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My dearest Janis,
I write to you tonight with trembling fingers, but I can assure you I have done well on my own for the most part. I have had no new troubling visions—it all remains safely within the realm of sleep. Nothing else odd has happened within those concerns. The candles burn steady and bright and chase away all dark thoughts as well as it chases out shadow and the Rhine lies silent beyond my window. I pray this letter reaches you safely across the cold expanses of that venerable river and deeper still into the wilderness of those shadowy Hungarian mountains, where you and Monsieur Franzese now wander on matters I can only imagine must be as tiresome as they are dull. I picture you reading these lines in some dim village inn, the scent of pinewood clinging to your garments, the language around you a half-understood cacophony of sound and words. If you feel any longing for home, know that Strasbourg is unchanged—its mists stay spectral, curling tendrils, like reeds on the riverside. Its quiet is as consoling and suffocating as the day you left.
These past days I have made a ritual of walking alongside the Rhine each morning, beyond these ancient walls. The mist rises early—so early, it seems to have been born from the river’s own ancient breath—and veils the city in a gauzy purdah. It’s a very romantic view, like a city of knights and princesses lost in time. Strasbourg is so old, as you very well know Janis. So old it seems to almost feel conscious at times. Its stones remember too much. Madam Wieners has, in her usual breathless fashion, filled my head with tales from the times of the Grueselhorn and the stories that would’ve befallen me, were I to attempt my stay here even just a century ago. The Rhine, however, is slow and gray and indifferent—it hears all and judges none, and does more to console me than any other human soul of late.
I have not been entirely solitary. Madame Heron visits daily. She is such a curious creature, as I’m sure you know—an Englishwoman, pale as sea-form and hair nearly the color of Russian gold. She prescribes me beef tea, pepper and rest, and has kept a diligent record of my nightmares, though she has yet to find comprehension within them. Her most recent verdict has been that my blood is sluggish in nature—so much so that a sudden rush of excitement could flood my heart and cause it to arrest. She has warned me to stay away from too much excitement. Thus, she has done her best to keep the company of men away from me. It is such a shame, I say—Monsieur Gnapoor’s laughter echoes in my mind pleasantly enough, like the warm breeze of Odessa’s ports, though I seldom see him. The few chances I have, I feel he must smell like Sidon, and must resemble the men of Sidon as well.
Madame Wieners, as you may know, is a frequent visitor to Madame Heron as well. She speaks ever so much—far more than she listens. She comes for powders, tinctures, potions—anything that promises youth or beauty. When she had first come across me in Madame Heron’s parlor, she had grasped my hands in hers with a look of such great pity for me, as though my homeland were a wound upon my person, and told me I shall be ‘brought to the standard of the West.’ I endure it, Janis, for pity is a small price to pay for silence, and she leaves me eventually.
I have come to find that Strasbourg’s ladies form a curious circle around the lady-doctor, though this is perhaps something you’re already well aware of. Madame Regina Georg among them, all Hanoverian elegance and bright laughter, accompanied by her blonde shadow, Madame Shmied. I have never seen such a queer fashion, as I have seen from Karen Schmied—she wears such loose, white flowing garments, like the paintings of burial shrouds, and then she drenches them in water, and the damp cloth clings to her curves like a Grecian sculpture. And there is also talk of a négociant from Bremen, a certain Monsieur Hans Omann, but whether he is as altruistic as rumoured I cannot yet say.
Oh, Janis. The Heathers—you must have heard mentions of them before, have you not? My tranquility was soon disrupted by the arrival of a certain calling card, addressed to me in a hand too graceful to belong to any human creature accustomed to daily life. Lady Heather Chandler, a mix of Scottish and French, invited me to dine at her chateau. I must tell you that Madame Wieners warned me of who she called ‘the Heathers’—those three beautiful and mysterious women, who she claims lures the ladies of Strasbourg into misfortune. She spoke with such gravity that I half-believed she saw visions. But we take no stock in such awful eidola any longer. If I must find ignorance to the phantasms that follow me, then so must Madame Wieners.
What I can say is this: I ought to have refused, as I know they are far too exciting to my senses to scaffold my recovery. I fully intended to. And yet—something in the summons compelled me. Perhaps I felt a need for the break in the drudgery of my miserable condition. It was as though a velvet chain had been wrapped around my wrist. I followed willingly.
Oh, the chateau is a strange, stately place—its towers narrow, its windows long, its shutters sighing at the touch of wind. Inside its iron gates, roses permeate every corner. Portraits of long-dead Chandlers gaze down with vivid eyes that seem too aware to belong to mere paint. The Lady Heather herself is a marvel, Janis—golden, glowing, with eyes like polished lapis. She is beautiful beyond all reason, to a degree that unsettles me more than it charms. Her hands are always gloved—fourteen pairs of silk gloves per week, as she claims, as though gloves were simple necessities rather than a decadence on her estate.
Her maids—the Irishwoman Orla and the China-woman Dep—whom she calls Heather Orla and Heather Dep, almost like titles—move with a grace that feels practiced, as though they are dancers in a tableau whose every gesture serves a hidden purpose. Once they saw me, the Irishwoman, Heather Orla, clucked her tongue in disapproval of my dress. She is a strange creature, who keeps her long wheat-like hair in braids on top of her head and whose eyes seem to glow Paris green in the candlelight. ‘It will not do,’ she says. ‘Heather Dep will lend you some of her things, before you’re brought to dine with Lady Heather.’ Heather Dep—stranger still, with the features of a Chinese, but coppery hair—dressed me as though I were a doll, pinned my hair, draped silks over my shoulders, and laughed softly whenever I inquired why such finery was required for a mere supper. They have assured me I will soon grow accustomed to being ornamented by Lady Heather; indeed, she insists upon it.
And yet, my dear cousin, she is a strange creature in person. I was sat on her left, so I was quite privy to these things. Her smile grows far wider than what seems natural on such a slender, lovely face; her teeth are bright and large, like her gums are far recessed on the long bone of her teeth. For an instant, her shadows move though she does not. But the moment fades, and I tell myself it must be the remnants of my nightmares intruding upon daylight.
Worse still—I think she knows.
Sometimes, when the light is low, I feel certain that she can see the dreams that haunt me: the prince of my nightmares, with his cold lips and whispered vows, promising again and again he will return to me. When I tell Madame Heron, she swears to me no such man exists. But how can a mere fragment of my imagination leave such a horrible terror behind? How can a mere dream shape itself so vividly, so insistently, night after night?
I dread sleep, Janis—and yet I still crave it.
There is a sweetness in the terror, a pull too mesmerizing to resist.
I cannot understand it, and that is my greatest fear.
Each day, I lose another sliver of myself. Each night something steals into the hollow that remains.
Oh, Janis–if only you would write, if only you would return. I feel sometimes that if I could speak to you face to face, I might yet anchor myself to reality. But reality slips from me like smoke, and shadows, once harmless, now gather like spectators in the corners of my room.
The candle burns low. I must stop. Something moves in the hallway—too soft to be a person, too deliberate to be the house settling. I shall not open the door.
Write to me at once.
Your devoted cousin,
Verónika
My dearest Janis—
Oh, how I long to hear your voice again. I have been breathless waiting for your reply, but I must remember to mind myself. I know your travels are hard and busy, and I know you have left partially for my own sake, to ask the Hungarian villagers if they know of the cause and cure for my afflictions. I am grateful, but I mourn your presence within my life. I await your return with baited breath, and I do hope you might find some time to send me a reply, even a small one, to my letters. But I shall not let it further strain my senses—Madame Heron would not be pleased to hear I spend my nights in worry, least of all with you. She is already so troubled by your decision to leave in my fragile state—I hate to cleave myself even further between you and your friendships.
I do not know how this letter will reach you. I scarcely know whether it should. Perhaps it is more of a danger than a benefit to commit these thoughts to paper, for fear they may take on a life more solid than they already possess within my thoughts. But I must write—to whom else can I confide these things, when no one in this haunted city seems truly human? When I have even begun to question myself? I feel as if I am slipping back into my world from Paris, and I fear those awful, sleepless nights.
Forgive my rambling. My mind feels as though it has grown soft at the edges, like a pad of butter spreading out over warm toast.
Last Thursday—was it Thursday? I can hardly recall these things anymore—I rose before dawn, compelled by a restlessness that would not let me remain indoors. The nightmares have been particularly violent—perhaps from jealousy, for the connections I endeavor in my waking life. He wound his arms around me like grave-roots, whispering that he would not wait much longer. I awoke feeling as if I’ve been drained of all my life-force.
I agreed to meet Lady Chandler for a morning stroll. The lady is quite fond of strolling through the vineyards–and when she can manage, the nearby forests–and she has extended many invitations for me to accompany her on her walks. I do think the fresh air is good for me; I believe, at least, the sunlight has improved my complexion. I know I should refuse—even Madame Heron disapproves of my courtship with her, and Madame Heron is the most rational person I have ever met. Yet she summons me, and I obey. What weakness in me answers her? What invisible thread she tights around my wrist, drawing me ever so closer?
I reached the path near the orchid before she did—or so I believed. The mist hung thick over the brambles, and the world seemed rendered in shadow and breath. And then I saw her. Heather Chandler. Not walking—not approaching—but sloped gracefully forward among the blackberry bushes, holding her skirts to the side in the proper Western fashion. I froze, yet she did not see me. A small rabbit darted from beneath the crotch of a tree, swift and foolish. And then in a single movement so fluid it seemed unnatural, Heather leaned forward and caught this rabbit mid-leap by his neck—snatching it as effortlessly as one might pluck a rosebud. Then she supped upon this rabbit, Janis—not ravenously, but with precision and refinement. She tore into the flesh but guarded her bodice daintily with her free hand, so not a drop of blood fell upon her pale gown. Her movements were the height of French manners—exquisite, horrifying.
I could not breathe, Janis! The mist pulsed around me like a living thing. And then–oh Janis—she lifted her head. She looked directly at me. I had as of yet made no sound, still she knew I was there as if she had scented me on the air. Her lips were stained dark, yet she smiled. And the smile—Gold help me—was not one devoid of all tenderness.
Said she only, ‘You came early,’ as though nothing were amiss.
I walked beside her in silence after that, trembling so violently she slipped her arm through mine in a gentlemanly fashion to steady me. Her touch burned through silk. Not painfully—not, it was worse. It was pleasurable. My treacherous body leaned toward her warmth, though my mind screamed to flee.
I ought to have refused her invitation to supper the next evening, but I found myself among her and her disciples again. I believed myself prepared for whatever eccentricities her household might display—cold Heather Dep with her too-dark stare and hands that leave trails of warmth on whatever she touches; Heather Orla with her shifting eyes and voice that sometimes sounds doubled, as though two things speak through one throat.
Yet nothing prepares me for the dinner table.
The servants brought a platter of beef—raw, bright crimson. Life and flesh together. I can hardly imagine what our rabbi might say about such an awful sight. I assumed at first it was an ingredient to be cooked, and that the lady was only inspecting the quality of the meat, but then the lady dismissed the servants with a nod. And then, she pulls her gloves off her hands—long, pale, slender fingers, tipped with long, cruel nails—and pulls the slab towards her, eyes darkening with her hunger.
She tore into it. Not with utensils. With her fingers. With her teeth.
Blood streaked the white skin on her wrist, glistening as it seeped between her nails. Though I have accustomed myself somewhat to the sight of blood on hands and teeth, and the thick slurp it takes to properly drink it, it’s different when I am across the table from it, completely and utterly awake and aware of everything. I gasped, unable to maintain my composure at the sight of so much of it at once. She looked up slowly, her eyes gleaming with a molten, unnatural light, half-blue, half-gold. Something flickered behind them—something feral, like the rabid dogs of Odessa.
‘Does my appetite alarm you?’ she asked softly. Her voice was high and sweet—not embarrassed, not mocking, but intimate. As though she wanted me to witness this. As though she fed not only on flesh, but on my horror as well.
Heather Orla watched with an unreadable smile. Heather Dep’s pupils seemed to narrow like a cat’s, then widened again. I felt as though the entire room leaned toward me, hungry.
I excused myself early, claiming faintness. My condition predisposes me to these things, as they all know. Heather rose to assist—too quickly, too gracefully—and brushed her blood-caked hand against my cheek. The smear burned like a brand.
Tonight is almost uneventful by comparison.
I went for a walk near the vineyard at dusk, needing air. Heather joined me, uninvited, but inevitable. We had not gone fifty steps before two men emerged from the thicket—wolf hunters, armed with rifles and lanterns. I was not afraid to see them, though I find them both so bothersome in conversation. Kurt and Ram. They come as a pair.
‘Evenin’, mademoiselles,’ Kurt said. ‘This place is unsafe after dark. Wolves about. We’ll escort you home.’
Before I could respond, Heather pulled me behind her by the arm, a rumbling came from deep within her chest, like thunder rolling over darkened seas. ‘Leave,’ she said simply. Her tone hardly even conveyed command, yet still I almost felt the urge to leave as well. As if there is something instinctual about her power.
The two men paled. Ram pulled back while Kurt tried again. ‘We meant only to protect—’
Heather glared at them down her elegant nose. ‘Never speak to her without my permission again. Now, go. Find Heather Orla, if you must, but leave us.’
And they fled.
And I stayed rooted beside her, horror and heat flooding through me in equal measure. She looked at me after the men had fled, and her expression softened back into something like the painting of an angel. ‘You do not need their protection,’ she whispered. ‘You have me.’
I do not know whether she meant this as a comfort or a threat. I cannot decide which possibility frightens me more.
Janis—my beloved cousin–help me understand. My nightmares deepen each night. He grows more insistent, his voice sweet as rot. He tells me he hungers; he tells me he is near. And when I wake, I find the scent of blood and earth clinging to me, as though hands have touched me in my sleep.
Daylight no longer brings reprieve. Heather’s presence stalks every corner of my life; her eyes follow me even when my back is turned. Her gentleness terrifies me more than her savagery.
I fear her. I crave her. I fear myself, most of all.
Come home, Janis.
Come home before I cannot remember what it is to be human.
Yours, in desperation,
Verónika
My dearest Janis—
I do not know why I continue to write when each letter is left unanswered, like small coffins of thought, trapped in some nebulous void, but something compels my hand. If my mind is dissolving, I would at least have some remnant of myself set to words—so that when all else fails, these words may prove I once lived in the clean light of reason.
Something is happening to me. Something I fear neither opshprekherins nor physicians could ever mend.
Nights have grown treacherous. It is as if I never left Paris—I no longer merely dream of him, but I feel him as well. His presence presses into my sleep like a weight across my chest, as real as the coverlet, as chilling as the mist on the riverbanks. I hear him speak my name—softly, intimately, as though his lips graze my ear. Each time I resist, the shadows thicken, and he whispers more sweetly, more insistently. Last night he said, You wander among the wrong kind, little star. The wolves cannot keep you from me.
I woke tangled in my sheets, breathless, the mark of a hand bruised upon my ribs But I had been alone. Had I?
I no longer trust the boundaries between night and dawn anymore.
And the days have grown no safer.
Heather is always near. Even when I think I have escaped her watchful eye, I look over my shoulder and find her at some polite distance, watching me with those strange, deep-water eyes of hers—eyes that glow faintly at the edges like metal catching moonlight.
She takes every opportunity to touch me. My wrist. My shoulder. My hair. Each caress is gentle, almost reverent, and yet it carries some hidden force that pulls my soul toward hers. I feel myself yielding without consent, without thought.
Yesterday she visited me unexpectedly at noon. I had not yet dressed, and my hair was undone, falling down my back. She stepped inside as though she belonged in my doorway. When I stammered a greeting she brushed her glove-clad fingers along my braidless hair. ‘You should wear it loose more often,’ she said. ‘You do not know how beautiful you are when unguarded.’
Her breath touched my cheek. I did not step away. Dear Janis, I could not step away.
She smiled with such aching adoration that for a moment I almost forgot about every monstrous thing I had seen her do.
But then I noticed her gloves.
They were damp. And not with water.
A rusted tinge glistened near the seams.
She took them off before I could speak and placed them into Dep’s silent waiting hands. She never travels far without her maids. Dep smiled knowingly—as if she understood what I dared not think
I fear her servants nearly as much as Heather herself. Orla moves with a strange rhythm, steps too light, too quick, as though she weighs nothing at all. When she caught my gaze this morning, her pupils rippled like a pool disturbed by wind.
But it is Heather who frightens me most. Heather, whom I cannot resist. Heather, whose affection feels like a claim.
This afternoon, something happened that has left my nerves trembling like struck glass. Madame Heron would be so displeased, if I was being forthcoming with her. I went to the apothecary to fetch a tonic Madame Heron when little Karen Schmied struck out against me, seizing my arm, her large eyes wild. ‘Do not linger after sundown,’ she said. ‘I have gotten word that the wolves are hungry and bold this season.’ I could not respond, taken aback as I was. She glanced behind me and paled. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘It’s her.’
I turned.
Heather stood twenty paces away—still, silent, watching. Not a hair out of place. Not a drop of blood on her. Yet the air around her shimmered faintly, as if heat rose from her skin despite the chill.
Madame Schmied released me as if burned.
Heather approached—slowly, with the grace of a stalking lioness. She took my chin in her gloved hand. ‘Who was she?’ she asked softly.
I tell her that she is Lady Schmied, a friend of my doctor’s. Heather says, ‘She spoke to you without my leave.’ Her voice drops to something lower—a growl, like she had done to Kurt and Ram before. ‘I do not tolerate that.’
I felt the pressure of her fingers tighten—not painfully, only possessively. Too possessively.
When she released me, my legs shook. And yet…I felt a warmth coil low within me. A terrible warmth.
What is happening to me, Janis? What am I becoming?
And then something so bizarre happened within the vineyards–Heather at my side, her hand hovering close but not touching—I heard the master of my blood, clear as spoken breath: She thinks you are hers. But you came to me first. You will come again.
I froze and Heather paused beside me, her nostrils flaring as though she smelt something in the air. ‘What is it?’ she murmured. ‘Do you hear something?’
I lied and said no. What a horrible mistake, for of course she could tell. Her eyes sharpened, gleaming gold at the edges, and she leaned close enough that her lips grazed the shell of my ear. ‘Tell me if he follows you,’ she whispered. ‘I will tear him apart.’
Janis—how does she know? What has she sensed?
What nightmare prowls between us, and which one of them is the true danger?
Sometimes I fear Heather wishes to claim my body.
Sometimes I fear He wishes to claim my soul.
Sometimes I fear they are both right.
And sometimes—God forgive me—I do not fear at all.
Return to me, Janis. Or send word. Or pray.
I do not know how many nights I can withstand this war between dream and daylight, between the cold in my blood and the burning, possessive touch on my skin.
My mind is no longer a safe place. My body no longer feels entirely mine.
I am slipping, I think.
Your devoted,
And unraveling,
Verónika