Page 72 of The Tenth Muse

She dragged a man in his twenties to our cabin, giggling prettily and fanning her face. Undoubtedly, the poor creature’scock was hard at the thought of his hands corrupting her flesh—his ruddy, pockmarked face pinched into a grin beneath his bushy, ginger brow. Instead, he found a ravenous beast dressed in black velvet. Maggie’s satin glove muffled his screams as my teeth tore into the pulsing skin of his throat, her giggle becoming true as her gentle fingers stroked my nape. My love is good to me, and so, I pen this from the window of our mediocre lodging in some shit hole frontier town in Colorado.

Unlike the double-decker trams of London, drawn by horses and uncomfortably tight, we rode in a remarkable train car. The Pacific Railroad is new and shining, sleeper cars and dining cars fitted with carved wood and lush textiles. The cost was high, but for a moment, I was truly comfortable. If we could have remained aboard in perpetuity, I would have been glad to. But Maggie wanted to see the West—where they pull gold from the earth and untamed land stretches as far as the eye can see. She craves adventure, and hopes to find it here in the dirt. We’ve rented a room by the week. I do not wish to tie myself to this place, but it is acceptable, I suppose. A small window overlooks the street, where horse-drawn wagons rattle from sunrise to sunset. A restaurant, bar, and a barber are below us and the men get rowdy and raucous as the sun sinks below the hills. Construction seems to be everywhere around us; this small town is becoming a city brick by brick. Had I been younger, the sun here would have been a threat. My fair-haired Maggie rests through the brightest parts of the day, but I would need only don a coat and pair of amber glass spectacles to walk the streets in daylight if I so desired. I do not.

A battalion of predominantly dark-skinned men marched through two days past, making camp just outside the town limits. The fish-belly and leather men of this place hurled coarse words at them, paying absolutely no heed to the rifles perched on their shoulders, driving them out into the dirt. The proprietorof this establishment assured us that the Black battalion would be gone in the morning—heading out to an army fort to defend our honor and safety from the native peoples. I have no concerns for my safety, they have posed no threat, but I’m sure he is accustomed to well-off women who look like us having a particular disposition.

We have learned that the people indigenous to these lands are called Tsistsistas among their own, but Cheyenne by the settlers, and that they are feared and disrespected in equal measure. The night of our arrival, I wished to go outside when everyone had gone to sleep, and Maggie was more than happy to join me. We are quick, silent, and can slip into the shadows in ways mortal men could only ever hope to emulate, and so we found ourselves a kilometre or so from our lodging, looking up to an unfamiliar sky.

The weather here is biting cold, with wind whipping across the plain like a scythe, and the plains stretching like a black sea in all directions. I relished the sharp slice of frigid air on the pale skin of my cheeks. If I closed my eyes, I might have imagined I stood on a mountaintop, surrounded by snow. I might have imagined us back in Trentino, after all this time.

When we had made our way far enough from the town for its faint light to fade entirely, the stars sparkled brightly in the inky sky and the sight of such clear, vast nothingness stole the breath from my chest. I have not needed to draw breath for a century, but I still experience that sensation of awe when one is made acutely aware of how miniscule they are in the grander tapestry of the world.

Surrounded by still silence and ice-scorched air, we came upon a small group of men astride horses. The Cheyenne were nearly as quiet as Maggie and I, their beasts’ hooves a muffled thudding rhythm against the packed clay earth. One solitary man paused, glancing our way for a mere fraction of a second ashis fellows continued on, but I knew he had felt us. I felt it in the tightening of his musculature, his quickened beating heart. His cheekbones were high and sharp, framing a strong nose and wide, soft mouth. His hair lay in two thick black plaits down his back, a sturdy coat and some sort of cloth wound about his body to defend from the chill. The tone of his skin was neither dark nor light, but somewhere in between. He looked like he belonged, at ease and seamlessly blending into the landscape. I had a fleeting thought that perhaps this is how he had known of our presence—some innate connection to his homeland, a sensitivity to changes in a place he knows as well as he knows himself, like returning home to a picture frame being out of place. But if he saw us, he did not care. The group rode off without a sound, disappearing through the scrub brush without looking back.

As I write this, the last light of day has begun to shift to lavender and peach. Despite the dust and coarse nature of the settlers here, even I cannot deny the natural beauty of the rolling hills and expansive plains, the immense mountains to the west capped in white swaths of snow. I would prefer to be elsewhere, but for now, I am content to follow Marguerite wherever she likes. She is still in the fragrant bloom of her eternal youth, and it is lovely to see her come into herself while filled with excitement and optimism. But hunger claws at my gut, and so, when my love rises from her rest, I will indulge its call.

two

. . .

November 21, 1870

Marguerite

Luci wishesfor me to keep a record of our stay in Colorado. I have never been fond of writing, but have assured her I will do my best. I’d rather sketch the way she looks right now—draped in ebony velvet and plum silk. She looks like the Goddess among mortals she is, hair loose in long black waves down her back, eyes blue and bright. But her rosy lips are pursed in discontent and it makes me laugh. She is so grouchy! I wonder if I will be as easily annoyed when I reach her age. Now, I am still close enough to my former life to have some vitality, this effervescence for existence that drives me to feel alive.

Digging into my suitcase, I pulled out a bundle of fabric which I knew Luci was going to despise. “Would you like to play pretend?” I asked, mischief in my gaze. Her eyes slid over my form as I stepped out of my nightgown and into a pair of scratchy trousers. I buttoned up a cotton shirt and tucked my pale braid into a wide-brimmed wool hat. A coat and boots completed the illusion and I hooked my thumbs into my front pockets and grinned up at her.

“My God, Maggie,” she hissed. “For what possible reason would you put those clothes on your body?”

I giggled like a schoolgirl. “If we want to have any fun in this place, it cannot be as women. Do you wish to lounge in the salon and sip lukewarm liquor while greasy men swagger around trying to gain our notice?” She looked ready to vomit. Her fingers curled and flexed at her sides and I knew she was imagining the feel of the rough-spun fabric. Luci is brilliant and cunning and stylish, but she is also extremely particular. Textures, colors, or scents she dislikes are at times unbearable for her, but she should know by now that after two decades together, I have learned all her idiosyncrasies.

From the bureau, I withdrew a small paper-wrapped parcel bound with twine. She made no move to take it from me, so I pulled the bow free myself and revealed a crisp poplin shirt, velvet waistcoat and a pair of soft wool trousers. As is her way, Luci moved so quickly I did not see it. She was before me in a blink, looking down into my eyes with an almost-smile. Her kiss was gentle, a whisper of gratitude borne on the softness of her lips. Somehow, even this far from home, she smelled like violets and almond blossoms. My chest heated as I breathed her in and suddenly I would have preferred to be removing her clothing rather than providing it.

“If you wish to dine this evening, we have little time for this.” She nipped at my lower lip, drawing a tiny pinprick of blood with her scalpel-sharp canines, laughing at me when my response was to pout and fold my arms across my chest. “You look like a very petulant little boy,” she teased, knocking my hat with her knuckle. “Give me that horrid clothing and I shall do my best to oblige your fancy.”

I helped the Countess Luciana Ombrezze out of her gown as I did when I was living. Unlike then, I pressed kisses to her prominent vertebrae as I went. Her colorless skin pebbled beneath my touch and I could not pretend it did not bring me satisfaction to see a physical manifestation of her desire. Howfar we have come from the days of hidden glances and subtle hinting, from Lady-in-waiting and Lady in title. She has not aged a day, eternally thirty-four, and I, forever twenty-one. Her skin has lost more of its rosy blush as the years have passed, and the hollows of her hips and collarbones are more pronounced than they were in our early days. But she is just as stunning as she always has been—the perfect picture of beauty and brutality.

Her scowl sold the disguise more, perhaps, than the clothing. Beneath her severe dark brow, her eyes were ferocious shards of ice ringed in black lashes. “All right, Marguerite,” she groused. “What is your cunning plan, now that I’ve been debased by such frockery?” I rolled my eyes, leaning in to push another pin up into her hair, restraining the final errant strands.

“Do you crave a meal,tesoro mio?” The flash of predation in her eyes answered before her lips had time to follow.

“You know that I do,” she replied. “And I am terribly bored with this dusty, lifeless place. I have yet to sort out why you wanted to comehereof all the many destinations we could have chosen.”

“It is a new world,” I answered honestly. “Not truly, of course, but to Europe and theseAmericansas they’ve named themselves, it is a place of uncharted land and endless possibility. So many men who answer to no one, they will not be missed! It is a veritable buffet. And where else would I find something truly remarkable? To perhaps speak with someone who knows nothing whatsoever of Napoleon III or the price of painted china! A culture entirely unknown to us all. Oh! I cannot dream of a more exciting venture.”

“You wish to go speak with people who have been driven from their lands by foreign armies? I love your optimistic heart, but these people will not want to have a chat with you over tea, Maggie. They have far greater concerns than indulging yourfancies. They are not entertainment, and I will not allow you to behave as such.”

I waved my hand at her as though she spoke gnats into the air. “Hush, my lady. We will sate your hunger and then slake my thirst for adventure. So long as you join me, I am certain to be happy. Stop your worrying, I have no intention of harassing the native peoples.” Taking her hand in mine, I pulled her close for a quick, audible kiss and straightened her collar. “You look positively handsome, my darling. Let’s go find a suitable candidate for our evening meal.”

“Fine,” she sighed heavily. “But I would like this one to be familiar with the concept of bathing. I tire of the taste of poor hygiene.”

three

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November 21, 1870

Luciana

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