The Fall (19 page)

‘Repeat,’ he said.

I blew air through the pipe onto the coal and filled my lungs yet again to let the drug wash through my eyes and brain. I kept it in, watching him eyeing me. After a minute, my lungs screamed for fresh air.

While I watched him preparing another smoke, I noticed how my senses seemed to expand. Memories of my childhood came back, things I thought I had forgotten or simply put aside as unimportant. How our garden smelled just after the snow had melted, how the sun painted small prickly lights onto the patches of grey slush and made them look pretty again. My chest heaved a sigh and my hand wandered to my stomach, marvelling at the beauty of touch and the caress of expensive velvet.

I sensed his smile before I turned my head. His face and the smoke exiting his nostrils was the last I saw before falling...

…down. I stood next to my cottage, my bare feet in the green grass. Soon, the summer sun would peek over the hilltop and dip trees, meadows, and cottages into streams of golden light.
 

The rich breakfast of four eggs and porridge would have to suffice for the next six hours. In the tool shed, I placed the scythe on the anvil’s nose and started beating the blade’s edge with a hammer, moving it slowly along the anvil to force the edge thinner and thinner without any loss of tension in the metal.

After working it with a whet stone, I fastened the blade onto the handle and stuck the bow onto it. The black scythe with its silvery edge was now so sharp I could shave my neighbour’s beard off.

The sky began to pale, announcing the rising sun. I walked to my field where the rye was high and ripe.
 

I aimed the first sweep. Upon contact with the blade each stem burst open, producing a popping noise. Hundreds of small blasts unified into one long rough smack with each gash I made.
Smack!

The rye fell in a semi circle around me.
Smack!
 
At the end of each swing I tipped the scythe just enough to pour all of the stems into an even bunch.

Two hours later, I took a short break and drank water from my pouch. The sun was now standing two hands above the hill. Sweat ran down along my aching spine. It was good pain; it meant I was healthy and working hard. My scythe felled the rye, smack after smack, row after row, until the sun stood high above me. While I bound the rye into sheaves and stacked them upright on the field to dry, my former life took hostage of me once again. Memories of the woman I had killed, her haggard face and her tired eyes. Every day I scrutinised myself — did she beg to live or to die? Was there a difference between euthanasia and murder?
 

I found myself and Moriarty in the exact same position. Strangely refreshed, I sat up.

‘How long have I been sleeping?’

‘Two minutes.’ His voice was calm, and the low hum of it crawled under my skin.

‘It felt like…’

‘Much longer,’ he interrupted. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Like myself, but…bigger.’ I had to laugh. ‘That wasn’t the right choice of words, obviously.’ My voice sounded oddly relaxed, and my mind felt very sharp now. I knew with utter precision how tall the ceiling was, how far away the roof or any wall in the house, any tree on the premises.

‘Don’t you find your lack of apprehension curious?’ he asked. ‘This is the effect of opium when taken in small doses. It opens your mind. Rids you of useless preconceptions. How does that feel?’

‘With you next to me — interesting, but threatening.’

‘Good. I wouldn’t want to dull your mind. Only… free it, as I said already.’ His eyes intense, he reached out, offering me his hand. ‘Dance with me.’

I placed my hand into his again and he pulled me up. My legs still feeling foreign to me, I tested their functionality while he crossed the room to the gramophone. A scratching noise preceded a change of music.
 

To this day I can precisely recall what was being played, although I had never heard it before and never have again. I can still feel his hand on the small of my back and the counter-pressure of his chest and stomach against mine. And the burning it caused, despite the softness of the touch. He led me as he led everything else — with skill and authority, while never taking his eyes off mine. My mind and my senses filled the room, enveloping us, knowing precisely what would happen and that I would survive and he would not. And as he leaned closer, dipped his cool lips onto mine and let his breath flow over my face and neck, I fell deep into my darkest place where a dead woman was looking up at me, reminding me that I was her murderer and not the least bit better than the man who held me. I let my lips be conquered, pressed closer to him, and at last understood the entire impact of opium and why men could not withdraw from it. The utter completeness of knowing and sensing took my breath away.

He straightened up, smiled, and took my hand into his yet again. He kissed my knuckles, then led me upstairs. At the door to my room we stopped. I started vibrating. So soon? He opened the door for me, kissed my hand, and wished me a good night.

Alone now, I sat on my bed, trying to piece together the contradicting information. The game had started. Or had it not? He had enticed me, seduced me, then stopped and retreated. Why? Did he guess my plan? Surely, he must know I wouldn’t suddenly be fond of him? But
what
precisely was his plan? Why the retreat? That knowing smile?

Groaning, I rose and pressed my forehead against the cold windowpane. All these questions itching on my tongue and I could not ask a single one. Instead, I had taken one step closer to a man who might destroy me.

I watched the dogs play and then it hit me. He wanted to confuse. There would be no visible path. He would take detours where I wouldn’t expect them, shortcuts where I couldn’t see them. By starting this intimate relationship, he would make sure I could not infect him with a deadly disease without risking my own life. But could he not guess my recklessness? Did he not see that he was in danger, too?

I lay down on my bed, but sleep would not take me away from reality. Soon, I would be much closer to Moriarty than any woman should ever get.

The Opium Poppy (9)

— day 64 —
 

I
didn’t know where to put my hands. Behind my back, on the windowsill, or clenched at my sides. Then came the dreaded knock. Cecile and Hingston entered my room. The older woman carried a dress, the younger a wooden box embellished with carvings and mother-of-pearl inlays.
 

I started undressing, the small buttons suddenly reluctant to slip through their holes. I willed myself to breathe slowly. There was no way out. And, after all, I was being silly.

Moriarty had asked for my company at the opera tonight. He couldn’t know that music was like the sirens’ call for me. It made me soft. With him at my side, softness was equal to weakness. Swallowing the clump of foreboding, I stepped out of my dress.

‘Fetch the water and the tongs now, will ya,’ ordered Hingston. Cecile set the box on the chest of drawers and left while the older woman showed me the dress. It was made of elaborately embroidered burgundy silk — something I could never afford, nor even put on without the help of a maid.

Upon Cecile’s return, the two women moistened my hair and flattened the curls with hot iron tongs, then rubbed my face with lemon juice and washed it off again. They plucked my eyebrows and applied creams and perfumes from Madame Rachel’s. A piece of long and shiny black hair was clipped to mine and elaborately braided and pinned. I wondered to whom it had belonged, whether she had children to feed, and whether her hair had grown long again to be sold once more.

Even though I had no fat to be pressed from the ugly places to the pretty ones, Hingston strung the corset very tight. Then, both women pulled the dress over my head, buttoned it at the back, and laced my boots. With a nod and a timid smile, Cecile handed me gloves, hat, and cloak.
 

Lungs restricted from too-tight clothing and heart tittering, I went downstairs. When I saw Moriarty waiting in the hall, I had to force my feet forward. The sound of my heels on the stairwell made him turn.

‘Astonishing’ he muttered as I reached him. I noticed the slight reddening of his throat just above the cravat, slowly spreading upwards to his cheeks.

He offered me his arm and this time I took it, smiled and said softly, ‘You do not seem to value your neck or your arm very much.’

His eyes flashed and he suppressed a laugh, obviously enjoying the game of cat and mouse. We walked down the marble stairs, where he opened the door of the waiting brougham and helped me in.
 

I sat next to the window, gazing at the London I once knew. The lamplighters climbed their ladders to light the lanterns, the warm shine caressing flecks of melting snow. We passed busy streets bustling with life huddled up against the cold. We shot through dark and narrow alleys, disregarding people in rags, the old, the sick, the poor, all jumping out of the shiny brougham’s path, all looking at us, trying to catch a glimpse of wealth.

I closed my eyes, remembering the stink of the slums, the smell of home. St Giles, London’s worst rookery, now seemed like my long-lost paradise.

‘The Lyceum Theatre,’ Moriarty informed me as the carriage came to a halt.
 

With my hand in the bend of his elbow, I walked up the stairs to the building. A tug made me lift my gaze.

‘Professor,’ called a tall man clad in dark blue and black, silvery hair sticking out from underneath his hat.

‘Marquess, Marchioness,’ he answered with a hint of a bow. The female accessory must have been at least twenty years younger than the man she clung to. Moriarty stepped forward and kissed her gloved hand. They exchanged pleasantries; it was obvious that she was well-bred and excellently trained. But what else was to be expected?

‘Anna, please meet my dear friend, Marquess Seymour-Townshend and his lovely wife Marianne.’ His voice carried a soft warning, as he added, ‘May I introduce Miss Anna Kronberg.’

I stepped forward and offered my gloved hand, which was taken gingerly and almost touched by the Marquess’s lips. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance,’ I answered without complimenting her on her clothing or him on his choice of bedmate. Moriarty’s back stiffened a little. He did not look at me, but the other two did and somewhat expectantly. After a short moment of disappointment, the breach of etiquette was wiped away with a crisp, ‘Well, my dear friend, shall we go inside?’

We were led to our seats. People were chatting all around us, an ocean of noise while the Marquess whispered into his wife’s pearl-adorned ears. Moriarty and I were left in awkward silence. As the heavy curtains were drawn he bent closer and said quietly, ‘I do hope you will enjoy this extraordinary piece. Verdi’s
Otello
, performed by Francesco Tamagno.’ I felt the heat rising in my face from the contact of lips and earlobe, and knew it had neither escaped his notice nor his liking.

Only a minute later I learned that Tamagno was Europe’s greatest tenor. It mattered little that I did not understand a single word of Italian; my heart was aching over intrigue, love, and despair. Tamagno’s all-embracing voice reverberated from the walls, the seats, and even the audience, uprooting my soul and tearing at my aching heart. In the fourth act, as Otello killed the woman he loved, I trembled so severely that Moriarty finally noticed the torment. He watched me while I tried to control myself, but the music was impossible to shut off. It seeped into every corner of my being; the emotions Tamagno conveyed to his audience seemed to hit only me. Everyone else was listening solely with their ears, it appeared. As the curtain fell, I heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

Moriarty took my elbow and led me outside, apologising to our company and explaining that I was not feeling well.

Unspeaking, he led me to the brougham and helped me in.
 

‘My sincere apologies,’ I said quietly, feeling ashamed of my over-reaction. ‘I did not mean to spoil the evening with your friends. Considering their leaving for America tomorrow, I must have upset you greatly.’