Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [362]
“Ah,” said Cyprien. “If not the mistress, why not the maid?”
He gave Daspir a shove that wrenched the sore spot behind his shoulder blade, though he knew it was meant for encouragement. Indeed it was to him, Daspir, that Zabeth beckoned. As he approached, she melted into the doorway. With scarcely a tick of hesitation he stepped into the narrow passage. But Cyprien must have misconstrued the situation, for there was a man with her, another of the house servants. He closed the door behind Daspir, and beat the heavy iron hook into its eye with the heel of his hand. Now there was no light at all, and Daspir felt a quick thrust of alarm. He could smell the other man’s sweat alongside his own odor (of which he was suddenly, uneasily conscious), and the woman’s sweeter, muskier scent, all mingled with the persistent smell of burning. Zabeth brushed his fingers and he moved in the direction of her touch, no longer afraid, though the other man was still somewhere behind him in the dark. He balanced himself with one hand on the roughly plastered wall.
Then they were climbing the tight turning of a stair. The man’s voice said something indistinct from the lower level where he had remained, and there were other voices vaguely audible from elsewhere in the house, and a peal of Isabelle’s laughter. Above the stair there must have been some ghost of light, because he could see the fabric of Zabeth’s dress, stretching rhythmically over her haunches and her undulating back. The dress was pale yellow, he remembered from when she’d served the coffee tray in the salon, but in this darkness he could not have told the color.
She opened an inner door, and Daspir stepped through it, feeling a curtain brush over his arm and shoulder. Zabeth’s fingers were outlined in a red glow. She had lit a candle in the cup of her hand, and now set it down beside a bed that almost completely filled this tiny chamber. Daspir’s shins were nudged into the bedding, while his back was against the wall. From beside the door Zabeth surveyed him, swaying a little from her hips. Her smile was bright, amused, like her eyes. The yellow dress brought out the dark luster of her skin. The dress was demurely buttoned up to her collarbone, but Daspir’s eyes caught on the rounds of her breasts swelling into the fabric, and his breath caught in his throat.
Zabeth clicked her tongue and Daspir, startled, met her eyes. Was it up to him to reach for her? She let out a husky laugh, then slipped out under the curtain, leaving him there. He heard the tap of the door closing. More distantly, Isabelle’s voice rose for a moment, the light, bright tone of her parlor chatter.
Daspir looked about himself. This was no maid’s room, certainly. The furnishings were far too rich. The wall hangings were real silk, his fingertips verified. And then? His heart punched hard into his ribs and he drew a long breath to quiet it.
With an odd feeling of stealth he undressed, a little hindered by his arousal, and stowed the roll of his clothing in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. The sheet was of an extraordinary cool smoothness when he slipped under it. What means it must have taken to create this luxury here—and how had it been done, so soon after the fire? Even under the sheet, Daspir felt an uneasy sense of exposure. Perhaps it would be better to put out the light.
In the darkness, the whole extent of his day from dawn to darkness and on to this moment came rushing up at him. Despite his excitement, he was soon asleep.
Dream covered him with the body of Paltre’s dying horse; the animal galloped over him with all its weight. Hot blood poured burning over his loins. He struggled and bucked upward, unable to free himself. The animal had the torso of an