What My Flowers Said Ch. 10-13

"Shivering," he shook his head, "burns about four hundred calories an hour. I imagine you've done quite a bit of that tonight." He reached up into a cabinet, "You'll eat."

By his tone, I knew better than to argue, and with a trembling hand I plucked a black date from the plate between us. He nodded, watching me sink my teeth into its flesh, and took down a jar of comb honey with a long wooden dipper from the shelf.

"For your sweet tooth, Miss Foster," he slid in beside me, drizzling some amber honey over the canapés and bleu cheese.

"Um, thanks..." I slipped the pit from my lips, my cheeks and chest searing while he watched me munch.

His eyes flashed.

"I mean, thank you," I quivered, catching myself, "Mr. Caine."

Everything was delicious, but it went on that way for longer than I liked—me nibbling, him sitting there, stroking his jaw. I felt a little like one of those morose orangutans you see at the zoo. Caged and cowering; making a spectacle as I smacked my lips.

By and by he was satisfied, and fell to one knee again to remove my icy manacle. From his leather bag, he swapped it for a white wrap, winding it snugly around my ankle. The ice had taken the pain away. Or perhaps it was the pills, and wine. But his touch still tickled me, and sent a warm, flustering tendril up through my thigh. In reverse Cendrillon, he stole my other sock and sneaker, and led me out barefoot from the kitchen.

The hall was still dim. I kept close to him, feeling jittery as the shadows edged in around us. There were more twists and turns in the corridor. The floor was cool underfoot. More than once, I tried to stop and ogle this-or-that painting, amphora, or statuette. But each time he strode on briskly, and I didn't let myself fall more than an arm's length behind.

We passed along the entrance of a large, darkened parlor. In the dead center of the room, spotlit from above, I spied a haunting, arabesque oil, propped on a huge mahogany easel.

"Is that—?" I stopped in my tracks, "Is that the Delacroix, sir?"

He paused and glanced back at me, nodding to one side.

"May I see?" My voice quavered.

He nodded again, more slowly this time, "...If you like."

I shivered, electrified, and tiptoed toward the light, again like a Sphinx odetta to the flame. He stayed behind me, his silhouette weaving with the shadows.

I bit my lip, and help my breath. In its upper corner, the canvas showed a Bedouin sheikh—or a Dom, maybe—lurid and striking in his sumptuous tent, with a sleek black hound at his heel. One palm stroked the pommel of a long, leather whip. But for all his majesty, he was hardly the cynosure.

Down below, stripped bare but for the flashing gold bangles on her arms and ankles, knelt a lithe and raven-haired harem girl. She was dancing for him, undulating, with an acquiescent agony on her face. I shuddered, crossing my arms. On her honey-colored back and buttocks, there were three long red welts striping her skin.

"...Well?" He spoke softly from the darkness.

I bent low, squinting to inspect the surface.

"I don't think it's Delacroix..." I breathed.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his wolfish, white grin, "No?"

"No," I shook my head, my nose nearly scraping the signature, "The brushwork. Craquelure. The pigments, and palette. The energy, even. It's all spot on," my brow furrowed, "But the scene's all wrong. It's not real."

He moved in closer, "Tell me."

"I don't know. I mean, Romantics were risqué sometimes. But this," I glanced back at him, grappling for the word, "It's pornographic."

He nodded, his grin growing broader, "Pornographic. Obscene. Sadistic..." his words were like ice, "Nothing romantic about it, is there?"

I dropped my eyes.

"And what do we make of Collier's Godiva? Or Raphael's little papal Stufetta?" He stood behind me, stroking his jaw.

I blushed, "I think that's a myth, Mr. Caine."

"Leda and the Swan?" He paced over to my other shoulder, angel playing the demon, and vice versa, "Pasiphaë, grabbing her bull by the horns? Danaë's little golden shower?" He cocked his head, "All myths. Does that make them any less real?"

"I didn't mean it like that..." I murmured.

"Well, whatever you meant, Miss Foster, you're right," he bent down beside me, narrowing his eyes, "It's a forgery."

I glanced up at him, stunned.

"It is?" My mouth hung open, "Really?"

He leered at me.

"You have a fine eye, Penny... And a painfully innocent heart, I suspect."

I don't know about that, Mr. Caine. He turned back to the oil, and sighed.

"But it's wrong to sell it, then, isn't it? I mean, if you know it's a fake..."

"It is wrong," he stood, "Are you going to stop me?"

I dropped my eyes.

"The money will go to a good a cause. And I've already matched the donation. But that's not why I'm doing this," he shifted, letting his eyes linger on the poor harem girl, caught in her tortuous danse du ventre. "I do many things that aren't right, Penny. This," his eyes flashed, "This is the least of it."

I swallowed. Are we still talking about the painting, Mr. Caine? The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. I didn't dare ask him what he meant. I blinked, and blinked again, reminding myself to breathe. My imagination really was getting the better of me. The longer I stared at that sheikh in the painting, the more convinced I became that he bore an alarming resemblance to the enigmatic man at my side.

"Come," he held out his hand, "Let's get you to bed."

I let him help me up, quaking inside as he clasped my wrist, and trailed him back out to the foyer. With the wine still fizzling in my head, I felt a swirl of vertigo as we mounted the stairs, and about halfway up the first flight, I stumbled on the runner.

He whirled, catching me before I could fall.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

I shook my head, clutching hold of the banister.

"No. No, I'm sorry, I just—" I squirmed nervously in his grasp, "My foot's a little numb, I guess."

Again, he glared, and without a sliver of warning, reached down to scoop me up in his arms.

Jesus! My eyes shot wide, and my skin tried to turn itself inside out, but his hold was firm, and unyielding. He cradled me against him. And without the slightest show of strain, he started to climb.

It's funny. I've always sort of despised people picking me up. Being short, and having five unruly older brothers, it was a kind of occupational hazard throughout my whole childhood. Whenever somebody did it, I was always a thousand percent sure they were going to drop me, and snap my neck. Isadora Duncan. I grimaced. Wheels still spinning. Adieu, mes amis. Je vais à l'amour.' But between the steadiness of his grasp and the firm rise and fall of his chest, I really couldn't help but give up, and give in. My knees bobbed helplessly over his arms. I kept my hands clasped. Our heads were so close, I could almost feel his wiry, black stubble grazing against my cheek. Each breath I drew was singed with the smoky, civetone scent of him. Granted, there was no way in hell I was about to let myself swoon. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't stir me. It was startling, really—how strong he was, how small and fragile I felt in his arms—how much I actually liked it.

At the third-floor landing, he let me down. I kept my eyes on my toes, unable to face him. He set his hand in small of my back, guiding me deeper down the hall. He made no apologies, no explanations. He hadn't even told me which way we were headed. My place, it was clear, was not to question. All I could do was obey.

The hall was quiet, and almost pitch black at the end. I shivered. I guess Monsieur d'Hiver's little ghost story was still prowling the edges of my head. His hand left me for a filigree knob. I shivered again as he drew open the door.

"You should find all you need laid out," he nodded, "If not, there's a telephone by the bed. It won't dial out. But Jules will be glad to fetch you whatever you like."

Won't dial out? My brow furrowed.

"Keep the ankle elevated," he took a half-step closer, "And stay warm. The house gets drafty this time of year."

I nodded, blushing. It seemed he'd thought of everything.

"Mr. Caine, I..." I started, unsure of where my words were taking me. For all his strangeness—his rough edges, and innuendo—in the end, he'd been impossibly kind. So chivalrous, so attentive, "Thank you," I settled softly, "I mean, if you hadn't come for me—"

"That's enough," he held up his hand, "We'll talk in the morning. Now go to bed. And stay warm."

I smirked, biting my bottom lip, "You just said that, sir."

"I meant it," his eyes flashed, "To bed."

I nodded, dropping my eyes again as I stepped away.

"Goodnight, Mr. Caine."

He ran his hand along the frame. His voice was soft, but stern.

"Sweet dreams, Penny Foster."

He shut me in. I shuddered, and sank back against the door after it latched. I heard his footsteps receding, heard him on the stairs again. Then silence. I was alone. And exhaustion broke over me like a tidal wave.

In the center of the room, I could see the gleam of a curved brass footboard, beckoning me to bed. I didn't even bother fumbling for a lamp or a light-switch. Ambling in the darkness, as soon as my palms found the silky surface of the duvet, I peeled off my clothes and collapsed, fast asleep before my cheek even hit the pillow.

I don't know how long I slept at first. An hour at least, maybe two. But when I woke up, it was still dark out. All was silent. I wasn't sure what woke me. Then came a low, jagged scratching at the door.

I blinked, and shot bolt upright in bed, a cold sweat beading on my chest and my temples.

I waited. Nothing happened.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. You're just dreaming, Penny. Go back to bed. I started to lie down again, breathing deep. I flipped the pillow, and drew the covers closer. And then, there it was again.

S-s-s-shit!

I clutched the duvet in my fist. My mind flashed through the usual line-up of boogeymen, before settling firmly on Monsieur d'Hiver's preferred poltergeist.

Stop it. You're being stupid, Penny. It's an old house. Old houses make noise.

I forced myself up, still shaking, and wrapped the sheet around me as I crept across the cool, moonlit floor. My stomach was in my throat. My heart beat out of my chest. I turned the handle, and cracked the door.

Again, nothing.

That, I poked my head out further, is fucking creepy. Toes curled, I threw the door open in full. Blue starlight glinted off the snow outside, lighting the hall just enough to see it was utterly empty. I groaned, and slammed it shut again, fumbling with the handle for a lock.

I couldn't find one. Of course, I scowled. Why should it lock?

I think part of me would've preferred to find the ghost of Madame de la Coste floating there, staring right back at me—red eyes, rotting skin, and all. At least then the suspense would be finished. I dragged a chair in front of the door and wedged it under the handle before scampering back into bed.

It wasn't long before sleep consumed me again. But this time my rest was anything but peaceful. I dreamt of demons—of Fuseli's Nightmare, and Goya's Saturn. I dreamt of ripped lace and loose corsets. Breathless bodies, sweat-slick and writhing in a murdered dark. Madame de la Coste's bordel...I saw their blurred faces in a gloomy dungeon. Powder-white, tinted red by torchlight. Diamonds glittering in the dirt. A smell of opium, primrose, and spilled wine. I dreamt of a blue-eyed sheikh, a hellhound at his heel. His odalisque in a bed of violets, bending low in the snow, white sheets of silk and satin, winding.

Who are you?

13

I woke the next morning with a wet face, right on the verge of being devoured. The sun was up. The room was bright. And the beast's hot breath burned against my cheeks.

I almost screamed, but caught myself. I blinked my eyes, trying to figure whether I was still dreaming, and wiped the wetness from my cheeks. Layer by layer, the waking world fell back into focus. My antemeridian incubus, it turned out, was a massive black Newfoundland, with a red collar and a waggling tongue. He stood panting at the bedside, licking my face.

"Stop! Stop, stop, stop!" I laughed, hiding my head under the blanket. His leathery nose sought me out anyways.

"Alright, fine," I moaned, sliding my feet off the bed, "I'm up. Happy?"

He sat down and whined, resting his huge head in my lap. I scratched his ears, and clapped a hand to my forehead.

Christ... Am I really here?

Sitting upright, the madness of the night before came storming back into my brain all at once.

You got arrested, Penny. You almost died. And Peter. I touched my lips. Peter asked you to pose. And then, Mr. Caine...

I glanced anxiously around the bedroom, seeing it lit for the first time. The walls were high, and peacock blue, furnished with a hypnotic mix of giltwood and Art Nouveau. The morning light gleamed through a bay window—each beveled pane kissed with a frost vignette—and fell in pools of gold at the foot of my bed.

Lord. I rubbed my eyes. You're still in his house, Penny. You're still at Lacoste.

The dog, not content to be ignored, bent down to attack my toes with his tongue.

"Oh, come on!" I leapt up and grabbed his collar, leading him briskly back to the door.

It looked as if he'd knocked the chair away in night. I righted it, and gave him a scooch into the hall with the flat of my palms.

"Now, stay," I whispered, shutting the door.

I'd taken two steps before I heard him scratching—the very same noise that woke me in the middle of the night. I smirked, and shook my head. Well, that's one mystery solved, I suppose.

Across the room, I caught an accidental glimpse of myself in a circular mirror. Yikes! My smile sank. My mascara was streaked like a Franz Kline painting, and my hair was about two cowlicks shy of a war crime. I scurried back to the bathroom, and my jaw dropped when I found it.

The shower alone was the size of Marie's whole apartment, glassed-in and set floor-to-ceiling with swirling white marble. A bright chandelier hung over a clawfoot tub, and a long gas fireplace flashed to life when I flipped the switch. Oh, yes... I grinned, letting my bedsheet fall to the floor. You're definitely still dreaming.

I reached back for the latch, but came up empty-handed. I spun. Just like the other door, its lock was missing. Seriously? My eyes narrowed as I ran my finger over the empty mortise. So weird.

But I didn't dwell long on it, and turned my attention instead to a warm tingling beneath my toes. Oh my God. My lips parted as I marched in place, lifting first my bruised foot, then the other. The floors. They're heated? I started wondering if I'd ever be able to bring myself to leave the bathroom. I thought I might just make myself an anchoress—some Julian of Norwich, living in a little grotto off the soap bubbles and bath water.

Beside the sink I found a basket filled with fresh toiletries. But the provisioning, I couldn't help noticing, seemed strangely thorough for a guest-room—replete with artisanal oils, imported body butters, and a fresh silver razor with a porcelain handle. I sniffed a few bottles and jars, getting dizzy, and picked a little bar of rosemary soap, and one of the more humble-looking provençal shampoos. I shook my head, wondering. Why? Why would he keep all this stuff on hand? I ran the shower, and a balmy steam began clouding the glass. I stared at my ghostly reflection, wiping the sweat from my pores.

Is it... Is it for her?

I felt a twinge of jealousy pulse through me, poisoning me like a venom. Did Evelyn X sleep in this room? Wash in this water? Look in this mirror? I swallowed. Does she stay here sometimes, still? My teeth chattered as I stepped into the stream. Catherine Linton, Catherine Heathcliff. What was her name in the end?

The water poured over me. Soap suds trickled down my back, and pooled in the shallow alcove of my navel. I closed my eyes. Or maybe it's not her, I rinsed. Maybe it's something else entirely. I frowned. It's possible, isn't it? I bit my cheek. Does he just have so many girls coming and going, the lather spattered over the drain, that he just keeps the place stocked like a five-star hotel?

I cut the water and stood dripping in the steam. Really, neither one would surprise me. With the hair, the voice, the eyes. With that body. That way about him... I smirked nervously. Against dashing Monsieur Diamond Mines, the willowy girls of Montreal didn't stand a chance. With a blush, I remembered how I'd behaved around him at the gallery—how flustered I'd been, what easy prey I'd made of myself, kneeling there on the ground. Honestly, my smirk fell, I'm surprised he hasn't put in a revolving door.

I dried off, brushed, flossed, and abandoned the beguiling bathroom, wrapping a towel around me as I plopped my purse on the vanity. I knew I had mascara, a little eye shadow, and maybe some blush. But I paused, glancing down at the drawers.

What the hell. Let's just see. Sliding open the top, I was only half-surprised by what I saw. It was filled very neatly with a pristine set of Parisian cosmetics; with lip stains, nail polishes, and all manner of eye shadows and sable-hair brushes, all of them completely untouched. In another drawer I found a brilliant array of crystal bottles, all filled with amber and honey-colored eaux de parfum.

Weird, weird, wyrd.

I thought of the 'Chess Game,' and shivered, wondering what dazzling Cleopatras these 'vials of ivory and colored glass' were meant for. Not you, Penny. That's for sure. I'll admit though, I was almost tempted. It had been so long since I could afford nice make-up. And just like good paints—it always seemed to show through in the finished piece.

I shut up the drawers, and put on my drugstore mascara. There was a knock at the door. I jumped, smoothing the towel to make sure it covered as much as it could.

"Um... one minute, please!" I mewed.

No answer. I tiptoed over and peeked out, laying one palm to my chest.

Monsieur d'Hiver stood a few paces back, dressed in an apocryphal morning jacket, with a bright yellow ascot around his neck. In his gloved hands, he held a primly wrapped package, all bound up with white twine.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle," he bowed, "Monsieur thought you may require some fresh apparel." He held up his parcel, "If you'll but leave your soiled clothes by the bedside, I will see them returned to you once they are laundered."

"Oh um, thanks, I guess..." I blushed, pulling my towel a bit tighter. He may have been blind, but I still felt self-conscious, "It's really not necessary. I can manage for myself."

"Perhaps so, Mademoiselle," he stepped closer, pressing the bundle into my arms, "But Monsieur insists."

Oh does he, does he? I knitted my brow.

"If you please," he moved back again, "May I fetch you anything else at all?"

Some dignity, maybe. I gritted my teeth. Or a noose, so I can just get this over with.

"Mais non," I shook my head, "Merci, Monsieur."

He bowed again, and left me. I snapped the door shut, tossing the package onto the bed. Seriously, though. The nerve... I hissed, and sneered, and tried to puff myself up. I tried to get indignant—tried to feel anything other than helpless. I mean, I already owe him my painting, my money, my life. Now he gets to dress you, too? Some sort of paper-doll, Penny? Deep down though, I knew I really didn't have any choice. Even on my worst of days, I couldn't have slipped back into my dirty plaid and paint-spattered jeans, and still face him—especially not after last night. I sighed, and struggled to untie the twine. It took me longer than it should have, and in the end I had to tear open the paper with my teeth.