A Curious Beginning

He ignored the apology. “We are on,” he told me, turning to enter the tent. He did not look back to see if I would follow.

For the whole of the act, something was off about Mr. Stoker. His patter was forced, his conjuring sloppy, and the crowd was restless. Without the dulling effects of the aguardiente, I noticed the pungent smell of the tent, the mingled aromas of sweat and sawdust, and the sharp odor of excitement. I noticed the faces with their avid eyes and ruddy cheeks, countryfolk bent on a little harmless entertainment. I heard their murmurs and whispers, the titters of anticipation as he moved to the knives. He buckled the restraints, his hands tight upon my limbs, his movements ungentle. He was clearly still disturbed by the scenes behind the tents, and I could not imagine why. I had given him carte blanche to visit Salome and he had responded with irritation and a fine display of temper. I should never understand men, I reflected, even if I devoted myself to the study of them as I had lepidoptery. To begin with, I should need a considerably larger net, I decided with a private smile.

But if he was not himself, I must in fairness own that neither was I. I had been aware of a dullness settling upon me, an ache in the bones that usually presaged fever. I shook it off, forcing myself to smile at the crowd and play the devoted assistant, all the while longing for my bed and the sweet release of sleep.

He finished his work at the restraints and invited a local fellow, this time the dispensing chemist, to test them. He did so, and Mr. Stoker took up the first blade. He held it a bit longer than was his custom, and when it flew through the air, I felt it divide the hair at the top of my head. The crowd gasped. Mr. Stoker went rather pale, but the second blade was true, striking precisely where it ought. I gave him a brief nod of encouragement, and with the slight movement, pain shot through my head like a bolt of lightning.

“Not now,” I muttered through gritted teeth. But the body is a treacherous thing, and I felt the swoon coming upon me as a creeping blackness advancing from the edges of my vision. My knees gave way and my body sagged against the leather restraints just as the knife left his hand. I opened my mouth to cry a warning, but of course it was too late. Instead of the dull thud of the knife hitting the wood, there was the soft whisper of blade on flesh, and the horrified gasp of the crowd was the last thing I heard as I slipped into unconsciousness.

? ? ?

The swoon lasted only a few seconds. I revived swiftly enough to find that I was still confined by the restraints and that the edge of the blade was still resting solidly in my arm.

Mr. Stoker was at my side, staring at me in nearly incoherent horror. “For Christ’s sake, Veronica, I wish you’d stayed unconscious. You will not enjoy this.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose within me. “Neither will you,” I observed.

He wrenched off his neckcloth and tied it on my arm, knotting it firmly above the quivering blade. It was agony, and I gave a little groan, causing his hand to tremble for a moment.

He gathered hold of his nerves then, and when he spoke it was with calm authority. “I have to remove the blade now. When I do, it will bleed. Quite a lot. Try not to move. And do not hold your breath. It will only make the pain worse.”

I obeyed him and nodded, never taking my eyes from his pale face. He did not hesitate. He reached for the blade and pulled it free in a slow, steady motion. The blood flowed freely then, a scarlet ribbon spilling over the spangled blue taffeta of my costume. I heard a woman scream, but I stood, immobile as stone. The crowd pressed around us, gasping. They made no move to leave but edged closer still, and he cursed them.

“God damn you, get back! She needs air. Move back, I said, or I’ll gut the lot of you!” He wrenched me free of the restraints and caught me before I slid to the ground.

I motioned to the makeshift tourniquet he had fashioned. “Too tight,” I murmured. “It hurts.”

“Better that than losing the blood,” he snapped. He gathered me into his arms, as gently as one might take up a babe, and stood. He kicked and cursed his way out of the tent and carried me straight back to the caravan. He tore the place apart as he looked for needle and thread and the other assorted oddments he would require.

“You needn’t be so untidy,” I said drowsily. “I will only have to clean up after you.”

“Shut up,” he growled. “I can’t find the needles. Why in the name of hell can’t I find the needles?”

“You are holding them,” I pointed out helpfully.

Just then there came a jangling of the bells at the door and Leopold put his head inside. “I have come to help. Salome is bringing hot water and Tilly is brewing up tea for after. I told her to make it very sweet and add a full measure of brandy. What can I do?”

Mr. Stoker threaded the needle, and I noticed his jaw was set tightly.