Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER FIVE

T he mist kisses my ankles as I move barefoot through the churchyard, searching for something. It is no physical entity I seek tonight, but rather a feeling, nebulous and dim. I burn with the need for something impossible to define, and underneath my thin lawn nightgown, my skin feels raw and alive. My hands reach out and find nothing but empty air.

I am angry, I think. Or very, very sad.

There is no moon tonight and no sound but my own breathing and dead leaves crumbling beneath my feet. I can barely see anything through the thick mist aside from the vague shapes of headstones, but occasionally, through the curtain of silver, I spy other wanderers, other hands outstretched, other faces in the night, and some of them are dead.

I am dreaming again , I think. This is just a dream.

But it feels real when the ground beneath me suddenly sinks into nothingness. I gasp and pull myself back, staring at the hole dug into the earth. I have almost fallen into an empty grave. No … not empty. At the bottom is a plush white bed, and a man and a woman lie upon it. They are not corpses, as I would expect, but are very much alive and entwined, their breath emerging fast on the cold air. She has long dark hair like mine, which cascades over them both as she pulls herself on top of him. His hands slide up her thighs to grip her bottom, hard enough to bruise.

I am on fire.

My feet stumble around the open grave only to find another, and another, and another, all of them filled with beds shaking and tongues meeting and hands pressing. Silk and lace slipping above tangled haunches. My heart races in a rhythm of frustrated longing. Every nerve in my body is alight with the desire to join one of these graves, to feel hungry welcoming arms and starving wet mouths on my naked skin. But it is so very far to fall, and I know I would not be able to climb back out again.

Suddenly, a man is standing behind me. I lean into his broad chest and feel the line of his jaw on top of my head. His long, elegant hands span the width of my waist. And in the way of dreamers, I know that it is Jack Seward without having to turn around.

Why Jack? I think, dazed. I remember another man’s hazel eyes in ballroom candlelight, another man’s walnut hair, another man’s hand holding mine. Red camellias and a melancholy waltz. I know instinctively that it is neither he nor Jack I seek in the mist, but I am electric with yearning, and I will settle for whichever one of them appears. I turn around in Jack’s arms.

All at once, the churchyard vanishes and we are in the conservatory at the Stokers’ ball, alone in a dome of glass that shows the night sky. Somewhere beyond us, I hear laughter and conversation, violins and tinkling glasses. Leafy green plants and trailing vines conceal us from view, but someone could still walk in from the ballroom at any moment and discover us.

Jack’s brown eyes are liquid with desire, but when I tilt my face up to his, his arms slacken. “Kiss me,” I command, trying to hold him close, but he shakes his head.

“Not up here,” he says, pulling my hand. “Down there.”

An open grave yawns behind him, somehow—in the shaky logic of dreams—cut right into the fine stone floor. The bed at the bottom lies empty, waiting for us.

I let Jack lead me to the edge, but this grave is deeper than all the others. It would be like falling into an abyss. Jack’s grip is tight as I look around desperately, my bare feet slipping on the stone, fighting to remain above ground. The conservatory is neat and orderly, with perfect rows shaped by well-cut trees and precisely placed plants, but through the foliage, on the other side of a monstrous orchid, black as death, I see a path almost hidden from view.

I yank my hand free of Jack’s and run to the secret path. It is lined with sharp, lethal brambles and thorns thirsty for the blood of anyone brave or foolish enough to wander off the neat brick aisles of the conservatory. Other women would not risk their skin and their gowns being torn to wander off into the darkness. But I have never been one to flinch from danger.

As soon as my foot touches the path, I am rewarded. The brambles draw back and bow as though for some lost queen. Sinuous strands of mist beckon me into a garden beneath the night sky. Marble statues, towering and elegant, reach for me. Here, a woman arching her back, cold breasts exposed. There, a man whose robe slips down the line of his hips, his gaze feral. I touch hands and limbs like ice, all the while aflame in my own skin.

And then, in the center of these silent marble people, I find a man.

He wears the mist like a cloak and stands so still that I take him to be another statue at first. I cannot make out his features in the moonless dark, but somehow I feel I know him, and that I would recognize his face. I sense him watching me, surprised that I am there. The mist outlines his form—that of a big, powerfully built man, slightly taller than Arthur, broader than Quincey Morris. He has a quiet, thoughtful presence, tipping his head to one side as he studies me with eyes I cannot see.

My longing thrums harder in my chest, for I have found that which I was seeking.

“Lucy.” His velvet baritone is like the music of a cello, warm and rich and dark. Never has my name been spoken with such unfettered yearning, not by any man who has ever wanted me. I want to sink into the depths of that voice and all the promise it holds. “Lucy.”

I want to go to him, but I hesitate, thinking of Jack recoiling from my embrace, Quincey’s cold eyes when I had spoken for him, and Arthur’s hand keeping us properly apart as we danced.

The stranger holds out his long white hand. On the smallest finger shines a brass ring set with a garnet of deep wine red. “Lucy,” he says for the third time. His tender, melodic tone is veined with both kindness and aching desire, and it is an invitation I cannot refuse.

It is only a dream , I think, giving myself permission before I run into his open arms.

He is as cold and solid as a marble statue. He has no smell and no warmth, but somehow his embrace is as familiar to me as my own name. I press my face against his chest and close my eyes, feeling a greater peace than I have known for some time. He holds me securely, but not tightly. Here, I am free to go whenever I wish, and there are no open graves to swallow me.

The man presses his icy lips to my forehead. I feel small and protected in the cradle of his arms as his hands stroke my back, arctic through my thin nightdress. His fingers teeter on the precipice of my waist, a tantalizing inch from the curve of my bottom. I lift my face to his, which is still masked in shadow, and hold him closer to me.

It is only a dream , I think, and no one need know what we do here.

“No,” the man agrees, and in his voice I hear a smile.

I put my hand against his cool cheek, expecting him to pull away. Everything about this would be shocking by the light of day: me alone with a stranger, caressing his face so intimately as his hands learn the topography of my body. But he does not move as I trace his sharp jaw, clean-shaven but rough with bristle. My fingers find a long straight nose and a wide mouth. His lips, still smiling, brush a knowing kiss on my thumb.

Another invitation.

A flame ignites in my chest. This man will not refuse me like the others. He will give me everything I desire. He cares nothing for propriety when I am in his arms. Quickly, before I lose my courage, I press my mouth to his. His lips slide over mine, soft and delicate as a feather, and grow warm as I kiss him. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my breasts tightly to his hard chest. His hands stroke my body from shoulder to hip, and I shiver at his cold fingers on my bare arms. I am aching, melting. I sigh into his mouth, but he stops me at last with a quiet laugh, touching my face in a mirroring caress of how I had explored his.

“Lucy,” he says again, heartbreakingly tender.

I hear a farewell in his voice and tighten my arms around his neck. I have no shame in the dream, not for the possessive way with which I hold him to me or for the urgency in my voice when I whisper, “Please don’t go.” Not when I have found you.

He leans his forehead against mine. “I will find you again,” he vows. His accent is one I cannot place, but it makes me think of sprawling ancient cities, ruined castles embraced by dark tangled trees, and wild peaks glinting in the light of a cold sun. His arms wrap around me, gentle and protective. “I will find you, Lucy.”

And then I wake up.

I am shivering alone on a bench in the churchyard. The moon has emerged from a blanket of thick clouds, and the garden, conservatory, and statues have all vanished. But there, held upon the wintry breath of night, is the stranger’s promise, lingering like the mist.