Blood Will Out

chapter five

I hadn't thought my posture could get any more dejected, but my shoulders slump another inch. There's no telling what insane notion this woman is fixed on or what special ability they'll expect me to believe she has.

"You're right," she tells Graham. "She thinks we're all gone in the head... or that she is." When she straightens her shoulders the sequins on her shirt shimmer in the light. "But we don't have time for your misconceptions pet, I've got big plans this evening and I won't miss them on account of your feminine sensibilities. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow and then where would we be?" She demands. "There's no one else here to teach you." 

When I don't respond --since I have no idea what it is she wants to teach me-- she adds. "If you think we're all crazy, then what difference does it make?" She stares me down defiantly. "In fact, I'll make you a bargain. If thirty minutes from now you still don't believe what you've been told about this place and it's people, then you're free to leave."

Graham takes a step forward as if to interject but Maeve hushes him before he gets the chance to.

"No. She must choose this for herself or it will never work. If she's faced with the reality and still can't find the courage to embrace it, then she shouldn't be here regardless." Light gray eyes pierce mine as she holds her hand out between us again. "What do you say little girl, do you have a backbone or not?"

The goading works... which I assume is exactly what she was hoping for.

"Fine." I drop my fingers into her outstretched hand. "But you should know I dislike heights and I'm allergic to shellfish."

One of her heavily penciled-in eyebrows rises in question.

"I mean, at this point, it could be anything right? After the day I've had I'll be no more surprised by your asking me to join an orgy as I would an inclusion in ritual sacrifice. I just want to make sure you know a few necessary particulars."

Graham snorts. "We'll be sure to remove the scallops from the post-coitus party menu."

It's begrudging, but I have to smirk at him just the same. Sarcasm is my love language.

"Close your eyes," Maeve tells me.

I do as I'm told.

"I want you to imagine France."

I open my eyes again in confusion but immediately close them when I see the annoyance on her face.

OK? France.

Here goes...

I imagine the pictures I've seen of the city of light. The Champs de Elysee, the small seating areas dotting the Jardin de Tuileries, the glass pyramid serving as the gatekeeper to the gilded antiquity of the Louvre. All places I've dreamed of visiting in person but could never go.

"Now go further back," her voice tells me. "To the time of Louis XVI."

Well sure, why not ask me to imagine France in the late eighteenth century? The request startles me as an odd choice, but mostly because it's not an odd choice for me. I can think back on that time because history is something I've researched and read about for most of my life. Even in crappy schools with limited resources I'd been obsessed. Even when I had to walk miles to use the computers at shabby libraries-- losing myself in the past meant that I could forget about the present at least for a little while.  How could she know that? I shy away from the question and follow her voice instead. My mind fills with the knowledge at that small direction. The death of Louis XV and Marie Antoinette as Dauphine. White powdered wigs and elaborately gilded ballrooms.