Page 5 of Vertigo Peaks

“Might I extend an invitation to you for a dinner party at my humble house next week? It would be a pleasure to host such esteemed guests.”

Valerie's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, recognizing the subtle challenge hidden within Mrs. Harker’s words. She looked over at her husband, as if she was intruding on him. His expression changed from surprise to triumph, his eyes declaring that he was familiar with Cecilia Harker’s game. The stage was his, and the rules were clear: he would emerge victorious. Nevertheless, he maintained his polite facade. “How kind of you, Lady Harker. We shall be honored to accept your invitation.”

Mrs. Harker’s lips curled in a sagging smile, so Valerie could see the gap between her front teeth. They bid each other farewell, promising to meet again at their appointed time. The townspeople were still at their heels when the doctor approached them. He looked almost relaxed, not like an animal in a cage, anxiously waiting to see what might happen next. He stood tall again, unclenching his fists. Valerie chose her moment carefully, unable to withstand this burden any longer, and stood with him before their carriage arrived.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, trembling all over, as hot tears of shame pricked her eyes. “I overheard your conversation with my husband.”

5

Valerie glided through thelong halls of Vertigo Peaks with an air of terrible weakness. The once opulent walls, adorned with intricate tapestries and gilded frames, now displayed a haunting sight, for Valerie saw the wallpapers, once vibrant and alive with color, now peeling and faded, revealing the ravages of time. Her heart sank as she traced her fingers along the peeling edges, her touch causing flakes of paint to dislodge and cascade to the worn wooden floor below. For all its imposing structure, Vertigo Peaks was as delicate as a sick child.

She couldn't help but feel a deep sense of sorrow, for she had believed the manor-house to be her sanctuary, her refuge from the outside world. It was not true. Even the very walls were succumbing to decay and neglect, the ground beneath her grumbling. A low, ominous sound echoing through the halls, as if protesting against the weight of the people it had housed for centuries.

Valerie’s steps faltered and she clutched at the banister, worn smooth by the hands of generations past. The place was unnerving. Slowly she became conscious of her shivering, the sound of creaking floorboards beating against her chest like ghastly whispers, settling upon Vertigo Peaks like a thick veil.

“What is this place?” she asked herself as she ascended a grand staircase, finding it hard to believe that this was indeed her home. She had not seen this wing before. It was as if it weren’t part of Vertigo Peaks. The chandeliers, once ablaze with sparkling crystals, now hung in mournful silence, their flickering candles long extinguished. The musty scent of decay filled the air, mingling with the scent of dried flowers and fading memories. The same sense of old-fashioned grandeur, frail beauty that covered the house was eerily missing from these walls. A strong smell of dampness and rot, reminiscent of dungeons, pervaded its dark halls. The candle in her hand cast long shadows on the walls as the dust-covered portraits stared down at her with hollow eyes, their subjects long departed from the mortal world. She paused and gazed upon one in particular. With trembling hands, she brushed away the thick layer of dust that had settled on it.

It was as though she was looking at some distant, dulled version of herself, marred by time. The oil portrait was framed in ornate gold, lingering at the inevitable edge of decay, a wistful reminder of the Vertigo legacy. It was her exact likeness. Valerie saw her own long nose, the arched brow, the same auburn hair hanging in ringlets, even the creases under the eyes, all mirrored in this young woman. A sense of unease washed over her. It was uncanny. The only difference was her long sighs echoing in the empty halls.

How could this be? She turned away from the portrait in disgust and terror, weighed down by her thoughts. It must have been a mistake; she had not sat for a portrait in her entire life. Could her husband indeed have been hiding something from her?

Valerie’s mind wandered back to that forsaken day—Mrs. Harker’s gloved hands on her chin, her eyes as green and riveting as a willow. The lost soul, the unmistakable resemblance. Was Cecilia Harker talking about the lady in the portrait?

A knock at the door jolted Valerie from her thoughts. Startled, she turned to find Ethel standing at the threshold, her face etched with concern and fear. “Madam,” she said, her voice filled with genuine worry. “Are you alright? You look rather pale.”

Valerie sensed the tension in her voice as Ethel’s gaze flickered to the portrait, and a sense of disquiet passed over her face. “Ethel,” Valerie replied, pointing to the portrait, her voice laced with apprehension. “Who is this woman?”

For a moment, the room was still, as if holding its breath. Valerie faced the young woman, suddenly agitated and angry, waiting for an answer. She felt the heat rising up to her cheeks and her mouth was so dry that she could not swallow. The maid—or the housekeeper, Valerie was not quite sure still—fumbled nervously with her cap.

“It’s…Mr. Vertigo’s sister, madam.”

“How odd it is that we haven’t been introduced! Where is she?” Valerie said, feeling the steady pressure of her nails digging into her skin. She straightened up with determination and clenched her jaw.

She knew the answer before Ethel opened her mouth, and she dreaded the moment. Yet, here she was. She should never be the same again, never look the same at her husband or pace the halls of Vertigo Peaks without feeling a sense of imminent threat lurking nearby. She felt a distance so insurmountable, deep within her bones, that her heart ached with yearning. In the face of loss, she wished she could return to her old days when none of this mattered.

Ethel averted her eyes when she spoke, staring down at her feet.

“She sadly passed away a year ago, madam.”

Valerie sat at the parlor, sipping her third cup of tea, eyes misty and unseeing with the same languor that she had as she entered Vertigo Peaks for the first time. It was a warm afternoon when she got married, the pleasant clear sky and hot sun dancing on her skin, the wild poppies dancing in the breeze, yet she had moved as if defeated, embarrassingly aware of her rough, rustic edges. It did not make sense then why a lord would want to marry someone like her. Her braids were undone by the time the ceremony was over, the hems of her wedding gown exuded odors of wet grass and wheat. She remembered feeling ashamed of ruining her appearance and no garment would disguise her plainness.

She would have spoken with mellow and slow words perhaps, without the peasant hesitancy; but the sudden, horrifying descent of their wedding night had washed all her reason away. Her cheeks turned cold and colorless as she stepped into the room. A wave of sudden heat, the musky smell of velvet curtains curling on the floor, she tucked behind the crook of her husband’s elbow. When her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the long line of guests, waiting for them, with their hands clasped as if in prayer, held together by a string of murmurs.

“They’re here for us. They will prepare us for…tonight,” Ethan said, his cheeks flushed. It was a whirl of glow that Valerie had never seen before on his face. “Our marriage is sacred. This town has been waiting for this forever.”

“I beg your pardon?” Valerie asked, out of breath and unblinking, as though she was a rabbit caught in a hunter’s light. The room suddenly felt oppressive and stifling. No one heard her faint sigh as all eyes were on her husband, who stepped back, astonished by the resentment in her voice.

“Tonight,” he said, emphasizing every word. “They will stay with us and pray for an heir.” She watched as his hazel irises shrank, staring at her with a stern and relentless expression. Valerie lowered her gaze. Her heart was pounding in her throat.

If she were to say a word, would he walk away and call the marriage off? Would he send her back to her uncle’s cottage, where she was not welcome anymore with nothing but a tarnished name to carry until the end of her days? Valerie tightened her grip on her husband’s arm and forced a smile.

She remembered the young girl who helped her get ready. Kind eyes and a timid smile that framed her sullen face, her quick breaths stroking Valerie’s cheeks. She was awed by her duty—serving Mrs. Vertigo on her wedding night—as she coiled Valerie’s hair into a tight bun. Older women were preparing the bath, filling the tub with liquids. White froth turned into gray waves; smoke of incense rose like vine. Her spine relaxed as though she ran through a stream, tracing the lightness of her body in sweet ripples. She dreamed of herself in forms unimagined. She couldn’t think of anything better as the room melted before her eyes.

“You shall cherish and love him. Make him your horizon, and grace you shall receive. Confide in him and give him a child,” they cried out with a hissing breath. At once Ethan grabbed her by the arm before they could wrap her in towels, and drew her to bed.

She caught sight of the large group as Ethan pulled the sheets, the physician among them. The room was overflowing with people, holding hands, singing a supple tone, and watching as Ethan leaned over her. Beads of sweat rolled from his chin to her bare chest. She couldn’t breathe.

“Get them out!” She emitted a long, hoarse shriek. Her uncle had told her a wedding night could never be fully known, in unsatisfying and inevitable ways, and she realized she was foolish to expect privacy. She turned her head in disgust, trying to cover her exposed thighs and chest.

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