Page 31 of Vertigo Peaks

The Harker mansion seemed to have expanded since her last visit. The rooms were brighter than she remembered. Lights shone from the ajar doors and scattered windows, reflecting the whirl of snow above the sea as the drifts lay deep along the docks. Here and there dried moss projected above it. The snow was falling faster and a dark stream of carriages lined in front of the house; coachmen, butlers, ladies, and gentlemen running in and out of the house, up and down the red velvet carpet laid on the frozen ground. The swell of music and the glimmer of champagne seemed to wipe away the imminent threat of coldness and plague. Valerie, her wrist resting on Ethan’s arm, went inside. Vibrant feathers and dark waistcoats; uncertain smiles and open-mouthed conversations; thick breaths and shoulders grazing; the repetitions of orchestra and the bewildering radiance of the many-colored gowns. Everything seemed to be in place—even her. With her iridescent silk taffeta dress trailing behind her, a tepid smile set upon her teeth, and a curious sense of excitement.

However, as they greeted couples and wandered around the hot, sticky rooms, there came upon her a chilling sensation, as though she was under attack, that pulled her muscles tighter and tighter, a sort of indefinable dread that someone was watching her. Her husband was nowhere to be found and Valerie almost succumbed to her nausea.

Cecilia Harker came to her rescue. “Valerie!” She warbled, her voice like an echo in a tunnel, and threw her hands around her. “I am most delighted to see you, my guest of honor! Have you found our small gathering to your liking?”

Valerie shouted over the chatter and music. “Thank you, dear. Very much so.”

Cecilia’s response was to press her to her side tighter. The lights, the close whiff of perspiration and champagne, the escaping colors—she wanted, for a moment, to sink into one of the chairs to get her breath. “Before I introduce you to the crowd, you must taste the champagne and dance with one of the gentlemen.”

“Is that really necessary?” Valerie asked, her head whirling as Cecilia flooded her vision, dragging her from one cluster of guests to another. They finally found a gentleman, a particular Lord Frederick that she had met at Cecilia’s dinner party, who reluctantly offered his hand for a dance.

“My Lady Valerie,” he bowed, his face expressionless. “May I have the pleasure of this waltz?”

“Of course, Lord Frederick,” said Valerie, offering him her gloved hand. As they swept onto the dance floor, the orchestra swelled. She had no special desire to talk; all she demanded was to give herself a chance to doubt the certainty of her past—sickening, treacherous, and without a moment of reprieve. She was not in the least lonely anymore. Nobody questioned her presence. Still, it would not be impossible for anyone to humiliate her. As the final notes of the waltz faded, they came to a standstill, their chests rising and falling with exertion. Valerie’s eyes met Lord Frederick’s, and even under the glow of chandeliers, Valerie thought he was tainted with the horrible suspicion of that night, never entirely rid of his old nervousness and offensiveness.

As she watched him rejoin the throng, Valerie could not help but feel abashed. He bowed very low to hide his face and stole back hastily to the far side of the room. Had she ever known a place called Vertigo Peaks, a place where apprehension was a skill, and the feeling of not being able to stand anything was as constant as the day’s rise—Vertigo Peaks, ah! She fell in love with a woman there once, and now she found it hard to believe it happened at all.

Valerie tried to move but she was in a state of languorous agitation, limp as blades of bright-dew grass underfoot. Voices rose and fell and trembled; beads of sweat dotted the broad foreheads, caressed by the flickering shadow of the guttering candles, and Valerie let these people push her around like a doll, staggering from side to side, drifting from one slick forehead to another, oblivious to the hands that snatch her waist, her necklace, her hair. Then she saw Mircalla. Cecilia knew Mircalla no longer stayed with them at Vertigo Peaks but never once mentioned she was one of her guests. Now, she was dancing with her husband, swirling in the middle of the room as if wading into water; his arm tight on the small of her back, her gloved hand lost in his palm. Whereas Valerie was an intrusive thought, a disturbing arrangement in the room, meddling with everyone else’s business, Mircalla and Ethan were darlings of the night, even more so than Cecilia. A sob escaped from her lips. She tried to drown it with champagne but another one ripped her throat, burning within, and she felt the itch throb again. The longer she looked, the firmer she grabbed the glass. They were the only dancers on the floor, twirling in an incessant pool of envy and longing; they cradled the delicious weight of the room in the palm of their hands and all Valerie could do was wriggle with jealousy as the others did.

The music finally stopped and Ethan immediately stepped aside, an agitated look on his face, held together by a frown and beads of sweat rolling down his chin. Mircalla looked around for a long time, an object of envy and desire, showering herself with the furtive eyes and trembling lips. Cecilia emerged by her side, prodding her in the ribs to talk to people.

“This is enough.” Valerie put her glass down rather loudly, wiped the streak of champagne trickling down with the back of her glove, and strode to the other side of the room as much as her skirts allowed. A surge of intense frustration, or even something vaguer crept up on her. She did not fight these emotions this time, did not keep herself from feeling them as Mircalla’s arched back rose in her vision. There was a phantom truth in them, a twinge of pain and need, demanding too much attention and efforts of will, she knew, but she let them engulf her.

It could have been charming to look at these people. Their delicate movements, improper speeches, or tempting glances might have rekindled what Valerie had long forgotten—that life never went away, drifting by a pendulum, and that it was not hard to enjoy its flow even when one was entirely removed from it. It hurt her to be missing from the scene, more than she anticipated, but in her heart she couldn’t find the strength to rejoice and rejoin.

Mircalla fell into the arms of another stranger by the time Valerie edged away from a group of drunk ladies who showered one another with compliments with tears in their eyes. It would have been a heartwarming moment only if one of the ladies did not vomit the entire course of her dinner at Valerie’s feet. She retched, feeling hot, and found another corner where she could see Mircalla better. Her husband was nowhere to be found.

It didn’t take much time to find her, for she shone among the guests like a mythical creature, sweeping through the room like a raging fire on the horizon, blazing with a color that she had never seen before. She was intense yet sweet to those who danced with her or exchanged looks. Valerie bit her lip, watching the arch of her back spiral around the man’s hand like a wisp of smoke, the fleeting image of her ankles as she turned round and round, golden locks of hair barely touching her skin. And there she was headed for refreshments by her partner as the song winded down and the musicians took a break. “Fuck.” Her chest rose and fell in shallow surges, pained by this new feeling that cursed her mind like salt on earth. She reeled to one of the tables and got herself another drink. The ice melted on her tongue, the liquor burnt her throat. It felt good. She was lifting up her skirts, swaying from side to side, when Mircalla suddenly appeared by her side.

“What are you doing?” she asked, panting. A ghost of a smile crawled up her lips. She smelled like cigars and wood and Valerie wanted to throw up.

“Drinking.” Valerie snorted, tapping on her glass. Mircalla raised a brow. “It has been a while, I presume?”

“No, not at all. This is my first drink actually.” Valerie covered her mouth. She hunched over her glass as if to protect it from her view. Mircalla pursed her lips, trying to suppress a laugh. “What are you doing here with us?” Valerie asked. She did not want to say those last words but it was too late; they spilled from her lips before she could catch them. She thought this mythical creature would evaporate any minute. She quivered, an overwrought expression clouding her complexion. Yet, she did not answer. Valerie grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at her face. She thought it would hurt less if she looked at her once more. Nothing could be further from the truth. The room faded. They were two souls wandering on each other’s paths. But Valerie needed the truth. “Why did you leave me?”

Mircalla lowered her eyes, staring at her with a great accumulation of terror and despair. She did not speak over a whisper. “I made my demands very clear and you chose to ignore them.” “That’s not fair, Mircalla.”

Mircalla watched her with a mournful face; she shifted back and forth, concentrating hard, biting her lip. Like a coil tightly wound, she was begging to be released. Valerie was still staring at her stricken face, her glistening eyes, still standing in front of her colossal figure like a helpless child, but a single word ensnared itself in her mind. It was quite disconcerting to feel her power and see how powerless she was. Mircalla breathed hard. Her breath braced her cheeks like a breeze, cold and merciless, as she extended her arm and touched her gently.

“Why did you leave me like everyone else did?” Valerie asked. Her voice sounded strange to her ears and despite the slow music, her heart raced faster. Mircalla held her gaze for a moment then turned around and dragged Valerie to another room. She had gained a new luster as she locked the door, so clear and pure that Valerie forgot her aching for a moment, her hair in the burnished light, radiating that dark and ambivalent valor.

“I cannot live a life unwanted,” Mircalla said. Her eyes were cool and she rose taller than before.

“But I want you!” Valerie shrieked.

“This is not wanting. This is an escape for you, a play.”

“Come back to me,” she replied, but her throat tightened around the words and she felt childish as she spoke. Mircalla smiled.

“Will you dance with me tonight, my dear Valerie?”

Perplexed and her mouth open, Valerie nodded but there was no consolation in this. Mircalla pulled her a little closer, her cheeks flushed, her gaze glinting like ice. Could she hear the flutter of her heart, see the quiver of her lips? She still wanted to press her body to hers, lay her head on the crook of her shoulder, and sway with the sweet music until the end of time, despite knowing it would not last.

“There are many gentlemen in that room who had the honor of holding your hand,” Valerie whispered, “of dancing with you.”

She looked at their hands, gloved and interlaced together. Their pulse formed a rhythm, a gravity of its own. It hung between them as a separate body, whole in itself, warm.

“Why are we here, then, Miss Karnstein, dancing in this room?”

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