Arc D'X Read Online Free PDF

her; it was left to Patsy and James to care for her. They silently brought her food and, in the same silence, mopped her brow. Their eyes burned with hate. When the fourteen-year-old girl felt how she was banished from the heart of her own brother, her loneliness was without horizon.

    Thomas, of course, didn't come to her during this time. So at STEVE E R I C K S O IS • 27

    first Sally was grateful for the fever. But finally she would have gone through anything to be free of it, and in her spells and exile from everyone around her, she imagined that the white spillage of her dark god might cure her like a potion. Feeling his rejection, she even heard herself call for him. When the fever of the inoculation finally passed and she'd spent another couple of days in bed recovering, she crept to the hotel kitchen one night and smuggled out a carving knife. She told herself she would lop off her tongue before she ever allowed it to call his name like that again.

    Thomas and Sally didn't speak of what was happening. He wouldn't have chosen to speak of it, and there was no one for her to speak about it to. She was shunned by everyone as the living black secret that spread through the hotel and down its stairs, out its door and into the street. There this secret took the form of the heads of dead deer and the carcasses of dead rabbits stuck on gate tops and pinned to doorways, draping the pillars of the Pont Neuf and lining the walls along the rue St-Lazare. By the end of the first day the stench of dead animals was as political as the cognac and sex that Thomas had smelled on his arrival in the city two years before. The people in the streets said the dead carcasses were a protest against the law that made it a crime to kill the game of the aristocracy. But Sally knew the carnage had emerged from her uterus in the gush of his afterflow, beasts with their fur slicked by semen dashing crazed into impalement on the spires of Paris. The heads of people would be next.

    The heads of people will be next, she whispered to him on the first night he came to her after her fever had gone. He'd taken her and then fallen asleep by her. Now at night there was always torch-light through the crescent-moon window above. I called you from the fever, she said to his sleeping face, drawing the carving knife out from beneath her pillow, because I'm so alone, and for that moment I would have rather had you up inside me than been that alone: that's what you've done to me, she said. That's the worst thing, that you've made me actually long for your defilement. Next time I'll cut off my tongue first. He was sleeping in the light of torches. She looked down to between his legs and an idea gripped the knife in her hands; instead she pressed the blade to his throat.
    Her own face was inches from his. She had the feeling he wasn't asleep at all. Something about his breathing was different; she put A R C D'X • 28

    her eyes right up to his as though to look in. "Master," she said,
    "we'll carve your head and put it on a pike outside, with a rabbit.
    Your head on a rabbit's body, and a rabbit's head on yours. That's how Patsy and James will find you tomorrow." She wanted to goad him now out of his pretense of sleep. It would be just like him, she thought, to die without anyone's ever knowing whether he'd been awake for his own death. How godlike. She put the knife away and lay back on the pillow, waiting for a lion to emerge from her and crash through the hall, down the stairs and into the foyer, spearing itself on the iron poker with which the ashes of the fire below were stirred.

    The next time he came to her she was awake. She heard the door open and let herself go limp in his hands. He took the blue ribbon from the post and tied her wrists. But instead of taking her from behind, he knelt on the floor by the bed as he'd done when he washed her with the cold rags. On the ceiling above her was the riot of light through the window, a blazing crescent-moon in