until it stilled.

The voice made a throaty chuckle. "Raise your hands above your head, my maiden daughter."

Hesitantly, she did as the voice commanded. There was no part of her that could resist, she realized. There was no part of her that wanted to resist.

She raised her wrists above her head, straightening her arms, her fingers threading together, palms turned upwards. Monsieur Margot's hands came out. He felt the rougher skin of her elbows, then his fingers traced down her smooth upper arm all the way to the sides of her dress. Her mouth opened in anticipation, the breath teased out of her as his hands stroked her trembling body.

Monsieur Margot's hands moved around her belly, resting briefly on her small apron. Then they moved lower, pressing down the folds of her skirt until his fingers dropped to the naked space of her thighs between stocking and skirt—and her thighs began to tingle; her knees began to shake. She let out a whimper of vulnerable anticipation.

"Does it excite you?" the voice boomed. "Their eyes upon the shores of your thighs?"

She looked ahead into the eyes of one man before her, the editor, and she shivered. "Oui Monsieur."

Monsieur Margot's hands left her legs. Metal clanged above her, and he reached up. Her eyes followed his hand, which grabbed onto a lowering chain. Attached to the end of it was a pair of silver manacles.

He fastened the manacles around her wrists, and she gasped at the cold touch of silver to her skin, her hands unthreading nervously as she realized she could no longer lower them. The chain clinked above her, moving back up into the chandelier, all its slack being drawn out of it. She gasped as it pulled on her wrists, forcing her onto the toes of her strappy heels. She groaned, struggling against the position, and as she did, her body rotated out of her control along the axis of the chain. Her little toes fought to keep their position, her little mouth groaning, but each one of her steps propelled her orbit, her momentum twisting her until she made a full circle and came once more face-to-face with Monsieur Margot.

"Is she not exquisite?" He smirked. His hands came once more to her hips, and he steadied her, stopping her twisting. She huffed and struggled, the back of his hand stroking her from the hard plateau of bone at the centre of her chest up to her taut shoulders.

"You are not here by chance," Monsieur Margot said breathlessly. "Four years ago, you came to us, offered yourself to us, but we were not prepared. Since then, each day have we prepared for your return—for tonight. Through every aspect of your life, we have been there, conspiring that you should be nowhere else on this most sacred night."

He reached down and pushed her hip, setting her once more to spinning slowly. She turned with her dozen little steps until she stopped again in front of the editor, his eyes dark and expressive in the shadows.

"You are an exceptional beauty, Abigail," Monsieur Margot said from behind her. "But more than that, we went through all of this difficulty because you are remarkable. One-in-a-hundred-billion." He put his hands on her hips, holding her firmly in place. His fingers gripping her as if his own control was being overwhelmed by the pleasure of her struggle. "My grandfather, Telesphoros Margot the First, was a silversmith, and when he found the Canticle of Eventide, he was perhaps the first man in all of human history to realize how to use it."

He reached his hands out in front of her, pointing down to the mirror beneath her feet. "You see, mirrors are the gateway to their world." He moved his lips to her ear, his breath drawing out the goosebumps on her neck. "And when they come, you will have the honour of being that which greets them, in whichever manner pleases them. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Oui Monsieur."

"Good girl," he growled. "The last summer you were here, you partook of our forbidden fruit. Do you remember?"

"Oui Monsieur," she whispered.

"Do you wish to taste more?"

"Oui Monsieur." She swallowed hard, thinking of how delicious the strawberries were, how good they would feel to eat.

Monsieur Margot clapped his hands, and Desmond arrived with a tray. On it were eleven saucers, each with a strawberry capped in a thick whipped cream. Desmond moved in the shadows behind the others, and he set down the plates, however he did not give the saucer to Monsieur Margot's guests. Instead, in front of each of them, he reached far across the table until their saucer was on the edge of the inner lip nearest to her.

With the final plate, Desmond moved to the channel and put it in Monsieur Margot's thin hands. Monsieur Margot picked the strawberry off the plate and held it up under the dying light of the candles.

"Outwardly, they look like strawberries, do they not?" He moved beside her, bringing the strawberry close to her face. With his pinky, he pointed to the seeds. "But their seeds are a strange colour of pink and blue. My ancestor found them alongside the Canticle of Eventide, and he brought them back with him. For almost everyone, they have a bitter, terrible taste."

He held the berry up to her lip, offering it to her. Her mouth watered, remembering how delicious it was. Her tentative teeth came out, nibbling, but quickly she lost her manners and ate it whole.

He smiled. "But they have their uses, too." He watched as she ate and swallowed the berry, with an evil delight in his eyes. "For a remarkable few, they are sweeter and more delicious than one can imagine." He gave her his finger, and she licked the strawberry juice from it, her belly growing so warm from its salvation. She moaned, then, her lightheadedness continuing to grow and feeling as if her consciousness was so thinly stretched that her very essence was being pulled apart. And what was most concerning was the pleasure of it. So good did it feel to know she was being remade, that all she could do was let out a whine of frustrated, submissive glee.

"My grandfather did not understand their purpose at first, but the book revealed all to him in time." Monsieur Margot scooped some cream off the saucer, and he held his finger up to her mouth. Eagerly, she took it, sucking so hard that her eyes crossed. "The berries are extraplanar in their nature. They are no part of this universe. For humanity, our most basic instinct is to reject them, to be as repulsed by them as we are of all perverse things." He scooped more cream and fed it to her, her mouth sucking excitedly at its sweetness. "But there is the rare one among us who delights in that perversion. And it is that soul, so blessedly debased, that will act as the conduit between our world and the greater one beyond tonight."

"That is you, Abigail Stephanie Morse," he said. "Their perverse princess. A conduit for evil. A vessel so stunningly attuned to them, that when the Great Shadow passes through this very mirror, it will do it all for you."

He fed her the last of the cream from the plate, and she ate it up with a moan.

"I present to you, my friends, The Maiden," Monsieur Margot said to the others. "The Queen of the Everlasting Night."