"One moment!" the impostor called after his wife.
She stopped. "Oh, what is it?" she asked petulantly.
"As I recall, it has been—ten years, perhaps, since you began wearing glamours to enhance your beauty." He told her, taking a couple of strides down the corridor toward her.
She looked worried. "I—I suppose so. What of it?"
"Nothing. I have nothing against it—except that at first it was only when we attended House of M functions—then it was at any public function. It occurs to me that it has been seven years or more since I have seen my wife's natural face."
"I don't think it can be that long." She tried to shrug it off.
"Yet I am sure of it." He was glaring down into her face now, her smooth untroubled face, unmarked by time or character. "I would like to see it."
"Of course you can. A-any time—but not right now. I must go to Kristoff, and make him—make him understand what he has done wrong." She was afraid.
"Singing a different tune now, madam? I will not be put off. Remove your glamours, or I shall rip the magics from you."
"But why?" she asked.
"I have a fancy to see the real face of the woman I have lived with for so long. More, I find I do not care for the illusion—it is too like talking to a mask."
My mouth twitched involuntarily at that. There was nothing he could tell me about dealing with a mask…
"Victor—I'm sorry. I beg that you will forgive me. Only—." Her hands fluttered back to her mouth.
"Only don't make you remove your glamour. Why not? Is your hair disordered, or have you a blemish on your nose? I will overlook it. Now, Valeria." His tone made it clear he would not tolerate any further delay.
"You want to see my face?" she shrieked. "Well, have a look!"
She dropped the spells that preserved her beauty.
She looked terrible.
A woman who is thirty-seven can be a knockout—much more beautiful than she was at seventeen or at twenty-seven. Rene Russo, at over fifty, is the model of what I want to age into—sexy, confident, well-groomed. But it takes work—staying healthy, exercising, eating right, living right.
Valeria's hair, which had been so lustrous, inky-dark and flowing, was grizzled with grey, clumpy, and lifeless. Deep lines were etched around her pinched, unhappy mouth, speaking of greed, anger, hardness. There were squint marks around her eyes, grooves in her brow. Her eyes, bloodshot and livid, had dark circles under them. Her gaze never moved off of him.
Worse of all, her nose was crumpled in on one side—the classic 'cocaine nose-job' of the habitual user.
"Well?" she asked, defiant.
"I see." said the pretender. "Tell me, Valeria—how many of my children died in your womb because you poisoned them?"
"None of them." she said. "Tell me now, Victor—why did you never have your sperm tested? Did you never wonder if it wasn't me—but you?"
This time, he slapped her. It wasn't a hard or brutal one—it was more to shock than anything else. "Go to your son." he told her, and turned away.
She restored that lying face before she went—well, she had her pride.
Once she was gone, he cleared his throat and said, "They are my nearest and dearest." He was silent a long moment.
Then, when I was about to say something, he went on. "They are not what I thought they were. But they are what I have. God help me…You asked me what it was to me where you lived. It is a great deal to me—because with my mother in a coma as she is, and even though I have not yet known you for twenty-four hours—if you go, you leave me alone with them."
I truly felt sorry for him, but only for the briefest moment. I thought of those girls who had ended up in the burn unit. I remembered the one who would never have children because of it.
"I'm sorry. I should not have been here for that. I must go." I finished gathering up the ruined writing samples.
"No!" he cried out, then recollected his dignity. "I am the one who should apologize. You should not have had to witness that. Do not go."
"I have to, now that I've made myself hated by your wife as well as your son. There is no way I can possibly stay here, not when she'll be jealous and suspicious— and when I have no legitimate pretext to stay on here."
"What about the money?" he asked, slyly.
"The money?" I asked, pretending to be more puzzled than I was. If he hadn't brought it up, I was going to.
"Yes. The money I advanced against your ring. You have your ring back—what of the five thousand?'
"I have over four thousand of it left—but that's unfair. You can't mean to say you'd keep me here because of that—?"
"I am a desperate man." he said, ironically, but without any lightness of heart. "You can keep the money—but call it a down payment on your commission. Start the book. For my mother, as a surprise for when she recovers—or in her memory if she does not. Begin with the tale of Koschei the Deathless. Only—do not leave me among the jackals and the harpies."
I let my face show conflict. "It is against my better judgement…but I will stay. At least for a little while."