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The bed was quivering beneath him, but the shake was slight, as if he were imagining it. The darkness all around, save the courting candle, was soft and almost soothing, and Barnabas was long gone. Gone, but not in spirit. The back of Willie's neck twitched as if he could still feel the hiss of breath there. Sense the switch raised in anger, even though none had been. Close, it had been so close, he'd almost gotten a whipping, but had somehow avoided it. Not through any cleverness of his own, though. No, it should have happened. Barnabas had been standing over him in the hallway, fists clenched, only that far away from demanding that Willie go into the yard for one of the switches of wood from the lilac tree he'd trimmed that day. Fetch it for his master's use, to teach his erring servant the enormity of his mistake. Teach him why treading through wild clover on a bright spring morning to trim a rouge lilac tree that no one had planted nor anyone cared for was not the wisest of choices.
Wise, no. But desirable, yes. Especially on a day when the wind had been only slight, and what there was of it smelling of greengrowth and new spiderwebs spun in the sunshine. Entirely too much for him to resist. So he'd gone and done it. Trimmed the tree and cut away the old dead wood, leaving behind room for the tree to grow and bringing the brush and scraps to his truck to haul into town on the morrow. Bringing along with them Barnabas' wrath.
It hadn't been his fault. The ghosts of winter had long been chased away and with them the shadows; the sunlight had pulled him into the yard. Away from the drawn curtains and the soaking dampness that not even the height of summer would cure. Through the doorway, past the unused stone well, past the spring house, and out into the wildness that, since the spring rains had come, had taken over the expanse of meadow behind the Old House. Up the path, that, if he kept going, would take him to Widow's Hill. But he wasn't going that far. Clippers and saw in hand, his arms aching to be exposed to the sunlight, he turned off the path and strode through the shade of a grouping of firs.
A lilac tree. Tangled in its own growth like a long-legged thing, too gangly to know where to step. Too choked to grow any more or spread its blossoms past the top branches. And smelling ever so faintly...like lilacs.
He smiled, tucking his chin down. Yes, chores awaited him, a houseful of them, always waiting and never ending, and all of them in the shadows. In a house so dark that candles had to be lit to show the interior walls, even in mid-day. A sign of wealth in days gone by, the days only a memory and now a constant trial of keeping up with the wax and the webs. Willie sighed. Wouldn't take long, this tree. An hour or so. Perhaps a bit more. In the spring sunshine, on the first warm day that he'd seen since he'd come here with Jason too many months ago.
Giving himself a shake, he tucked the memories away. Back in the dark, back where his brain would really have to work at getting them. With the sun pouring through the branches and the faint perfume of flowers just coming to bud mixing, the heat intensified just as he stepped into the arms of the tree. Putting the tools down, he slipped off his flannel shirt, feeling a faint bite of chill through his T-shirt, but ignoring it, knowing it would fade with the work. Brushing his hair out of his eyes, he picked up the clippers and set to work.
He started with the tiny branches, brown dead from winter's frost, and then clipped away anything that didn't already have a bud or a flower or a leaf on it. His arms were pale against the brown and the green, as the leaves brushed against him, raising the tiny hairs along his wrists. Twigs broke off as he knocked against them, and soon he was snapping them off with his fingers, using the clippers for the thicker ones, sending a rain of dry wood clattering past his ears. Then the saw, using it on the harder wood at the base, making himself slow down as the sun poured through, streaming like lace all around, and bringing the scent with it. Sweet, and then sweeter, an undercurrent of something bitter and new as he took a deep breath and he bent his weight into a branch to snap it clean.
A spray of wind tore through the tree, just for an instant, bringing a flurry of dusty violet petals and a sprinkle of damp from above as if from an imagined rain.
Pausing to wipe away the dust from his eyes, he ran his hand along the back of his neck. Sweat pleasantly cooled him down. It was going to really rain soon, no doubt about that. But a spring rain, not the torrent of ice that had bogged his roof patching job, nor the blustery nor'easters that brought with it lightning and wind to howl the trees down. No, this was going to be a growing rain. He could smell it.
Looking up through the tree to the blue sky beyond, he laid down his saw. Could feel the lightness of the branches as they seemed to sigh and expand with relief. Silly to think that a tree could feel but there it was. A job well done, and a pile of brush to show for it. Brush that he'd hauled neatly to stack in a pile next to his truck, scratching up his arms in the process, but leaving the area around the tree nice and tidy. As if no one had ever been there.
Unfortunately, no one should have been there. Not in Barnabas' mind. Lilacs had not been planted on the Collinwood Estate, he'd been informed in no uncertain terms, nor would they ever be. Lilacs were for commoners and what the hell had he been playing at, leaving his chores to trim an ugly tree?
Which, of course, was not exactly what Barnabas had said.
He could hear that voice, even now, in the almost silent air of his room.
What do you mean by assuming that your own desires were more important than your duty to this house?
And that in response to his explanation of where he'd been all day. Why he'd not started his chores until the afternoon, not even coming close to getting them done. And why he was covered in sweat and the tiny purple petals of a lilac tree.
Which, of course, was not what Barnabas had called it.
You attended to that? A worthless scrub tree?
He'd made it sound like a curse, as if the tree had made its way onto the estate entirely by mistake and the only reason it hadn't been escorted off the premises was through some subversive means known only to trees.
The master of the house had been on his way to an appointment that, Willie assumed, was of the utmost importance. But then it always was. By the look of the vampire's suit and his choice of linen shirt, a date with one, Miss Victoria Winters. He was bringing her yet another book, and his encounter with her, if Willie's stop yesterday at the flower shop had been successful, would include a dozen roses being delivered to their table at the Collinsport Inn during dinner. Barnabas liked to see the expression on Miss Winter's face, Willie knew, so there was never a delivery of roses during the day for her to enjoy them on her own, oh no. They came to the table when he was with her, or in company, so the vampire could watch her like a hungry thing, every nuance of her surprise as meat and drink to the starving. Willie had seen him do this at the Old House. Books, and secretaries, and other gifts, presented with ceremony, and Barnabas watching her. Until he caught Willie watching him, at which point he would suggest that Willie had more important things to do and send him out of the room.
But that evening, a glance at the parlor and the stone cold fireplace as Barnabas hurried down the hall, and at the candles Willie was only starting to light, had alerted the master to the fact that his servant had not been attending to the house as he should. And then came the first few questions. And Willie's answers. All fine so far. Until Barnabas next question.
Why on earth would you consider doing such a thing?
And himself, in response, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to say to a vampire.
Because it was a beautiful day, Barnabas. The sun was shining, an--
No. Wrong. Stop.
Too late.
Barnabas had latched onto him, gripping his throat with one icy fist, draining away the warmth of the day inside of a second, and sending Willie to slam against a pillar. The marble, cold, soaked into him, replacing his blood with something else, a caustic soda, spriting through him, making his bones brittle and his head ache.
A beautiful day? And the sun, shining? Barnabas had brought Willie's face close to his own until they were inches apart. The glint in Barnabas' eyes like black darts pinning him there, and Willie sucked back his breath and Barnabas hissed out his own. And so you decided to enjoy yourself?
Y-yeah. It was all he had been able to manage, trying not to notice the fangs that pressed against the vampire's lips, nor the cold surge of air that enveloped him. It was the truth, after all, and he'd learned that lying would not help. I just thought--
But it was not his place to think, and the master reminded him of this with a backhanded smack that whacked his head against the marble, leaving him to shrink against the hand that now slid down to grip his shirt, gathering handfuls of cloth to bind him tight, as if he were a runaway hound being brought to heel. Teeth and eyes right in his face. And a voice, firm and hard as an iron bolt being slid into place.
You will not think. You will fetch a switch from this tree you have so late been tending to and I will teach you--
Then Barnabas stopped. Pushed his fist into Willie's throat, just once, and then loosened his grip. Eyes narrow. Still in his face, but the voice lowered to a whisper, a grate of iron against rock, Willie shivering as it vibrated through his bones.
You will never mention this to me again or you will regret the consequences. Nor will you repeat this unwanted labor.
And then he'd shoved Willie away, his gaze falling from his servant like so much unwanted business, and walked away, picking up his book from the console with one hand and his coat and cane with another, all in one motion. Slammed the door behind him, leaving only the echo of wood against wood, and the house to settle around Willie with his master's absence.
And now, as Willie lay in bed, the echoes of a ghostly whipping, the reason for which long forgotten, throbbed in almost gentle waves across the back of his thighs. He was face down, as if the beating had actually been delivered this night. Arms encircling the pillow, his chin propped up so he could breathe, his ribs shuddering a bit as he tried to relax.
But it was hard to relax, for some reason. It was as if Barnabas had actually sent him for the switch and ordered him over the table. Ordered him to take off his shirt, or even his trousers, perhaps, depending on how severe the master had determined the whipping would be. Some invisible scale in the vampire's mind always decided this, and Willie had never been able to predict it. Not that he'd spent a great deal of time pursuing the matter, not that his mind had worked itself around the problem ever. Never, well, this is worth a belt beating, or if I do this, it will be the switch on bare skin for sure. No. He preferred not to think about it.
Difficult not to this time, though, when the event had been so close. This transgression had been worth a whipping with a switch on bare skin, definitely. In this case, for his remark more than for his choice of which chores to tend to.
The skin along his back throbbed, knowing what it had barely missed, and his brain, echoed it, though it could not possibly understand why.
You pissed him off with that remark about the sunshine.
He understood that part. The one thing Barnabas could never have. That his lowly servant could. Any day. Every day, nearly. That his lowly servant had taken advantage of it, thrown it in his master's face was beyond endurance for a man used to having his own way in everything.
He asked, didn't he? I just told him what he wanted to know.
Could have told the vampire something else, he knew that. Something like, I just got caught up, Barnabas, I didn't notice the time.
Yeah, something vague like that.
But the vampire had been at him, right in his face, and the truth had come, like it always did, in unvarnished gulps tearing right through Willie's mien of resistance.
But why no beating? Why no demand for his belt or the switch, no visit to the kitchen, why no, as Barnabas like to say, consequences for his actions?
Why?
What had stopped it? In Barnabas' mind, a beating for a remark like that would have been well deserved. Even Willie knew enough to predict that. But there had been nothing specific in Barnabas' eyes, no spark to tell Willie that the vampire's reticence in beating him had been because of something from his past. Some memory of his mother perhaps? No, if Naomi had ever liked lilacs, Willie would have heard about it. At length. Or if anyone, anyone at all related to the Collins clan, had planted, adored, harvested, or wore lilacs in any way, the master of the house would have bored him to tears with stories about it. Anything a Collins had done, did, or thought about doing was worthy of note, and therefore worthy of comment. So, no connection with lilacs.
Willie did not know. Would never know. Wasn't going to ask. Why bother digging up graves like that? The one he had dug up had been trouble enough.
He wanted to turn on his side and slide into sleep, but his ribs were still twitching, his backside almost aching with an imagined beating.
If things had gone as they might have, he would have been up all night, layered in sweat and shaking from it. On his front, unable to sleep until dawn stole into the room. By then he'd be tired enough to drop off, but his chores would have been waiting, with another beating at the end of the day if he did not finish them. The phantom pain was keeping him awake now anyway, like traces of the stroke of a lover's hand.
The night drew to quiet as his brain worked around it, Barnabas in his face, hands at his throat, the threat imminent, and, then, nothing. Nothing from a man who considered Willie his to do with as he pleased, when he pleased, for whatever reason.
Nothing.
It was almost spooky, even as it was a relief. Even as his eyes dropped heavy and he felt himself curl under the blankets, his back relaxing at last, the faint, hideaway murmurs of a switch across his thighs did not fade all that much.
There was another shoe, out there in the proverbial wherever, waiting to drop. If he could be alert enough to witness it.
*
During the night, the rain fell, sending him to sleep, and in the morning, when he awoke and went downstairs for his coffee, there was a carpet of moisture and tiny sparks on every branch and tree and blade of grass that he could see through the window. He stepped out into the yard, shivering with the damp, but enjoying the smell of warm things growing and the pleasant prospect of going into town later. Town meant, of course, a stop at the diner for a meal not cooked at the expense of building a fire or singeing his hands on a coal-hot cast iron skillet. Rubbing his hands on his arms, he stepped back inside, pant legs already soaked through.
By the time he stepped back outside to load up the truck with the brush pile, the dew had burned off and the sun was high. The yard had a lush, hot feel, as if everything were about to burst through the ground. He knew the signs; his gran's yard had been like that in the springtime. The memory was fleet and went by fast, her standing there, hands on hips, nodding to him. Saying something about heat cooking the seeds. Willie smiled, and shook his head, sending the memory away. Time to load the brush before he got on with his other chores, and certainly before Barnabas got up. No sense of leaving around a reminder of the fact that he'd not beaten Willie for something.
It took over an hour to load it all, and sweating, arms scratched, he pulled on his T-shirt just as he heard the step on the walk along the side of the house. A light step, but not hesitant, as it might have been were it David sneaking about. His mental bet that it was either Carolyn or Vicki was proven right. A second later, Vicki strode into view, her hair tucked beneath a scarf that she'd tied under her chin. Her rain jacket was buttoned firmly in place, as if a sudden gale were expected. She would weather it just fine, he figured, noting her sensible shoes a moment later. If it had been Carolyn, she'd have worn sandals on a sunny day like this one, and complained when the muddy path ruined them. Not so Vicki.
"Hello, Willie," she said, a smile breaking through her serious expression. "I figured you might be working outside today."
"Sure, Vicki," he said in reply. "Plenty of fresh air out here."
For a second she frowned, and he realized that what he'd said made it sound like there was no fresh air to be had inside the Old House. Which might be taken as a slight against Barnabas. Not good.
"I mean, you can smell the rain coming better when you're outside, you know?"
That was better. She smiled again, nodding a bit, and then held out a book in her hand.
"I wanted to return this. Mr. Collins had loaned it to me, and I wanted to give it back before something happened to it."
"What would happen to it, eh?"
A tiny pout now. "David," she said. Then she shook her head, and the firmly tied scarf slipped backwards a bit, revealing her chestnut dark hair.
"Ah," he said, not wanting to comment any more than that.
"Yes, exactly." She looked at the book for a long minute, and then looked up at Willie. He was struck by her ability to be silent when she was thinking, not like Carolyn, who opened her mouth and just let the words come out.
"I wanted to return it because I know it's expensive. Mr. Collins was telling me about his book collection, and how much he's invested in it and that made me think--
well, I don't want to be the one to ruin any of his personal belongings."
"Sure," he said, not knowing if Vicki realized just how furious Barnabas could get when something happened to something he valued or if she was just being polite. Probably the latter was true. "I understand."
"So...could we take it inside now, before something happens to it?"
"Well, ah, sure, Vicki. Give it to me, huh? An' I'll take it in."
Her eyes glanced over at the pile of brush in the back of the truck as she placed the book in his outstretched hand. As the weight of the book settled against his grip, he followed her gaze.
"What have you been trimming, then, Willie?"
She would ask. Anyone else would have commented on what a large pile it was or said nothing at all. Trust Vicki to know what he'd been doing, just by the remains of his efforts. He slid his fingers along the spine of the book, noting the title, and recalling the price.
"Um," he said, wanting to stall, "just trimmin' a lilac tree."
"Really?" Her eyes lit up in a way he was not used to seeing. It was like a candle suddenly revealed inside of her. "I didn't know there were any on the estate."
"Yeah," he said, beginning to walk toward the house. Vicki trailed after him, hands in her jacket pockets, her footsteps clicking in echo with his own on the flagstones. "Well, I'll just put this away then."
He opened the door and placed the book carefully on the kitchen table. It would be safe there until he came back from town. Then he would hand it over to Barnabas, who would then decide the proper place for it to go in the library. Far be it from Willie to even attempt to decide such a thing. He came back out, shaking off the darkness of the Old House, to see Vicki still standing there, an expectant expression making her face bright.
"Willie, may I ask you a favor?"
"Sure, what is it Vicki."
"Could you show me the lilac tree you were trimming?"
A ride into town, or a special message for Mr. Collins, that's what he'd been expecting. Not this.
"Uh…." He stopped, feeling a crick in his neck spring suddenly to life. "Uh, it's up the hill a ways, an', ah, it's, you know--"
"I would love to see it," she said. "Lilacs are my favorite. The founding home where I grew up is overflowing with them this time of year, the street leading up to the gate especially, but I've not seen one since coming to Collinwood."
A freshet of wind blew into the yard, carrying with it the salt of the sea, and beneath that, of green things growing. She was like a kid, wanting something so desperately and not realizing she wanted it. How bad she wanted it. He simply could not resist the look on her face, and knew she could wander around for hours and never find it. She only had a little bit of time, after all, on a break from teaching David and expected back up at the Great House in short order. Besides, since he'd started working for Barnabas, she'd always been kind to him.
"Okay."
A gasp of pleasure, and he had to turn away lest she see him smiling and not understand why.
"It's up the hill," he said. "I'll show ya."
He led the way, striding through the clover, which seemed inches deeper than it had even yesterday, and looked back only once to make sure she was okay. Her scarf was coming off now, and he saw her reach for her jacket as if to unbutton it. Sure, in the growing heat as the sun resisted the threat of rain, that would make sense. She followed him without a word, keeping up with his longer strides and not needing any help at all.
Self-reliant, not like Carolyn.
But Carolyn wouldn't have wanted to come up in the first place.
At the height of the hill, he took a right and walked at an angle across a small field, through the stand of firs, and held the branches back for her so she could pass through with ease. The branches managed to grab her scarf all the way off, sending her hair spilling like a dance of leaves across her shoulders. The wind picked up the edges of her skirt to flutter across her knees, and Willie realized he was on the verge of staring. Turning away, he let the branch go, and made a gesture with his hand to present the lilac tree. With the trimming he'd done the day before and the constant rain through the night, the tree had burst forth with hundreds of blooms of lilac flowers. As the wind was carried to them, he realized the air was permeated with their scent
"Oh," she said, her mouth remaining open as she walked toward the tree. "It's beautiful."
It was. An explosion of purple and violet and lilac colored flowers. All bright and crisp and new in the late morning sunshine. With another stiff wind, some of the petals were torn to rain down, fluttering in the air like spreading snow, and Willie felt them landing on his face like soft kisses. Only they didn't melt. They stayed and scented the air around his face. And Vicki. He looked over at her; her eyes were closed and the petals were landing on her eyelids and weaving their way through her hair. Lacing her skin and drifting down the front of her dress as she held up her hands to catch the velvet fall. Now he was staring and only realized it too late, as she opened her eyes and looked at him. Frank and direct, in that way she had as if she could see into his heart, even if only for a moment.
"Thank you, Willie," she said, softly, dipping her head. Violet snow fell from her hair and then she looked up through her lashes at him. "This means a lot to me. Only--"
She stopped, turning her head to one side, lips thinning.
"Only what, Vicki? What is it?" He stepped closer, where he could smell the lilac's scent blending in with the sweat of her walk up the hill. The sweetness of her hair warmed in the sunshine. Swallowing, he tried to concentrate. And remind himself exactly whose ladylove he was now panting after.
"Only...only I was wondering if I could pick some of them. Do you think Mr. Collins would mind?"
"Mind?" He was on the verge of telling her exactly what Barnabas thought about this particular brand of flower and the tree it grew on, but he stopped himself. It wouldn't do any good or make any difference. "No, sure, hey, he won't mind."
"What could I carry them in, I wonder."
He realized after a quick second that she wasn't really asking him, she was asking herself. Out loud. That if nothing else would have told him how excited she was, because even as she spoke, she was taking off her rainjacket. "We'll put them in here, and I'll bundle them back with me to Collinwood. I'm sure Mrs. Johnson will have an extra vase I could use."
She reached up and began plucking the stems off, which snapped easily in her hand. She was picking enough to fill at least two vases, and Willie joined her, making the pile grow in to a mass of flowers that brimmed with scent.
"Oh, this is lovely," she said, again to herself, bending to scoop up the flowers in her hands to let them fall back down again in a soft patter. "I'll sleep like a baby with these in my room."
Willie had to smile outright at this. An almost laugh bubbled in his throat. "Sure, Vicki."
"Here, help me tie up the sleeves."
He bent to catch the edges of her coat and hold them up while she tied the sleeves around them. Then he lifted up the bundle and nodded to her. "I'll carry it for ya, okay? It's kinda bulky."
"Thank you, Willie," she said, and her smile was brilliant and deep. "I'll walk ahead and lead the way."
He tried not to stare at her as they walked down the hill and along the path to the Great House. But it was hard. The sun glinted off her hair, a living pelt of glossy brown, and once, when she looked back at him, she flicked it over her shoulders. He always did have it bad for girls who flipped their hair like that, and with her eyelashes cast half down as she smiled, he felt for a moment that she knew this. That she knew exactly what it did to him. Could even feel the electric current that raced through his gut and sense the sweat breaking out along the back of his neck. It was thoughts like these that would land him in trouble.
Blinking, he shifted his gaze but that was even worse. She had good legs, this one, smooth like silk and flashing under the modest length of her skirt. But there was enough there to know she had legs that went all the way up, sweet as sugar, and--
He stopped himself.
Just walk blind, okay, boy-o? Safer that way.
He'd rather trip and break his neck than face the wrath of Barnabas. Which is what would happen if the vampire found out that, by the time they'd walked through the woods together, and along the winding path that led from the Old House to Collinwood, Willie was humming with desire and that he would just as soon draw her into the copse beyond the main drive and lay her down in the tall grass that was beginning to shoot up as he would escort her to the front door of the Great House. Lay her down and ease off whatever sensible undergarments she was so charmingly hiding beneath her just-that-side-of-too-long skirt.
I'll help you sleep like a baby, Vicki.
By God, Willie, you're asking for it. Knock it off. Now.
Letting go of the air he'd clenched in his lungs, he continued to troop behind her, obedient and silent, watching the twitch of her skirt and trying to ignore the tightness of his jeans. It was the springtime, of course. That's what was doing it to him. In the middle of winter he'd not be having thoughts like these. But in the middle of winter, he'd not be walking right behind Vicki, who was stopping to open the front door of the Great House, turning amidst the scent of sweet lilac while the bright sunshine streamed through the trees, soaking them both through with the warmth of the day.
"Thank you, Willie," she said, reaching for the bundle he clenched in his arms. Making him realize how tight he'd been holding it, and he hoped he'd not crushed the petals too much.
Behind Vicki, in the shadows of the doorway, he saw Mrs. Johnson pass through the foyer. Willie gave Vicki the bundle and then stepped back in a shower of errant petals, shaking them off his body with a shiver, just as he as he tried to shed the illicit thoughts of Vicki Winters, laying in the sweet grass, hair spread out like dark silk ribbons. Wearing a blanket of lilacs and nothing else.
"You're welcome, Vicki," he said, keeping his voice steady. It was, he was pleased to note; she would never know. And Barnabas would never find out. "Anytime, okay?"
With a nod, she closed the door, and he waited a moment while her crisp footsteps faded away and he was left in silence in the archway of the front door.
Walk it off. Walk it off before you get back to the Old House, smelling like a stallion in heat.
He started down the front walk, cutting across the path into the woods with purposeful strides. It would be ages before Barnabas was up; time aplenty to simmer down and tend to his chores. Time enough to make like today had never happened.
Vicki Winters? Who's that, who's she?
*
The warmth of the day had lasted only slightly longer than the heat in his groin. He'd worked and kept working until both had faded away and the first of the season's big thunderstorms came crashing down upon the roof and against the leaded windowpanes. Not a growing rain, this time, but a tearing rain, one that tossed the trees and scattered new petals of roses and lilacs alike. Whatever blossoms had been on the tree would be gone by morning.
He set himself to polishing the entire length of both staircases, starting with the servant's staircase and then moved to the front one. He used the good oil on both, and, were Barnabas to notice, he might be chastised for the waste. Servant's stairs were not worth top-level work, and wasn't he aware of that? Too bad, though, it was the only wood oil he'd had on hand; on his next trip to town he'd have to get more. But it meant, as he'd planned it, that when Barnabas had actually gotten up, he'd catch Willie working. There was no way the master of the house could miss him either, not with old newspapers spread about, and the smell of the polish floating down the hall. Willie had heard the vampire's step and made sure he was elbows deep in it, applying the oil with good vigor to the starting newel.
The steps stopped behind him.
"This is a remarkable enterprise, Willie, what brought this about?"
"Oh," said Willie, pretending to be very absorbed in his efforts, "just makin' up for yesterday."
There was a pause and Willie did not look up. "Laudable," said Barnabas, "very laudable."
Another word he did not know, and he made a mental note to find out what it meant from the big leather covered dictionary in the library. Not that Barnabas had ever given him permission to do this, but that was too bad, wasn't it. Couldn't go flinging ten-dollar words at a fellow all the time without him wanting to know what they were.
Then Barnabas left him in the front hall without another word either about enterprising servants or taking a well-earned rest. Willie was out of oil anyway, finished up the last riser and tread, and then cleaned up after himself. Made a quick supper of eggs and bacon and fried potatoes, and washed up, all the while absently starting at the storm through the window. Watching the wings of greyed trees wave back and forth as the rain lashed down, coming at such an angle that it wasn't actually hitting the kitchen window. He figured the side of the house, the east side, the direction the wind was coming from, would be soaked through. He'd check on the rooms on that side of the house, but in the morning. Now, his bed was calling and, with Barnabas out, there was no one to tell him to keep working.
His bed kept calling to him until he sank into the mattress, his pillow almost comfortable, the weight of the layers of wool and cotton somehow sitting just right, keeping in the warmth of his body, but not pressing down on him as they sometimes did. He would be asleep in a moment, quick, sinking down, grateful, lax, like floating in warm water, like it would be if--
No, man, don't even go there. Not that lady, above all the others. Not only is she as far away and as unreachable as the stars, Barnabas has his eye on her. One big red flashing stop sign: Don't touch. Got that?
Besides, Victoria Winters was a lady. Not just a lady some of the time, when it suited her. Not a lady like Carolyn, Miss Carolyn, if you please, who tramped around and still thought she deserved to walk on water. No, Vicki was a real lady through and through, to her fingertips, and getting into a place and time where he could be wrapped, flesh and flesh, and the sweet feel of--
Damnit, Loomis? You gonna cut it out or what?
At any rate, with a gal like Vicki, it would take a wedding ring, and nothing less, to get her into bed. The price was too high, and Willie was not free to pay it.
Ah, well. I can look. No harm in that, is there?
*
Sleep. Sound asleep except for a bang from downstairs, which his half-muddled brain dismissed as the echoes of the storm fretting at the front door. Tearing at the shutters, perhaps, or lashing at the roof. But the echo continued, coming up the stairs with a solid, booming tread, making him think for a moment that thunder had entered the house. Was coming down the hall and two seconds before it opened his door, Willie sat upright in bed, shedding the ease of sleep for a heart-thumping, wide-awake state that his body determined was necessary. Anxiety slamming in his throat as Barnabas burst into his room, greatcoat still on.
There was no light, yet still he raised his arm in front of his face as if to block it. To block the rage that glittered in the vampire's eyes, which spread itself over the room like a dense fog over a cliffbank, swallowing him up before he could even muster from his bed. Barnabas was there, at his bedside, ripping the covers off and yanking him upright. Willie's feet stumbled as they came into contact with the cold leather of Barnabas' shoes and then the floor, feeling the damp and the mud from what must have been a hurried march along the path in the woods. The vampire shook him, and Willie struggled to remain standing, not wanting to fall against the wool of Barnabas' coat, or even to brush against him.
"How dare you," came the snarl, and Willie hurried to recount his day's activities, his brain latching on the most recent one: oiling the stairs. Barnabas must have found out about the expensive oil getting all used up, or had time to think about it, and decided that, yet again, Willie had spent his hours wrongly. Used the wrong material. Not done a good enough job. Held his face in the wrong expression.
"I-I'm sorry, Barnabas, I just thought--"
"You thought?"
Now the vampire gripped him with both hands, and though he did not carry his cane with him, Willie did not figure this little question and answer session was going to end very well.
"I thought it was what you wanted m-me to do, you know, an--"
"What I wanted you to do?" The vampire's eyebrows rose. "Why on earth would you presume I would countenance such a thing?"
"B-because the stairs needed doing an' I--"
"The stairs?" Barnabas released him, blood rushing into Willie's upper arms that he wanted to rub, so badly, they itched so badly, but to do so was to draw the vampire's gaze to him. Only now the vampire turned away, tipping his head down as if he were trying to regain his patience, to take a deep breath before he actually killed his most faithful of servants.
"Y-yeah, the st-stairs, Barnabas," he began, rubbing his arms, "you remember, you saw me doing them, an' you said it was law--"
Shit. He'd not looked the word up and now he'd forgotten exactly what it was.
"You said--"
"I recall precisely what I said." Barnabas turned back around, eyes dark, and presumably, his patience intact and in place. "You are a fool to imagine that I would bother myself with such a trifle when you have committed a very grave error. And an even bigger fool if you would even begin to think that I would let such an error go unpunished."
Error? What error? What the fuck is he talking about?
"B-but what did I do? I-I--"
Mind, struggling to go back even further in the day, in the week even, seizing on one thing and then another. Surely Barnabas wasn't still mad about the lilac tree? The vampire'd let that one go, he'd walked away from it without doing anything, surely it couldn't be that?
"I wasn't workin' on the lilac tree, honest. Honest, I wasn't, Barnabas."
"Ah, yes," said Barnabas in a breath cold enough to raise the hair on the backs of Willie's arms. "The lilac tree. Shall I tell you a story, Willie?"
"A story?"
As Barnabas took a step closer, Willie backed up. Hugging his own ribs, trying not to shiver. Not that there was anywhere for him to go, not that it was going to get any warmer.
"Yesterday, I presented Miss Winters with a bouquet of roses. And where do you suppose those roses presently reside?"
Willie shook his head. To guess was to court a blow to the head, regardless of whether he answered right or wrong. Besides, he did not know what ladies did with a dozen roses after they were given them. Put them in a vase, probably, but since Barnabas was asking the obvious question, the obvious answer was not going to be the right one. "I dunno, Barnabas."
"They ended up in a vase, placed on the piano, in the front room at Collinwood."
Willie could picture it exactly, having seen other vases of different flowers there from time to time on his infrequent trips to the Great House. Not such an unusual circumstance, surely, but the way Barnabas said it made him think that there was something he was not seeing. Something amiss that would have Barnabas in his room at this late hour when he was just come home from an interlude with his latest flame.
Barnabas was eyeing him now, askance, from the side of his eyes, and it was as if he didn't expect that Willie would get it, and was planning to enjoy it a great deal when the final bomb went off.
"During the course of the evening, as you may or may not have noticed, a storm blew in from the sea, and as the windows had been opened on that side of the Great House, they all had to be closed and the house sealed against the storm." Now Barnabas' eyes slid away from Willie, but Willie knew that the vampire's attention never left him, not even for a second. "I happened to be assisting Miss Winters in closing the windows in her chambers, along with my cousin Carolyn, and what do you suppose I chanced to see there?"
All Willie could do was shake his head. He did not know the answer, and Barnabas knew it. Then the vampire whirled on him, eyes focused and dark.
"I saw lilacs."
Willie felt his jaw drop before he could stop it.
Oh, shit.
Barnabas didn't even need to finish his story; Willie could finish it for him, word for word if necessary.
"Vases," Barnabas continued on, "and bowls, even, filled with lilacs. The entire room was awaft in the scent of them."
A shiver rippled through Willie, and he backed up far enough to hit the backs of his legs against the mattress. At the very least he might try and explain what had happened. Maybe that would lessen the beating that was surely to follow, though Barnabas was in a pissed-off enough mood to want to deliver a beating for something, even if it wasn't entirely deserved.
"Enough lilacs to spread over the pillows and the sheets, and I was made the confidant of my cousin, who informed me that Miss Winters prefers lilacs to any other flower, including anything from a hot house. Roses, for example. Miss Winters was also kind enough to tell my cousin as to how she came by them. How solicitous and helpful my servant had been in granting Miss Winters her dearest wish."
Lilacs are my favorite...thank you, Willie.
You're welcome, Vicki. Any time.
Now it was very clear what the problem was. Willie's brain marched out the facts in an orderly fashion. Barnabas had not only misread the situation and not given Miss Winters her heart's desire, he had dismissed the very thing she loved. But wait, it was worse than that. Willie had taken it upon himself to give away his master's goods and given Barnabas' girl flowers. Flowers that she'd taken and spread upon her bed like a blanket. A blanket of cheap, undesirable, common flowers. While the very expensive hothouse roses languished unloved and unadored in the very fine front parlor of the Great House.
Evidence was that she planned to sleep on the lilac blossoms. While Willie could picture it exactly, he knew that Barnabas could see it, too: Vicki, asleep amidst the snow of purple and white, while the scent tangled in her hair and pressed against her skin. Unlike the rose petals, which would whither unappreciated and eventually be swept away and thrown in the trash.
I'm about to die, aren't I.
It was not a question, nor even doubtful query to trouble him, at least not for long.
"B-barnabas, wait, I--"
"I will not wait," said the vampire, sweeping off his coat to lay it across the back of a chair. "Where is your belt?"
A jolt ran through him from the bottom of his bare feet, through his spine and up the back of his head. He could not stop the shiver that followed, nor the words that sprang from him.
"But I only--"
Barnabas backhanded him sharply, and he landed on his bed, in a thump of blankets and sheet. Head ringing, feeling cold against the sudden imagined heat of the beating that was to follow. He struggled up on his elbows, trying to catch his breath, and swallow the anxious saliva in his mouth.
"Tell me now, where is your belt? And I warn you Willie, not to make me ask you again." The vampire stood over him, now in his suitcoat, perfectly calm, with the rage showing only in his eyes like iron-dark blasts that would scorch and burn if not answered to with the utmost promptness.
Shivering, Willie unclenched a fist long enough to motion to his dresser, where he'd laid his trousers when he'd undressed for bed. He was giving it up, he knew he was, but the alternative would be a thousand times worse, he could tell just by Barnabas' manner. The vampire believed that the beating he was about to deliver was well deserved, for any number of reasons, most of them based on his fond-held expectations of how a servant should behave. What they should and shouldn't do in their master's absence. And Willie, the only servant he had in his household, had broken a number of those rules. Rules which, unspoken and unexplained, were nevertheless expected to be followed. To the letter.
"I didn't know, I'm tellin' ya, I didn't know, Barnabas, an'--"
"Did not know what, Willie?" asked Barnabas, grabbing the belt and sliding it out of the pantloops with one motion. He spun back around, eyes still glowing, mouth turned down. "Didn't know that a servant should not interfere with his master's courtship of a lady? So obvious, surely, even in this day and age, that you should not meddle in the affairs of the one who holds your well-being in his hands?"
"Yeah, I know," Willie began, dizzy with trying to follow the very lengthy logic of this statement. "I know you're courtin' her, I know that, but--"
He pressed back against the mattress as Barnabas took a step closer, grim in expression, silently folding the belt in half, gripping the buckle end with one hand, and tapping the looped end in the flat palm of the other. Willie had to tip his head back to see the vampire's eyes, but when he did, his neck tensed up, and he dropped his gaze, and, finding the only item within focus to be the belt in Barnabas' hands, closed his eyes altogether. "I didn' mean anythin' by it, honest. I would never--"
He stopped as the fine wool of the vampire's suit brushed against his legs. The vampire was that close and the beating even closer than that. There was no saving him, none at all. "She wouldn't have me anyway, an' you know it."
"Ah." There was a spark of darkness in the vampire's voice. "So you have considered it, haven't you."
Not a question. An observation, made with the tart surety that only Barnabas could inflect in a statement like that. Making it seem the worst of sins, and Willie, all aware of his transgression, deserving the worst of punishment.
"No, it ain't like that, honest, I only--" Willie stopped himself this time, images flicking through his mind, and his body remembering. Miss Vicki, sweet, like the day, flipping her dark brown hair over her shoulder, lashes fluttering down as the petals soaked into her skin. And his own response, like the blossom of spring, so fleet, like the lilacs themselves. A transitory lushness, brought to life by the heat of the morning, and scored down when the darkness and the rains came. So foolish he, to even entertain such thoughts, let alone express any part of them to the master of the house.
"You only what, Willie? You only wanted her?"
Willie shook his head, slowly, opening his eyes but keeping his head down.
"You will look at me," said the vampire. "And you will speak when you answer me."
Barnabas waited with the silence of the room, and Willie forced himself to look up. First with his eyes, then lifted his head, and focused now on Barnabas, soaking in the darkness behind that gaze.
"That's better. Answer me now. Did you want her?"
How in the hell was he supposed to answer that? If he said no, Barnabas would know he was lying. If he said yes, well, Barnabas could use that as the ultimate excuse to rid himself of Willie forever.
A hand grabbed the cloth of his t-shirt and pulled him up, snapping his neck, and Willie knew that his answer should have been a bit more forthcoming. He was quick to breathe past the hiss of Barnabas' breath, to clench at the hand that held him and to answer as fast as he could.
"I dunno what I was thinkin', Barnabas, it was just the day, the sun an' everything." He caught a glimpse of the expression in Barnabas' eyes as he was cast down to the bed once more. "I didn't touch her, I swear, would never--I only gave her what she wanted, what you would have--honest, p-please, ya gotta believe me."
In the silence of that glower, he tried once more. "How was I to know she didn't like roses?"
He saw the flicker in Barnabas' eyes as they narrowed, blocking off all light and movement, seeming only cavities of blackness now.
The wrong answer of course, the wrong everything, and Willie felt the blood melt away from his skin, sucked dry in that moment, leaving his bones pale and exposed, and him strung and waiting.
"P-please, Barnabas--"
"You will turn over."
No, no, please, no.
"Now, Willie."
Willie swallowed. There was no brooking denial, not with that tone in Barnabas' voice. Willie clenched the muscles in his stomach and made himself turn over to lie face down across the bed. His hips barely hit the edge of the mattress, the blankets creasing in the hollow of his thighs, and he struggled to remain still. Arms encircled over his head, skin feeling so terribly exposed beneath the thin layer of cotton that he wore, pajamas and T-shirt no barrier to the force of Barnabas' anger.
And even though when he was expecting it, when he heard the shift of Barnabas' weight on the floorboards, or the whisper of cloth as the vampire flicked the belt back, when it landed across his thighs, it was still a shock. The heat and force of the blow went right through him, right to his bones and vibrated there, feeling like it was a live thing and vindictive in its coursing through his system. Alive, and angry, and knowing how much it hurt, the second blow was a cousin to the first, joining in and stirring the first whimper out of him before leaving him, allowing for the third blow. Right across his backside, hard, worse than a slap against bare skin, thudding right down to his spine, and the teeth, oh, the teeth of it, locking in and holding on. And the blows that followed, eliciting throat-sharpened cries that he could not control, nor find the power within him to deny. The belt slammed into him, soul-breaking, regular, bringing up welts that soaked down deep, and the shivery heat that raced sweat up his spine, even as he twisted into the blankets and found himself slipping off the edge of his bed. His hips caught him there, feet tracking damp across the wood of the floor, and then, with Barnabas' hand in the center of his back, the belt stopped.
"Going somewhere, Willie?" asked that voice.
Willie shook his head, quickly, in denial, voice pattering fast after, "N-no, Barnabas, I promise, I'm not--I'm sorry, sorry, I won'--"
Barnabas thrust his thigh forward and Willie found himself pressed against it, and hefted there, felt the cord of cold muscle beneath the cloth, the hard bone firm against his ribs. He had to cling to Barnabas or slip and be accused of trying to escape, to avoid his justly deserved punishment. His hands found grasp on the fold of cloth at Barnabas' waist and he clung to that, gasping as the belt continued to come down once more, slamming him against Barnabas' cold thigh, the iron-hard form racking him in the ribs as a ship tossed against the rocks in a storm.
With one last, final blow, the belt slipped around his hips, biting the shy flesh above his hipbone, and Barnabas released his grasp and pushed away, leaving Willie to clutch the blankets and sheets to keep himself from slipping to the floor altogether. He was breathing hard, tears mixing with the sweat that stuck strands of hair to his face. Waiting, his mind racing.
Never touched her, never touched her.
And part of him knowing, even as he wanted to forget, that he would have, given the right opportunity. Given the right, spare, and precious moment, like the lilacs in bloom, lasting only so long as to grace the air with their presence, he would have lain with her in the wild field and allowed his hands to stroke her soft, white skin and gather her hair like a bouquet, and soak his face in it like cool water. Then they both could have slept in the sweet shade of a sweeping fur, with the clouds racing overhead, her hair trailing through his and the waves of grass hanging down while their breath stirred the wild clover crushed beneath them.
"You will not presume," Barnabas was saying now, oblivious to the racing tumble of Willie's thoughts, "to honor a lady with any gifts from this house, do you understand? You will not presume to give lilacs whilst--"
Here the vampire stopped, and Willie found that his own breath had stopped also. Waiting in his lungs while he listened, and while his mind grappled with the obvious.
"You will not do it, and that is the end of it."
Willie could almost see Barnabas nodding, though his eyes were closed and he let his lungs echo with air once more. He could hear the vampire laying down the belt and gather up his great coat, imagining with great ease that in the short pause the vampire was sweeping the length and breadth of his room as if to scan it for more illicit gifts.
"You are a servant," Barnabas said, his voice sounding as if he'd come to some new conclusion, "and in no position to be giving gifts."
Willie swallowed. "Y-yes, Barnabas," he said, his body reminding him that Barnabas liked answers addressed to him to be spoken aloud. "I won't, I p-promise."
"See that you remember it in future."
The vampire strode away, closing the door behind him with a firm click, leaving Willie in the darkness behind his closed eyes, the silence of his thoughts broken by the thunder that he could suddenly and inexplicably hear through the glass panes of the window. Hear the wind howling above the gables and trees outside, and knew in his heart why he had been punished. Of course he knew. It was not for giving Vicki the lilacs, not exactly. They were, after all, flowers from a common tree, and not really worthy of being given. What he had been punished for was the fact that he'd upstaged Barnabas. Upstaged him right and proper with free flowers that had cost him nothing but a walk through the woods with Miss Winters. It was now Willie's lilacs that Vicki was sleeping upon her breath was, no doubt, stirring the petals even as Willie thought about it. Even as Barnabas walked down the stairs and hung up his coat on the coat rack. It was Willie she was appreciating, while any thoughts of Barnabas were vanquished by the sweet smell of a flower from a scrub tree. The servant had outperformed the master, and that was why he'd been punished.
And maybe Vicki, too, had had thoughts of an afternoon spent tarrying in an abandoned field of grass. Perhaps she too, when she'd flipped her hair his way, had felt the stirrings of spring and the young man at her side had seemed, for a moment, some spare unexpected bloom, the means by which she would find her way back to the childhood memory of a string of lilac trees. It was impossible, of course, but he could still hear her voice, the sweet chime of her gratitude, deep inside of him.
Lilacs are my favorite...thank you, Willie.
You're welcome, Vicki. Any time.
Any time would be never, of course. Barnabas was likely to double his efforts at this point, bringing conversations with Miss Winters around to the place where she would feel comfortable revealing more about herself. Giving up information that the vampire could use to further woo her with, and never knowing how it could be that he could understand her so completely as to know the secret desires of her heart. Further conversation between Willie and Vicki would be as limited as Barnabas would be able to make them, and with Willie's chores and Vicki's duties, that wouldn't prove to be very difficult. Their paths would likely never cross again. Not like that. Not like an unexpected day in spring, after the snows but before the rains came, a moment that only existed in the eye of a storm.
Willie let his legs slide down the edge of the mattress and made himself stand up and open his eyes. The backs of his legs were screaming at him, sweat making his garments stick to his skin, the rage of the storm making the room chilly. He shivered as the sweat on his body dried, head pounding, blood pulsing up his thighs. He knew he had to clean up and get to bed. Tomorrow's chores would not wait, and Barnabas was hardly likely to have any patience with him for a while. He had to be on his toes or he'd catch it again.
One sweet moment, though. He'd had that. He still had it. Vicki's hands held out to catch the falling petals and her eyes opening to look at him. With dark stars shining through the fringe of her eyelashes.
You weren't there, Barnabas, and you'll never know. You'll never see it, and I did.
Even Barnabas knew, surely he knew, just as Willie did, that some people could not be bought. But for all his posturing about how Vicki was one of those individuals above materialistic persuasion, he continued to behave as if she would, someday, crumple and become his beneath his onslaught of gifts and expensive gestures. Because if it couldn't be purchased or persuaded, it wasn't worth his time. He would dismiss the opportunity and then he would miss out.
Just like he would never see the lilacs in bloom.
Willie smiled. Tipped his head down and felt the warmth of the courting candle behind his half-closed eyes. Barnabas hadn't been able to whip the memory out of him, never could, and it stayed with him as he got a towel to wipe his face. Lingered while he crawled into bed and pulled the covers up. Rain made good sleeping weather, and his body, even while it sang a nasty and neverending chorus through his nerves, reached for sleep. Taking with it the smile on Vicki's face as she looked at the array of blossoms, somewhere in the bright spring morning that lingered in his heart.
~fin