Dark Splendor (22 page)

Silvia slumped to the stool at the dressing
table. Powders and perfumes held no interest for her for this was a
night she hoped would soon be ended. A flurry of fears and
uncertainties assailed her as she rested her face in her hands,
wondering if she dared refuse to go down. When a knock sounded at
the door, a startled gasp issued from her lips.

“Come in, Vivien,” she said weakly.

Vivien entered, looking like a gaunt witch
dressed completely in black. Her little eyes narrowed
contemptuously as she stared at Silvia’s pale face.

“You look a fright,” she said coldly. “It
won’t do. There must be color in your cheeks.” Rifling through the
drawers, Vivien found and opened a crystal jar of rouge. She
applied it to Silvia’s cheeks, and when she was done, stepped back
to view the results. “Yes,” she murmured, recapping the jar. “That
is better. You must be perfect. Tonight you must be perfect.”

Silvia’s lids came down swiftly over her
eyes. The time had come. She started to stand, but Vivien placed a
restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Wait.” Vivien reached deep in her pocket
and withdrew a large black jewel case. The leather-bound box was
scrolled in gold and bore the Schlange crest on top. “You must wear
this.” She maintained a stern expression as she opened the case and
reverently lifted out an emerald necklace, carefully placing it
around Silvia’s neck.

Silvia’s voice was suddenly absent and her
heartbeat quickened. The piece was breathtaking. Vivien fastened
the catch and stepped back. Two golden serpents circled Silvia’s
neck, their backs set with hundreds of tiny, sparkling emeralds.
The heads intertwined in front to form the setting for an emerald
as large as a robin’s egg. The stone was a deep, fiery green and
had transformed her colorless gown to pale gold. She suddenly knew
the reason for her simple attire, for nothing could compete with
the magnificence of the necklace.

Silvia rose slowly, feeling as if the stone
had drawn her into a strange, misty dream. Her lips parted softly
as she stood staring at her image, mesmerized by the brilliance and
beauty of it.

“It is the Cerastes Stone, named for the
serpent and given to each new mistress of Serpent Tree Hall.”
Vivien’s voice was a low whisper. “Once worn, it is said to make
the wearer fertile and desirable, to assure a child within a year.”
Vivien, too, seemed to be under the magical spell of the emerald.
She spoke so softly Silvia barely heard her next words, but she did
not fail to note the haunting sadness in Vivien’s face. “My Magda
called it the serpent’s tears. She said the stone was cursed. And
indeed it brought her endless sorrow.” With a shrug of her
shoulders, Vivien’s voice faded away.

Silvia shivered and her fingers trembled as
she touched the stone. A serpent’s tears should feel cool, but the
emerald seemed to have a heat that warmed her skin. When she peered
in the mirror, her face had taken on a glow, as if it were lit by
the fire of the Cerastes Stone.

“Welcome, my dear.” The dining room was
filled with flowers, the air unbelievably rich with their potent
perfume. Silvia thought at once Schlange had filled it with symbols
of life to mask his own frail mortality. Indeed he had succeeded to
a degree, for he looked much more alive and animated than she
remembered.

Schlange waited at the doorway for her. He
stood, aided by a wooden cane and the strong arm of Odin, who
towered behind him like an obsidian pillar set there as a reminder
of the power wielded by a wizened old man.

Her lips quivered. There seemed no suitable
reply. The ever-present fear and dread stirred inside her again as
she paused for a moment at his side. Vaguely she was conscious of
Schlange reaching out to take her hand and of him weakly looping
her arm in his. The cold press of his fingers had a numbing effect
on her skin, and as he guided her along, her blood seemed to turn
cold and thick in her veins. She could see other faces far across
the room, but they were blurred by the mistiness in her eyes.

“You do justice to the stone, as I knew you
would.” He laughed faintly. With that he was pulling her along
toward his place at the head of the long table. They crossed the
floor, a strange threesome, Schlange like a macerated sorcerer
flanked by a black giant on one side and a sad, captive princess on
the other.

Silvia was grateful for the merciful
blankness of her mind and the dulling of her senses. She only
faintly heard a scraping of wood as chairs drew back, a clicking of
heels as the three men stood, and a rustling of silk as Martha also
rose. For a moment she was almost overcome by the absurdity of what
was taking place. As she walked beside Schlange, she could feel all
their eyes staring at her like sparks thrown from a raging fire.
All at once, her strength lagged and she fervently wished she could
disappear into the flashing shadows cast by tall tapers set in
candelabra at either end of the table and in golden wall sconces
around the room.

Instead she lifted her chin proudly and
straightened her shoulders as Schlange halted his odd procession.
He meant his announcement to be ceremonious and he had brought her
in like a trophy on display.

There were no whispers, merely four blank
faces and eyes intently drawn to her. She saw Martha’s eyes widen
and a flare of color stain her cheeks and throat. Martha’s gaze was
fixed on the Cerastes Stone. Silvia could almost feel the stone
pulsing at her throat as the emerald caught the movement of
candlelight from the tapers. The stone, like a living thing, spread
an aura of mystical green light from its virescent, depths. Roman
too saw the necklace and quickly looked up, meeting her gaze.

She saw the question, the accusation in his
eyes. He knew the meaning of the Cerastes Stone and it was like a
lash to his bared flesh. A moment later his expression was one of
anger and loathing and his eyes were no longer fixed on her face.
Silvia’s hands trembled as she clasped them tightly together, and
then she too quickly looked away, turning her attention frantically
to the others.

Surprise registered with Morgan and Eric,
evident by a flick of the eyelids and for Morgan a slight parting
of the lips. It was he who first acknowledged her status with a
slow, spreading smile. Eric merely continued to stare frankly, but
more in astonishment than rudeness.

Stunned, Martha nudged her brother and
hissed, “The necklace. She’s wearing the Cerastes.”

Eric silenced Martha with a sharp glance and
turned politely to his uncle. His voice came, controlled and
tolerant. “Uncle, you promised a surprise. Instead you have
delivered a revelation. Are you about to tell us you have taken a
bride?”

Silvia’s skin felt dry and papery, as if the
heated flush rushing to her face might burn it to cinders. Beneath
her discomfort she was conscious of the seething rage in Roman’s
eyes, the curiosity in Morgan’s, and the thinly disguised
viciousness in Martha’s pale orbs. Schlange tightened his grip on
her arm and shook with the sound of a feeble laugh.

“No, Eric.” He stood erect, bold, summoning
the hidden vestige of strength from deep in his enfeebled body.
Briefly his carriage changed, energy flowed through his veins and
lit his face with a vigorous glow. “Though you are not far from the
truth.” He drew Silvia forward a step, never loosening his clawlike
grip on her elbow. “Raise your glasses!” he commanded.

They obeyed, lifting their stemmed crystal
goblets high in the air. The glasses were like prisms filled with
golden wine, catching the light, throwing a pattern of colored
beams over the table, beams that heralded the dreaded announcement.
Silvia’s head spun like a top; she felt as if there were ice inside
her skin. Had it not been for Schlange’s grasp on her arm and
Odin’s threatening presence behind her, she would have run from the
room. Perhaps into the woods, perhaps into the ocean, preferring a
cold, wet grave to what was to come.

Schlange’s mouth curved into a salient
smile. His voice came low and solicitously. “You must pardon my
secrecy. My illness was not a matter I had counted on, and I would
have this done no other way.”

“Then do not bait us any longer, Uncle. Out
with it.” If there was an unnatural sound to Morgan’s voice, it was
slight. He held his glass forward, his eyes vividly curious.

“As you wish,” Schlange responded
emphatically. “I bid you toast the new mistress of Serpent Tree
Hall, Silvia Bradstreet Schlange. The wife of my son.”

It was inevitable that they comply. Wilhelm
Schlange was lord of his castle and all therein. Without hesitation
glasses clicked, wine sparkled, and voices murmured
congratulations. Emotions and true feelings were quickly hidden
beneath a cloak of good manners and deference to an uncle on whom
all their fortunes rested.

Eric spoke first, proposing they all voice a
toast to the bride. Silvia crushed down her feelings of panic and
at the prodding of a black look from Schlange forced a tremulous
smile to her lips.

Eric was by her side, easing her away from
Schlange. His arm went about her shoulder, warmly guiding her to a
spot at the far end of the table.

“My toast, dear cousin,” he said boldly.
Eric took her hand, squeezed it more than was required, and touched
the back of it softly to his lips. She saw a growing look of
admiration in his downcast eyes before he saluted his cousins and
turned back to her to offer his toast. “Silvia.” He squeezed her
hand again. “I welcome you to my home, my heart, and my family.”
Eric drank his wine quickly, draining the whole amount away and
then bowing, held the glass out until a servant stepped from a
doorway to quickly pour a refill.

Silvia muttered a polite but faint word of
thanks. Morgan was next and crossed the room to stand beside her.
Her spirit wavered but she knew from the set of Wilhelm’s face she
must play the part and feign a bit of shyness.

Morgan was not content with a kiss to the
hand, but instead put his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissed
both her cheeks. If she had wanted a lesson in perseverance, she
would have it this night. She longed to drink the entire glass of
wine, several. Anything that would lessen her misery and drown the
mounting bitterness in her heart.

Schlange looked pleased and Silvia
determined she would not let him see her buckling to the raw hurt
of the injustice he had done her. She threw her head back proudly,
her eyes challenging the resentment she felt filling the air.

Morgan spoke boldly, making his toast: “The
sea flower has become the island rose, may she bloom with
happiness, good health, and contentment.” He raised his glass. “To
Cousin Willy and his bride.”

The tumult of her emotions spiraled upward.
The island rose? Was there some hidden meaning in the reference?
Silvia was reminded of the intrusion into her room and the snipping
of a lock of her hair. Had it been Morgan, and was this his way of
telling her he harbored a secret feeling for her? Silvia fretted,
nervously wishing a quick end to what she knew would be a long and
difficult evening.

Martha, whose place at the table was next to
Eric, had come to her side. Martha’s cheeks were still bright but
her eyes now bore a look of interested amazement. Her voice was
warmly gentle; not a trace of her momentary shock remained. She
gave Silvia a sisterly hug and expressed her pleasure at the match.
A truly generous gesture under the circumstances, for Silvia knew
that Martha’s was not an enviable position. It was, after all,
Martha who had acted as mistress of the house and now had been
replaced suddenly and unexpectedly.

“I am delighted to welcome you anew as
Willy’s bride. We now must certainly be great friends,” she said
excitedly. Martha turned and lifted her glass. “To our dear Cousin
Willy, and to Silvia, his bride, an abundance of happiness and a
fruitful marriage.”

Silvia tensed. Fruitful? Martha’s toast
stung like a swarm of angry bees disturbed from the hive. She
blinked back tears that threatened to flood her face. Would they
think them tears of happiness? If only Martha knew the barb of her
innocent words. Strangely enough, she had hit on the very crux of
the situation, and the reminder brought a grimace to Silvia’s
face.

Wilhelm, growing weary, had taken his seat
in the armchair at the head of the table and failed to notice her
look of despair. No doubt he had also failed to note the irony of
Martha’s remark. Silvia released a quivering sigh as a new terror
hit her. Roman’s toast remained to be made.

His wintry eyes found hers. He read the
anguish in her face but would not be deterred by it. He wanted her
to feel the same twist in her heart that he felt when she entered
the room on his uncle’s arm, wearing the Cerastes necklace as
evidence of her position at Serpent Tree Hall.

Silvia felt herself go pale when Roman’s
hands rested lightly on her shoulders. The cold blue eyes regarded
her contemptuously, and beneath his harsh touch, her heart hammered
in her chest and her pulse throbbed wildly. She was near to
hysteria when he spoke.

“I for one believe in giving a warmer
welcome to a bride.” His fingers, resting on her shoulders, felt
like tiny daggers, digging into her flesh, trying to reach her
soul.

Silvia winced. She wondered in desperation
if there would ever be another moment of sanity in her life.

Roman lowered his lips to hers, ignoring the
pain and pleading in her face. His mouth clamped to hers,
smothering the protest on her lips. It was a kiss to punish, to
burn, to remind her of a betrayal, but when it was done he was as
much a victim as he had meant her to be. Roman pulled away, leaving
her weak and trembling and robbed of pride.

He raised his glass and issued the final
toast: “To Willy.” He lifted his glass higher. “And to Silvia.” His
eyes betrayed the contempt he had kept from his voice. “May the
sanctity of marriage prove to be an eternal bond. I toast your
happiness.” He downed the wine in a gulp and with a sudden
tightening of his grip snapped the delicate stem of the goblet and
dropped it to the floor, where it shattered, like Silvia’s heart,
into a thousand jagged fragments.