Of course it was too good to last. He was there when I fell asleep, but I woke up alone, and this morning, there was no note on the bedside table, nor any other messages—no voice mail, no phone call, no e-mail. Nothing.
It left me feeling…used.
I added it to the growing list of things to bring up with him at some point in the near future—the question of children, what my new role was going to be, whether or not I was going to promise to obey, was love a part of this relationship, and now this…I could only see that list growing longer. I had thought about bringing up my concerns the evening before, but the dinner had been so perfect, so beautiful that I had not wanted to spoil it with a single fractious word. Only the worst bitch would have done that. The need to have it out with him remained.
However, at that moment, I was planning the wedding cake with the castle's pastry chef.
"Fruitcake." I said. "It's as traditional as you can get, but not made with glazed or candied fruit—dried fruit only. And no plum brandy, either. Let's have it be non-alcoholic."
"Very good, my lady." The man made a note. "Marzipan?"
"Yes. And fondant rather than buttercream, as it won't melt in the heat."
"Fondant…And the decorations?"
"There are such things as edible gold and silver leaf and dust, aren't there? And edible pearl powder, spun sugar, and such. Make it…Make it look as if it were made by a jeweler and that it belongs in a display case with guards on duty. I leave the exact design to you; I know that the result will be wonderful, because I know your work."
"Thank you, my lady." He sounded gratified.
Little did I know that my instructions to the pastry chef were a foreshadowing of what was to come. After he left, I went to the study window and looked out.
I could see a great deal of the castle yard from that vantage point. A man was getting out of one of the non-gas rental cars. He was accompanied by two chunks of muscle that had 'bodyguard' written all over them. Two of the castle security guards had the situation under control; apparently he was an expected visitor. The man then removed a rolling carry-on from the car. It seemed to be fairly heavy. The little group soon went out of my sight as they drew nearer the castle.
I thought little of it, lost in my own thoughts as I was. I didn't want to manipulate my way into getting the answers I wanted. I wanted to speak openly and honestly about what I thought and felt. I wanted to discuss it as two adults and two equals. I had never thought of myself as less than Doom's equal. He, on the other hand, considered no one his equal. That might prove to be a problem…
Perhaps it would be best to wait to bring up my concerns until Victor was out of his armor.
I realized suddenly that I had thought of him as Victor, rather than Doom, for the first time. After last night, it felt very natural.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. An aide told me that the Master requested and required my presence in the Russian drawing room.
The Russian drawing room was called that because of the collection of Russian enamelware that was displayed prominently there. Doom—Victor—no, Doom had several dozen examples of the finest works of the 19th century Russian goldsmiths, vases, bowls, plates of gold and silver, covered in layers of vivid translucent color. They were to cloisonné what Monet's 'Water Lilies' was to a paint-by-numbers kit.
I saw the bodyguards from the car waiting in the hall, and when I entered the drawing room, I was not surprised to find their client examining a vase with rapt fascination.
"Good morning, my dear. Thank you for joining us so promptly. This gentleman is a representative of the firm of Harry Winston…" He performed the introductions, and the three of us went next door into a conference room.
I recognized the name of Harry Winston. It was a jewelers' firm that was always lending jewelry to actresses for the Oscars and other awards shows. If I was ever going to have a red-carpet moment in my life, it would be the day I married Doom, so having the right jewelry for the occasion made sense.
The conference room had dark wood paneling on the walls and a wide table surrounded by leather chairs. More than a dozen suede jewelry cases, perhaps as many as twenty, were arranged on the tabletop.
"Please have a seat, my dear." Doom held the chair for me, and told the representative, "Two sets. There is to be a reception gown as well as a wedding gown, I understand."
"Yes. I was talked into it. I wonder if that might not be overdoing it…"
"Oh, no, it's quite the done thing." the jeweler assured us.
He began to open the cases and pass them to us. The next half hour was rather fun, actually. I thought some of the pieces were positively vulgar—there was one that reminded me of a can of fruit cocktail, and others weren't particularly bridal. Three sets in particular caught my eye, however.
One was from the 19th century, a necklace (which came with a frame so that it could be worn as a tiara, the man pointed out) which looked like a branch from a wild rose bush. There were five roses on it, the largest of them placed at the front and center, simple, five-petaled roses, thickly encrusted with old-cut, or rose-cut diamonds, set in white gold to make them look much like white roses as possible. Some of the diamonds were quite large. The branch itself, with its stems, leaves and buds, was yellow gold, and set with emeralds sprinkled everywhere, like rain-drops. There were matching earrings, made like a pair of smaller roses, to go with it, and it even looked good on me. That one was definite.
It was hard to choose between the other two. One was pearls, a very modern triple-strand choker, two strands of which were large pink pearls with smaller black-grape pearls in between, and the strand in the center was reversed—large dark pearls and small pink ones. They were bound with a platinum and diamond slide, which had three strands of pearl fringe finished with platinum and diamond tags. It, too, had earrings, and a triple strand bracelet as well.
The other was an Art Deco era set. A long, smooth teardrop of emerald hung from geometric diamond and platinum links that formed the chain, with earrings and bracelet to match.
Seeing my indecision, Doom said to me, "You can always decide on the day itself."
"Can I?" I asked. "It's hard to choose jewelry to go with a dress that doesn't exist yet."
"Certainly, my dear." He said to the jeweler's representative, "All three."
The man expresses both his and his firm's pleasure at being able to be of service, begged to be remembered in the future, whisked the rejected sets back into his carry-on, and took his leave.
"There is a safe built into the north wall of your bedroom, behind the Rosetti. The combination may be simple—it is the birth date of the person who sent in a note at the New York embassy three years ago—" by which he meant my true birth date, which only he and I knew—" but the lock is not."
I was trying the tiara frame for the rose necklace, attaching it with as much care as I could. "Thank you. I'll sleep much more comfortably if these are locked away, and more comfortable still when he comes back for them."
There was a long moment of silence. Then Doom said, amused, "I did not expect coy, false protestations on your part about how I shouldn't and you couldn't—indeed, I would have been disillusioned if you had made such puerile utterances—but your cool, blithe, academic interest—I see by the three small creases now forming between your eyebrows that the truth is dawning on you. These jewels are my gift to you. It is gratifying to know that you can be so mistaken. Your modesty reveals itself yet again."
I could feel the blood draining from my face. "These must represent a lot of money," I forced out. "More than a nice house with a big yard?"
"More than several houses with yards. Now that you know that these will be yours permanently, do you want to look again? I'm certain he would be only too happy to be called back."
I like jewelry—who doesn't? But this wasn't jewelry—this was too much money to put into something that could get lost, broken, stolen. And I had other, more heartfelt reservations about owning things that were so costly.
"No—I'm not being coy, and I'm not being false—but I can't accept these. It would be immoral."
"Immoral?" The amusement was gone, replaced by icy steel. "How so?"
"It has never seemed right to me that some people should own so much—when there are children in Malaysia making less than seventy cents an hour manufacturing sneakers."
"And what if there are? I am taking the bread from no-one's mouth by purchasing these trinkets, nor do you by accepting them. I relieve you of the charge of falseness, as I doubt you voluntarily could turn the color you are at present, but I do not care for the stance you are taking. I find it foolish."
He was angry—genuinely angry. This was the Doom the whole world knew.
I thought fast. I had forgotten the first thing—It is always all about him.
He was continuing. "You will accept them, you will wear them, and that will be the end of it."
I had to salvage the situation. My objections and refusal had injured his pride. I managed a watery smile. "Of all the things to have our first disagreement over!" I said. "Forgive me. I spoke without thinking it through first."
"That much is clear." he replied. He seemed—disproportionately angry.
Why was he so open, so playful—even tender—the night before, and so angry now?
"I will accept them. I will wear them. It's just that I find both your generosity—and my change in circumstances—a little overwhelming at times." Which was putting it very mildly. How could I reconcile conscience to accepting this gift? "Only—promise me, that if there's ever a budget shortfall, or an emergency, that you will accept them back, and sell them?"
"If it were anyone but you who implies such a circumstance were possible, I would not tolerate it. That will never happen."
He was very angry now. What was wrong with him? For that matter, what was wrong with me? I had been so good at turning his rages into more constructive channels, but that was before I had gotten so close to him.
"Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything—I'm only thinking that I would then be the custodian of these, for the people of Latveria—as the monarchs of England are the custodians of the Crown Jewels." I was tap-dancing through a mine-field…
"Seen in such a light, I will concede it is different. Very well. But do not try me further."
I left. It felt more as if I escaped.
I had three jewel cases which were weighing me down, and I could feel a headache coming on. I went back to my suite, where I surprised about half a dozen of the younger maids. They were inspecting my rooms. When I opened the door, I heard their chatter.
"It's a very big bed."
"Well, he's a very big man."
"Oh, Sophie, can you imagine?"
They dissolved into giggles. I closed the door behind me with a click. Two of them were actually bouncing on the bed. One was playing with my laptop.
"M-my lady!" stammered one of the girls on the bed. I recognized the waitress who brought my breakfast trays.
"Yes." I said. "Please get down." I was very quiet when I said it. I never want to become a shrieking harridan, like my birth mother.
"Of- of-course." They were red-faced as they descended the little stairs. "Forgive us, please."
"Are you signed in under my name or yours?" I asked the girl who was sitting behind the desk."
"I'm—I'm sorry, my lady."
"Right." I said. I was being perfectly calm. I could hear more voices. I opened the door to the dressing room. Three girls were going through my closets.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you." I said, carefully. "but I would like some privacy. Perhaps you might come back at another time?"
They all froze in their places. One of them dropped the dress she had been holding against herself, the ivory silk from the night before.
"Please pick that up." I said. She fumbled for it, and put it away hastily.
"If you could join the others in my bedroom?" I asked.
When all of them were lined up, with their eyes cast down, flustered and embarrassed, I inquired, "Were you assigned to some duties in here today?"
"No, my lady. I'm sorry." said the waitress.
"I see. Please do not do this again." I may have said please, and my voice was soft and low, but I made it a command, not a request.
"I—we won't, my lady."
"Thank you. You may go. I am going to tell the head housekeeper about this, with the instruction that you are not to be punished or reprimanded this time. Don't let there be a next time."
"There won't be!" "Thank you, my lady!" and similar statements followed them out the door.
I locked up the jewelry. I definitely had a headache now. I did not like having servants…
I went into the bathroom to get some ibuprofen and water to wash it down. I glanced in the mirror as I filled a glass…and saw my face, but the expression on it was not mine—my reflection was smiling at me nastily, while my own face was, I knew, sad at that moment. The Joviana in the mirror smoothed her hair, while my hands were on the glass and the faucet. It wasn't me—it was an intruder, with super powers!
"So, you're the bride." she drawled, in American English. "Who'da thunk it?"
"Who are you?" I asked her.
"I'm Malice, baby. And I am going to ride your body on out of here." She lunged for me, surging out of the mirror to grab me by the throat. I felt no physical touch at all. She was intangible.
"Giddy-up." she said, as my consciousness faded under the onslaught of her psychic powers. She flowed into my mind like liquid, displacing me. My last failing thought was a hope that my headache really hurt her.
A/N: Next time, Joviana, who has no super powers, no magic, and can't take on dozens of ninjas like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, is in a lot of trouble…
Hello! (Hope FF isn't reading this) Julietsdaughter! Actually, I've been thinking about a possible pregnancy, too. The question is when...