CHAPTER 3: The hint of the forbidden
On the wall opposite the bed was a particularly unnerving portrait. It was a young woman, brunette and well-figured, with an enigmatic smile. And reclined, fully nude. The lack of garb wasn't what disturbed Tara, though. It was the woman's disturbingly familiar features. She'd had the feeling only once before, in her strange adventure as Pandora. It was like looking into a mirror.
The entire room, the more she examined it, had a strange intimacy. At each turn, she would see something that she... impossibly... seemed to know. Or, in a most peculiar way, felt she knew. A ramskin pelt, with a silver clasp. An onyx lamp. A jeweled dagger, bisecting an oracle saucer. A male silhouette, of noble visage. An orb. They weren't exactly known, but were like things from an ancient dream. A dream – of hers.
In fact, there was something primal, even mythic, about the whole setting. Like after a lifetime of wandering, she was home at last. Her most ancestral, truest home, that she had always known without even knowing. Somewhere in time and space, she had held that dagger; cradled the orb. Had swathed the ramskin about her, against the northern winds. Undone its silver clasp. Known the man.
The words came to her, from her deepest being, "This is where I'm from..."
She stood again upon the cliffs. Under the darkling skies; above the wind-tossed Mare Frisia. At the head of the path from her rendezvous. Alone... yet not alone. The flush on her bosom gone; her heart steady, and strong.
As the heavens turned, Cassiopeia, who had rashly boasted of her unrivaled beauty, loomed over the far away parapet of the Emperor's wall. Above the roiling waters a new star, trailing the green mist, glimmered near the rising moon. The Otherworld's sure herald of great endings, and beginnings.
The last gleams of twilight caressed the landscape behind her. Ahead she gazed eastward, past the strand, towards the grey horizon. The sea breeze tousling her long, loose hair. Watching the waves crash in the distance. Thinking, feeling... just being alive, in this corner of the Earth, of the universe... as the door slowly swung shut behind her.
She heard the thump, and ran towards it. It was firmly locked. Had it been accidental, or a trap? Damn it. She knocked a fist on the hardwood, and cursed herself for daydreaming. Then she turned, and did a quick review of the perimeter. There was no other door evident, and no windows. So she was trapped, accidentally or not. Yet no other threat was visible. So it seemed best to sit tight, wait for Steed and the police, and to call out when she heard them.
She sighed. So much for that momentous final encounter. Well, it was a rather vain wish, she realized. And she knew the warnings about wishes.
She wrenched the handle one more time – and further wished she still carried that brick. Then she brushed back a lock of her own brunette tresses, and resumed exploring her abode.
"My abode..." The archaic term had popped into her mind, and touched something within her. Even though it was hardly meet for what was, in point of fact, her temporary cell. Yet minute by minute, she was feeling more like she belonged here. Belonged in the room... with the room. Even, somehow, to the room.
She passed a hand over the luxurious bed, and felt the mysterious attraction again, even more so. A flowing scarlet drape hung from the nearest finial. She ran her hand down its length – and the stirring, from earlier, returned. But this time she didn't shake it off. The bow again drew across the taut string within her. Then the unseen hand drew another, longer stroke, across more strings... and her eyes closed, and she shivered at the complex, tragic, exquisite chord.
She gathered the shimmering cloth into her hands, both hands, and drew it over her face and bare neck. Savouring its cool softness, and smoothness. Her thoughts began drifting afield.
As she nestled the drape to her cheek, she glanced at the nearby orchids, and noticed their stems – which she swore had been splayed in random directions – were now aligned together at one side... and were leaning over the rim of the vase, towards her. Their blooms, too, were a deeper hue, and more open than she remembered from a minute ago. She must not have looked closely before, she reasoned.
Then, even as she watched, the blooms opened wider still. Seeming to bend the petals back, and thrust their centres forward. Parting their innermost folds. She let loose of the drapery, and stepped closer, to peer into the largest bloom – and she was struck by its delicate, contoured inner structures. In all her studies, she had never seen an orchid with such richly coloured, intricate recesses. There were layered rims of lattice-like tissues, cupping a slender deep funnel, leading back into the flower's womb. Graced by the finest hairs, and glistening nectar, with micro-streaks of pigment. So sweet, and enticing. It was like... like... and the brash word came to Tara, oddly but tenderly, "...a pussy. This is its pussy."
A part of Tara felt she shouldn't peer so closely. Although mere flowers, there was yet a sense of violation. But the hint of the forbidden made the sight all the more tempting. And as she came nearer, the bloom seemed to flex; bending back on itself; thrusting its mons and venerae towards Tara's eyes, like a lure. Tara unconsciously moistened her lips, as the flower spread its folds wider, to show Tara just a little more... and bring her even closer. And closer. At the same moment, a strange desire began to form in her mind. A desire to kiss that incredibly beautiful, sweet, secret mouth. Fully, and deeply. To taste its nectar with the tip of her tongue, and imbibe its essence to the full.
She drew the bloom up to her face. As she stared, the desire became overwhelming. What would it be like...? Her breathing stilled; her eyes closed. She leaned in, and her head instinctively tipped to the right... as she gently opened her own mouth, to meet the flower's. And at the instant her lips touched the smooth, soft embouchure, a mist issued forth from its deepest recesses.
She was taken aback. What... what amazing flowers, she vaguely thought – and the mist welled forth again. Then all the orchids, impossibly, stretched towards her, and wafted another sweet cloud, from a dozen intimate depths at once. Tara felt the fine dew on her cheeks, and her eyes rolled, as she drew in the musky bouquet. It was like the richest, most seductive perfume she'd ever dreamed of. The sensations seemed to ripple through her; to penetrate her with pleasure. Bending her body, bending her mind, towards...
Then she shuddered, and snapped to. What is happening? What am I supposed to be doing?
With a deliberate effort, she backed away from the flowers; and gave her head a shake, to clear the fog. She smoothed down her garments, self-consciously. Getting herself back on track. Back to the task at hand. The task of... of...
Sweep and secure. That was it. Sweep, and secure. She patted a hand on her thigh. Enough with this foolishness.
Casting about again, she now saw an ornate, late-Victorian vanity against the opposite wall. Another, even larger vase of orchids was at one side of the vanity, on a marble stand. On the other side, stood a 3-way nest of full-length mirrors. The single large mirror atop the vanity was framed by intricate arcs and curly-cues of rosewood, like the bed. And it seemed to be glistening. In her distracted state, she even imagined it was winking at her. As if tempting her to come closer. That was peculiar, indeed. Tara crossed the room, to examine the phenomenon.
She stood in front of the vanity, and gazed at her reflection. At herself in her plum silk blouse, and wraparound skirt. With a silvered Tara Brooch on her bodice (a whimsical conceit – but also something more). It was a sight she'd seen this morning, and many mornings. Yet this time, perhaps from the lighting, or the lingering effects of the orchids, she was especially taken by it.
She loved her many clothes, and fancied this outfit in particular. It was ostensibly styled for daytime; for "the office." But with its teasing neckline, the velvet smooth fabric, and the easy-off titillation of the skirt, it was as distracting as any afterdark ensemble. There was hardly a male she passed, and perhaps more than a few females, who didn't look at the fly hem of that overlap, and dream how easily a hand could peel it off.
At the same time, in the corner of the glass, Tara could see the mysterious painting behind her. Beauteous; rude; so intimately disturbing. As she regarded the reflected portrait, the recumbent woman flexed her body on the couch, and smiled more broadly – then whispered, "You're getting closer, Tara. This is the way." It was the voice from the hallway – and Tara suddenly realized why it had sounded familiar. It was her own.
She swung a glance over her shoulder. The painted woman was reclined there, as still and enigmatic as ever. In the same casual, unabashed pose. No broader smile; and certainly no means of moving or speaking. But her eyes, which Tara had remembered as vague and askance, now had a glint – and they were looking directly at Tara.
Coming next...
CHAPTER FOUR: "Rules are rules, Major Steed"