should be horrified. She should be disgusted. She didn’t want to open her eyes – not because she was scared to look upon the literal bloodbath she had created but because she wanted her eyelids to receive the full benefit. She reached out a hand and rested it on the cool flank of the dead maid, the woman she had killed. She realised she felt nothing. No, not nothing, worse than that: she felt thrilled. She felt powerful. She felt back in a place of dominance, feeding off the little people, thriving off their devotion. She felt
herself
.
She waited for about twenty minutes, then decided that the blood must have done its work. She was too impatient to wait any longer.
Elizabeth sat up and reached out for the taps. In her head she briefly heard her father’s voice. ‘
Cold water for blood
,’ he said and she could picture him hurling bucket after bucket of icy water on the bloodstained floor of the barn after he had slaughtered one of the pigs. ‘
It chills it off the stones
.’
She had no idea whether there was any truth to that but decided there was little point in arguing.
She turned on the cold-water tap and let the liquid rush out. She gave an involuntary shriek as it splashed on her, cupping it with both hands nonetheless and pouring it over her head, letting it rush over her shoulders. A cloud of pink blossomed around her as the blood began to be washed off. She removed the plug and swirled the blood residue away, forcing it down the outlet.
Leaning over the side of the bath she nudged Georgina’s legs aside so that she could reach for one of the bottles she had handed her, the shampoo. Elizabeth poured a good handful into her hair and massaged it, constantly cupping more cold water and dousing herself with it.
It took a long time but eventually she was clean.
She stood up and, on impulse, turned her gaze away from the bathroom mirror. She didn’t want this piecemeal, she wanted to appreciate the full effect.
She stepped out into her dressing room and stared at herself in the mirrors that surrounded her.
She was beautiful. Perfect. A woman who had lost twenty years … more, even. She couldn’t take her stare off herself. Her hands constantly stroked her body, feeling every inch of its rejuvenation.
A miracle. And one that was certainly worth the life of a stupid maid, a girl whom nobody in their right mind would miss.
Which was when she noticed the girl’s uniform, still discarded on the floor. Had Nayland seen it? No matter if he had: he would keep her secret. She would make quite sure of that.
Nayland
had
noticed the uniform – had been staring at it, in fact, when he had asked Elizabeth about the girl’s whereabouts.
‘I gave her fifty dollars,’ his wife had said, ‘and told her to take the night off.’
A lie, surely. But hiding what truth?
He had retired to his own room. Once again lost inside his own house, feeling out of control and powerless beneath a roof that increasingly felt like that of a prison rather than a home.
He poured himself a large Scotch and sat in the window, watching an unhealthy sun sink behind the mountains. Part of him wished it would have the decency to just stay there.
The maid. What had Elizabeth done to the maid?
And, more to the point, what was he going to do about it?
Nayland lost himself in the shadows, the faint light from a bedside lamp too thin to permeate further than the safety of his white-sheeted bed.
Elizabeth came to him a few hours later. A silhouette in his doorway, a ghost bathed in expensive scent.
‘Look at you,’ she said, ‘sat staring out into the dark.’
‘Story of my life.’
‘It doesn’t have to be.’ She stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her. ‘Turn off that light.’
He didn’t question her – did he ever? – just got to his feet, walked over and let the darkness possess those last few steps.
‘Take off your clothes.’
This did give him pause. Unsure for a moment whether it would be the
herself
.
She waited for about twenty minutes, then decided that the blood must have done its work. She was too impatient to wait any longer.
Elizabeth sat up and reached out for the taps. In her head she briefly heard her father’s voice. ‘
Cold water for blood
,’ he said and she could picture him hurling bucket after bucket of icy water on the bloodstained floor of the barn after he had slaughtered one of the pigs. ‘
It chills it off the stones
.’
She had no idea whether there was any truth to that but decided there was little point in arguing.
She turned on the cold-water tap and let the liquid rush out. She gave an involuntary shriek as it splashed on her, cupping it with both hands nonetheless and pouring it over her head, letting it rush over her shoulders. A cloud of pink blossomed around her as the blood began to be washed off. She removed the plug and swirled the blood residue away, forcing it down the outlet.
Leaning over the side of the bath she nudged Georgina’s legs aside so that she could reach for one of the bottles she had handed her, the shampoo. Elizabeth poured a good handful into her hair and massaged it, constantly cupping more cold water and dousing herself with it.
It took a long time but eventually she was clean.
She stood up and, on impulse, turned her gaze away from the bathroom mirror. She didn’t want this piecemeal, she wanted to appreciate the full effect.
She stepped out into her dressing room and stared at herself in the mirrors that surrounded her.
She was beautiful. Perfect. A woman who had lost twenty years … more, even. She couldn’t take her stare off herself. Her hands constantly stroked her body, feeling every inch of its rejuvenation.
A miracle. And one that was certainly worth the life of a stupid maid, a girl whom nobody in their right mind would miss.
Which was when she noticed the girl’s uniform, still discarded on the floor. Had Nayland seen it? No matter if he had: he would keep her secret. She would make quite sure of that.
Nayland
had
noticed the uniform – had been staring at it, in fact, when he had asked Elizabeth about the girl’s whereabouts.
‘I gave her fifty dollars,’ his wife had said, ‘and told her to take the night off.’
A lie, surely. But hiding what truth?
He had retired to his own room. Once again lost inside his own house, feeling out of control and powerless beneath a roof that increasingly felt like that of a prison rather than a home.
He poured himself a large Scotch and sat in the window, watching an unhealthy sun sink behind the mountains. Part of him wished it would have the decency to just stay there.
The maid. What had Elizabeth done to the maid?
And, more to the point, what was he going to do about it?
Nayland lost himself in the shadows, the faint light from a bedside lamp too thin to permeate further than the safety of his white-sheeted bed.
Elizabeth came to him a few hours later. A silhouette in his doorway, a ghost bathed in expensive scent.
‘Look at you,’ she said, ‘sat staring out into the dark.’
‘Story of my life.’
‘It doesn’t have to be.’ She stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her. ‘Turn off that light.’
He didn’t question her – did he ever? – just got to his feet, walked over and let the darkness possess those last few steps.
‘Take off your clothes.’
This did give him pause. Unsure for a moment whether it would be the
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