"Mother? It's me. Good morning." I said.
"Good morning, dear! Did you sleep well?"
"Just fine, Mother. Listen—can you get into your best outfit and get up here to the castle right away? It's—sort of an emergency. I'll tell security to expect you."
"Yes, but why? What's going on? I was going to the dressmaker's this afternoon—."
"Great! Perfect! I'll come along. What time?" I had one week to get an appropriate dress ready.
"One o'clock. What's going on, dear one?" It was a reasonable question.
"Momma—I'm getting married." I had to say it sometime.
"Joviana!" She sounded slightly hurt; she thought I'd been shutting her out. "That's—I didn't even know there was anyone you were seeing. Who is he? It is a 'he', isn't it?"
"Yes, it's a he," — very much a he, "I'm—It's the Master."
She was silent for a long moment. "Von Doom himself?" she asked.
"Um, yes." I said, sheepishly.
She started crying. "Momma—please don't—it's all right."
"Of course it's all right, darling—these are happy tears. Oh, I thought this would happen! It isn't just that you're lovely, but you're so intelligent—."
My mother believes in me like no one else on Earth. I love her dearly.
"When did this happen, Jovia? I mean, were you and he—?"
"Last night. I didn't know he had that sort of regard for me, either. It was—very unexpected." I could say that without giving away details.
"You can tell me, dear—I won't be angry, I swear! Is there a chance that you—could be expecting?" she whispered.
"Ah—no." I realized suddenly that now I was going to have all of Latveria watching my middle for signs of the next generation of Von Dooms. Great. Just what I needed. And I had no idea whether or not he might want children. He is a man who has no half measures; either he wouldn't want any at all, or else he would want several.
"Do you know if he—I mean, I'd love being a grandmother." she said, plaintively.
"He hasn't made his wishes known—I mean, we haven't discussed it yet, Mother."
Exactly what sort of relationship were Doom and I going to have? Would we discuss such matters, or would I simply have to acquiesce or fight what he wanted? "Look, we can talk when you get here, there's going to be a formal announcement at eleven. I've got to figure out what to wear—and I'm not in my old rooms anymore. I'll have someone show you up."
"Of course, dear one. I'll be there directly."
She hung up.
It's strange how much I've come to love my Latverian mother, despite the fact that she neither gave birth to me nor raised me, although she believes she did both…
It was four days after I arrived in Latveria, almost three years ago. Doom summoned me, and when I entered the room, he said, "Good day, Joviana."
"Joviana." I said, trying out the sound. "That's what my new name will be, then."
"Yes. Joviana Ilys Florescu. You have the materials I commanded you to bring? Come!" We were in the complex in the mountains then, not the castle, and he led me into the depths of it, through corridors of brushed adamantium, a labyrinth underground, to a room with a mirror glass panel set in the wall.
Through it, I could see a woman about thirty years my senior. She had a photo album open on her lap, and she was paging through it. She touched a page as if it were her child's cheek. Her hair was silver, and her eyes were very dark and sad.
"That is Galina Florescu. She is a schoolteacher, a widow, and a bereft mother. Her only child, Joviana, died of leukemia ten years ago. She would have been your age."
"I understand. I'm going to assume her identity, and Mrs. Florescu will pretend I am her daughter, should it ever be called into question."
"You are half right." he told me. "You will assume the identity of her daughter, but she will not pretend that you are she. In five days time, she will believe you are her daughter, whose cancer has been in remission for ten years, who lived to grow up, went to study in the United States, and who has now returned home to take up a career in my service."
Perhaps it was something about the way I looked at him that led him to explain further.
"She has willingly consented to undergo the necessary conditioning. Indeed, she desires it. She has never overcome the loss of her child—now she will never have lost her. You have a part to play in this. Today you and she will become acquainted. You will hear about the significant details of Joviana Florescu's childhood, take possession of such trinkets and personal effects that her mother has kept for all these years, and the images from the photo album you carry, the album of your childhood, and the photo album she has with her will be used to create one in which your image replaces that of her dead child, in all the stages of life.
"Tomorrow, Mrs. Florescu will begin the conditioning, at the end of which she will unquestioningly choose your photograph from among those of thirty others as that of her daughter. Six days from now, you will go to visit her in her home, having just returned from America. The more time that you spend with her, the better the conditioning will hold. It is in your best interests, and hers, that you cultivate a good relationship with her."
"Very well, my lord. I will."
"There is the door." He gestured to it. "Your mother is waiting for you."
I do have a good relationship with her, which means more than I will ever be able to express, after the emotional abyss that was life with my birthmother. I even eat her eggplant dishes, although I think it's a hideous slimy abomination, because the other Joviana loved eggplant, and I do not want to cause my mother distress and confusion.
I have realized, since then, how subtle he was, when he did what he did then. He guessed how much I wanted someone to replace my grandmother, who had raised me until I was seven, the only real mother-figure in my life, whose loss I had never overcome, and he provided me with a mother—and a tie to Latveria, which ultimately meant a tie to him. It was either manipulative—or compassionate. Perhaps both.
I realized that I was neither clean nor dressed. That had to change. I called back down stairs. I wasn't sure how to relate to the servants anymore. Before, I had always taken the approach that we were all of us in Doom's service, and that keeping the castle clean and running was important too. I never had the authority to give orders, prior to this.
"I need all of my things to be brought from my—my former rooms up to here, immediately, beginning with my clothes. Would you be so kind as to organize that, please?" I asked the steward on the other end of the line.
"Of course, miss. What else can we do to assist you?" He sounded tentative, unsure of my status now.
"When should I expect breakfast to arrive?" I asked.
"In no more than fifteen minutes, miss." That was just about enough time to shower.
"Can you put an extra cup on the tray for my mother? She will be joining me shortly, and she'll need someone to show her up. Please tell security to expect her."
"Certainly, miss."
"That will be all for now. Thank you." I hung up. Well, at least I hadn't embarrassed myself. I went off to take my shower.
That incredible bathroom, like the bedroom, was only more impressive in the light of day. As I got clean under the rainforest cascade, I wondered what the castle staff were making of my sudden elevation. Doom has audio and video pick-ups in every room of the castle, as well as, (as I now knew for certain), even more subtle and sophisticated ways of detecting everything that was going on. But the housekeeping staff was not far behind him in knowing everything, and, unlike Doom, they would cheerfully speculate, exaggerate, and fabricate what they didn't know.
I got out of the shower and into a towel just in time. Breakfast arrived, brought by two maids, one to act as waitress, the other to open doors. The waitress goggled openly at my bedroom; the other girl was subtler about it. Both were perfectly pleasant, while their eyes darted this way and that, taking in details to share below stairs, until they spotted the big green traffic light of a ring on my left hand. Then they became extremely respectful. I was upgraded from 'Miss' to 'my lady'. My sense of unreality increased.
While I ate, my clothing began to arrive, via a mule train of about half-a-dozen maids. Amid that traffic, my mother arrived, as I was spooning up the last of the wild strawberries. (It had been an excellent breakfast.)
She appeared, a silver-haired maternal vision in a rose-pink suit, with a scarf I gave her knotted loosely at her throat, and hugged me immediately, tears welling in her beautiful dark eyes. "Jovia," she said, looking around in awe.
"I know. Momma, I'm scared half out of my wits, and I'm to meet—my lord" (I could not call Doom 'Victor' yet, not even in the privacy of my own head.) "in a little less than an hour for the announcement fifteen minutes later. I have no idea what I should wear."
The dressing room and closets were on the same scale as the bedroom and bathroom in every way, but Doom had not seen fit to provide an entire new wardrobe, for which I was very grateful. That meant I did not have to have another panic attack as I was clothed in whatever new persona he expected of me.
After some debate of the pleasantest kind, my mother and I had agreed on the merits offered by a wood smoke-blue silk dress, which would give my pale skin some color. We also agreed that a hat would be just too 'Princess Di', which meant that something had to be done about my hair.
One of the maids, a woman about twenty years older than I, produced a steamer out of nowhere, and began taking the closet creases out of my chosen dress before I put it on. When she observed me fighting with my hair, she discreetly asked, "My lady, are you aware that there are several cameras being set up in preparation for the announcement at eleven? Apparently it will be going out world-wide on TV and over the internet."
When I looked at her in horror, she said, "I have two daughters. I know something about hair and make-up. May I offer my assistance?"
I could only reply, "Please."
Once she was done, and I looked at the smooth, sleek, dewy appearance I would present to the world, I asked, "Can I conscript you, on a trial basis, as my wardrobe and image assistant?" It had a more dignified sound than 'lady's maid', and to me a 'dresser' is a piece of furniture, not a person. She smiled and said she would be honored.
I was uncertain about simply hiring her like that, because half of me thought I ought to ask Doom's permission, while the other half insisted I was a grown woman and there were some decisions I should make on my own. If he was going to put me in front of cameras unprepared, I needed help. If he said anything about it, I would tell him that I did not want to present a poor appearance, as it would reflect badly on him.
That would work, as the first thing to remember in dealing with Doom, was that it was always all about him. We are, all of us, the centers of our own private universes; Doom simply requires that others recognize it as well.
And so, at about 10:33, comfortably early, I went forth, prepared…Prepared to meet my Doom. So to speak.
My mother came along, of course. The public address balcony has a 'green room' of sorts, a chamber from which one—all right, from which Doom steps out to address the people of Latveria. Nobody else has cause to use the balcony. But everybody who is sufficiently important watches from that room. Today it was as packed as I had ever seen it. I spotted the bishop there, who I had never seen there before, looking corpulent and puzzled. Now I knew who would be performing the actual ceremony…
I became aware that I was attracting some attention (even without displaying my left hand, and that ring). I don't normally show up for work in long silk dresses; Doom is not one for garden-party diplomatic functions. Nor do I bring my mother with me…I was quite glad to bump into Albert, the Secretary of the Treasury.
Albert Cleary is an expatriate who took Doom up on his job offer after the last presidential election in America, the results of which did not please him. He makes an excellent Treasurer. He is the only black American in the entire country, and he bewilders the youth of Latveria by persistently refusing to dress, talk, or act gangsta. I'm not sure which country this reflects more poorly on—America, for flooding the media, or Latveria, for swallowing it.
"Good morning, Joviana." he said. "Are you in on this one?" He gestured to encompass the camera crew. "All I know is that 'he' told me this is what that big block of undesignated funds in the budget was for." A waitress came past with a tray of champagne glasses; she put them on a table, and the wine steward went to work on them.
"Ye-es." I admitted. "But I can't clue you in. You've met my mother, haven't you?"
"Yes. Nice to see you again, Mrs. Florescu."
"Likewise…" They chatted while I looked around. I noticed Boris beckoning to me from the window seat, and excused myself.
Boris is a full-blooded Rom, or Gypsy. He normally goes around in shabby, baggy old clothes. He's an elderly man now, and rather creaky. He's Doom's oldest retainer in both senses of the word—he is the oldest, and has been in Doom's service the longest. He's functionally illiterate, bathes at most once a week, and has only nominal duties.
But woe betide the official who crowds Boris on the stairs, or speaks slightingly of him, or sneers at his wretched old clothes, for Boris was the friend of Werner Von Doom, father of Victor Von Doom. When Werner Von Doom died, he left his son in Boris' care. Loyalty is another of Doom's virtues.
Today, Boris was wearing fresh, new looking clothes, a black suit and a white shirt, without a tie. That meant this was a special occasion indeed. He beamed at me, and took my hand in his, squeezing it firmly. "He told me. Well, he said months ago he wanted you for his wife, but he had to get the house ready first. I told him it was a grand idea. His parents wouldn't have wanted him to keep on like he has been, and I won't live forever, you know?" he said softly, keeping it just between us.
"Thank you, Boris." I replied. "That means more than you know." If I had any residual doubts as to Doom's motivation, Boris had just dispelled them. Although he might play with the lives and minds of anyone else, Doom would never deceive Boris. I did not have to worry about being set up as an assassination target, or worry about being sacrificed to some Lovecraftien thing from Beyond.
Then Doom entered, and everyone bowed or curtseyed as their gender or garb dictated. He nodded his approval, and then his eyes sought and found mine. A blushing bride is considered charming; I'm not sure what the opinion is of one who goes beet red, as I did.
"My loyal subjects…Know that today your monarch chooses to favor you by announcing to you, before the news is spread to Latveria and the rest of the world, that, in consideration of my own personal happiness, and for the good of the state…I have determined to take a wife. Last night, Joviana Florescu honored me by accepting my suit, and has consented to be my wife." He held out his hand to me; I stepped forward and took it. "The ceremony will be held in one week's time."
Gasps and applause came from the assembly. Then the waitresses distributed champagne around the room, and our health was drunk.
I got through the next quarter of an hour somehow or other, by smiling and blushing and saying 'thank you'. Then it was time for the announcement, which first was made in Latverian and then in English and several other languages for the rest of the world. Then there was a formal luncheon, for which I had little appetite, as I had only finished breakfast a little less than two hours before.
After that, we held a wedding planning session. Actually, it was not so much a planning session as it was an announcement, by Doom, that the ceremony would take place on the audience balcony, as it afforded the best view for the most people. The bishop would marry us, the only two attendants would be my mother and Boris, and then, a wedding feast for the two hundred formally invited guests. The people of Latveria who attended would enjoy a massive ox-roast at night, with plenty of beer, and then there would be a fireworks display.
"But what is to be done with all your guests in the between time?" asked the castle's major-domo. "Some sort of entertainment…?"
"I had not planned that." admitted Doom. He turned to me, and addressed me directly for the first time that day. "Have you any ideas, my dear?"
What I thought was, It's a good thing you're good in bed, because otherwise all of this would be a deal-breaker, but what I actually said was, "A Midsummer Night's Dream. The Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, DC mounted an excellent production this past season, and I know it's the one they're going to be taking on the road. If they can go to Stratford-upon-Avon, surely they can come to Latveria." It was one of my more inspired ideas—an unquestionably valid cultural and artistic event with good international relations and publicity to boot. It would even be educational. (I really would have preferred to have Tori Amos come and sing, but I have a good idea of the limits.)
"A very good idea." replied my fiancé. "See to it." he told the major-domo.
"Very good, my lord."
"I do have a question." The Bishop gave me an acidic look. "Are the traditional vows to be used, or does her Ladyship prefer not to promise to obey?"
That was a loaded question. Every eye in the room was fixed on me, and every feminist bone in my body—and I do have quite a few—braced itself. There was just no way I could win this one. There wasn't. I knew exactly what Doom's position was on obedience. He believed everyone owed it to him, and that most definitely included me. Choose your battles, I told myself. Cross your fingers when you say 'I will.'
Besides, I was really good at getting around the trouble spots in Doom's psyche. He will not tolerate anyone questioning the wisdom of his plans or actions, so of course I never do. However, to correct my own imperfect understanding, and to be sure that I don't, in my ignorance, get something wrong, I do ask questions—just to be sure that I comprehend him. When I think a particular plan is very, very, bad indeed, sometimes I have to become positively obtuse—until he hits on the problem.
Still, I truly did not want to say that I agreed to obey.
Fortunately, at that moment, the Fantastic Four chose to announce their immanent arrival.
A/N: Thank you to all those who read. But Virtual Chocolate Mousse to all those who read and review!