Chapter Thirteen: Victor Christie

"I know too well the poison and the sting of things too sweet." ~Adelaide Anne Procter
_

*Trigger warning for this chapter: violence, gore, and trauma*

*Also Happy Holidays!*

June 13th, 1871

London, England, United Kingdom, Europe

"Edith, Lord Christie is summoning you." Came Buckley's voice just as nineteen-year-old Marie was getting ready for bed. She hadn't changed yet; she was still dressed in her work clothes. Marie was just barely pulling out clothes from underneath her bed, for heaven's sake. Then, with a frown, she stood, tucking her chest of belongings back underneath her bed and following the tall man out of the room.

The halls were silent, with the only sound being the clacking of Buckley's dress shoes against the hardwood floor. It felt as if even the paintings lining the walls judged her. She fidgeted with the engagement ring underneath her shirt. She refused to wear it on her finger for fear of losing it while she worked, so it sat on a chain around her neck. It had taken some time, but Matthew eventually came around to the idea.

The outdoors were cold and dark as Marie followed Buckley out of the servant's quarters and towards the Christie Mansion. Out of reflex, she glanced up to Matthew's window to see it dark. He was most likely in bed, either that or reading by a single candle's light. Then, glancing back down to the walkway, she caught Buckley's sneer. He disapproved of their relationship; everyone did. But he was the most vocal about it—if vocal could be considered the right word.

Buckley held open the doors to Lord Christie's study and ushered her inside. It was dark in there; not even the fireplace was lit. She frowned and turned just as the door shut behind her.

"Hello?! Mr. Buckley?!" She called, rushing to the door and knocking on it, but all she could hear was the lock clicking and his dress shoes striding away.

There was movement behind her, and she turned just in time to see the shadow of something swinging down, and then everything went black.

When Marie opened her eyes, it was to a throbbing pain in her temple. Then, with a quiet groan, her head lolled up so she could actually look around.

It looked like she was still in the study, the fireplace now lit and illuminating the glittering feathers of peacock motifs that embellished the entire room. She was seated in a chair with a table in front of her. A short and portly figure stood before the fireplace, hands cradling something in their palms. The figure turned to look at her, and she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her lips.

"L-Lord Christie?" She whispered, and he hummed,

"Glad to see you're awake; I thought I had accidentally killed you." He muttered, and she raised a hand to feel her temple. Her fingertips came away wet with blood, and it dripped down the side of her face.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" She asked, and he huffed out a laugh, rolling a small statuette of a peacock between his fingers.

"Like you have any right to be asking questions of me." He sneered, and she actually flinched at the icy tone coating his words. Why was she here? What was he planning on doing? Lord Christie set down the statuette of the peacock on the desk next to him and turned to face her, hand disappearing beneath his waistcoat and pulling out a gun.

It was a Colt Single Action Army Revolver from America. Matthew had snuck it from his father's gun safe when they were both eighteen and showed it to her. She recognized the handle as the same one he had shown her how to shoot when no one was around.

What was Lord Christie planning on doing with it?

She didn't want to find out.

"Now, you are going to listen to me. I want you to—" When Lord Christie was close enough, Marie's hand shot out like a viper—quick as a whip—and smacked the gun from his hand. It went spinning to the floor and towards the desk, but Marie was already on her feet and racing for the door. No time to go for the gun. If she could get out and to the stairs while he was going for the pistol, she might stand a chance of escaping whatever he planned for her.

But Lord Christie didn't go for the gun as she had thought. Instead, he came straight for her. Just as Marie's fingers closed around the brass doorknob of the study, his arm came down in a short, brutal arc. The handheld statuette of the peacock smashed down onto Marie's hands.

The impact lanced up her right arm in a lightning strike of pain. She heard a distinct crunch as all three knuckles in her first finger and two in her middle finger shattered, completely crushed between the figurine and the doorknob. All of a sudden, she was on her knees before the door, cradling her hand in her unbroken one as wave after wave of agony rolled through her body like the sea. Her hand hurt so badly, Marie could barely breathe, barely take in a single gasp of air. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, swallowing the scream rising in her throat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him. Spotted his shining shoes in the flickering candlelight as he approached her, saw the peacock bust swinging casually from his stubby fingers. He came to a stop next to her, breathing heavily.

"Now, you are going to listen very carefully to what I have to say." He snarled, and all she could do was sit in agonizing silence.

As it turned out, it didn't matter what Marie said to Lord Christie. Whether she answered him truthfully, lied, or didn't answer at all, each answer brought the peacock bust down in precise movements and broke another finger joint.

She had twenty-eight joints in total.

Including the five he had broken initially, Lord Christie had gone through twelve of them.

Even through the waves of agony, Marie couldn't help but count every time he broke another. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

All because he wanted her to call off the engagement with Matthew.

Lord Christie sat opposite her, tapping the statuette against the table. The once-pristine marble was flecked with blood. Every time more blood spattered up the marble, his nostrils flared with distaste. He had tied her hands to the table with his silken tie. Even with her tugging, she couldn't get loose. He may have been short and portly, but he knew how to tie knots.

"You WILL call off the engagement with my son! You don't deserve him! He should marry someone better than you!" He bellowed, and she flinched at the volume. Maybe someone would hear and come and save her. But she couldn't hold onto hope.

"Alright!" She cried, tears running tracks down her cheeks. Lord Christie brought the peacock down again, and Marie barely had time to brace herself before the familiar lance of white-hot pain shot up her hand, and with it, the sound of crunching bone. A sharp stench arose in the air, and through the pain, she realized she had soiled herself. Urine ran down her legs as Lord Christie brought the bust down once more with deadly precision and shattered the remaining knuckle on her right hand.

Time splintered like cracking ice after that. There were glittering peacocks and blinding crimson pain and black satin unconsciousness. Lord Christie's voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard, grating on her senses. Then, when cups of ice water no longer roused her from unconsciousness, he would take his thumb and press harshly on one of her ruined knuckles until she awoke screaming. Then, he would wipe the blood from his fingertips and wait until she would quiet down, and then the demands and the crunching bone would start again.

The pain ebbed and flowed, but the terror and shame were constant. Terror in what he was doing and guilt for even talking to Matthew. Sometimes she was able to sit upright with silent tears. Other times she was hunched over and screaming through clenched teeth. In all that time, she wondered why no one had come. Was it because they couldn't hear? Or was it because they were too scared to ask what was going on?

At last, the last knuckle in her hand broke with a familiar, sickening crunch. Marie stared numbly down at the carnage that used to be her hands, and a thought surfaced. "I suppose he could move on to my toes." She thought, able to hear her dying screams in the distant air. Then, with the feeling of relief that the pain was temporarily over, she slipped into black velvet unconsciousness.

A splash of water jolted her back to her senses, and she coughed and gagged as it invaded her nose and mouth. Lord Christie set down the cup, using the jug next to it to refill the cup in case she passed out again. Then, reaching forward, he latched his pudgy fingers around her necklace and yanked. The chain snapped, and her engagement ring went clattering to the floor.

"I understand we've come to an agreement?" Then, with a hiccup, she nodded, sitting shivering and bound to the chair, hands tied in front of her, soaked in water and urine. Tears streamed down her cheeks, face sore from the amount of crying she had done.

Looking up, all Marie could see was the room spinning with pain, her vision laced with black and red swirls. Embellished decorations and glittering peacocks were all she could focus on in her agony. The statuette of the peacock sat on the table in front of her, red dripping down its marble beak, and its beady eyes swirled with the rest of the room. Faintly, she could hear Lord Christie speaking to someone outside the door behind her.

Rough hands grasped her shoulders, and Marie was untied and harshly forced to her feet. It was Buckley, she realized abruptly. He paid no mind to her sobbing even as she vomited all over the floor and his shoes. Instead, he simply shoved her forward and down the hall, one hand holding tightly to her elbow to make sure she didn't fall or try to run away. Not that she could, she figured if Buckley weren't holding her up, she would've collapsed by now.

Light streamed in the windows as they made their way down the hall and towards the servant's quarters. It was morning, she realized. Had it only been hours since she entered Lord Christie's study? It felt like an eternity.

Luckily for Marie, the hallways and the pathway to the servant's quarters were empty, everyone already at their respective workstations and working the day away. She stumbled, still dizzy with pain and her hands throbbing with every step she took. She nearly threw up again, but pure will and the threat of passing out kept her from doing so.

They made it to the room she shared, and Buckley let her go. Her knees buckled, and Marie caught herself with her forearm against the doorframe. She sank her teeth into her lip so hard she tasted blood as she tried not to scream.

"Get your things. The carriage will be around the side in ten minutes." Buckley snapped and shut the door behind him. She didn't hear him leave, so he had to have been stationed outside the door to make sure no one came in. With a sob, she stumbled towards her bed and collapsed upon it. She reeked of blood and urine and tears, but she knew she wouldn't be able to change her clothing, not with the awful state her hands were in.

Ten minutes. That was all the time Marie had left. She couldn't even tell Matthew goodbye, couldn't even tell him what happened.

She allowed herself a few minutes to simply cry without fear of busts of peacocks crunching any more bones. Then she stood and steeled herself. She would leave with as much dignity as she could muster if she were to leave.

With the toe of her shoes, she managed to drag her chest out from underneath her bed, and using her wrists, she managed to lift it into her arms. She couldn't even put a coat on; her hands hurt so much. Marie staggered to the door and kicked her foot against it once, twice, then a third time until Buckley opened it up with his signature sneer on his lips. She followed him out the door, down the hall, and outside where a nondescript black carriage lay in wait.

Marie clambered inside the best she could and set her chest of belongings on the seat next to her. The cabby leaned down to peek inside.

"Where to ma'am?" He asked, ignoring the mangled mess that was her hands. She frowned, fighting back the tears as she realized she didn't have anywhere to go.

Then a thought occurred to her.

Her mother and grandmother had left in their will that she had a little shop left to her. It was a little shop meant for selling herbs and medicines. Surely she could go there? What was the address again?

Marie sat up a little straighter and looked out the window towards the mansion. She could see Matthew exiting and heading towards the servant's quarters, undoubtedly looking for her.

"701 Victorian Street, please." She whispered, and the carriage set into motion.