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I paused and traced the line of her jaw with my thumb. “No, I mean it.” A flicker of surprise chased away the fire in her eyes.
"Have you seen a baroque pearl?” I asked, my finger resting on the corner of her parted mouth. “Its irregular curves possess a beauty that a perfectly round pearl can never compare to."
“Are you certain about that?” A slow smile curved her lips, dangerous as a serpent’s uncoiling. She parted her lips wider, letting my finger slip in.
“Indeed,” I breathed. The world narrowed to the press of her rose-colored mouth against my skin. My touch grazed the edge of a pointed canine. My voice was a whisper, barely audible in the charged silence. “They reflect a wildness that is a part of you, a part that makes you undeniably Carmilla."
“How poetic,” she murmured around my finger.
Carmilla bit down, and I sucked in a harsh breath. Her bite was sharp, a quick pinch of pain that faded almost instantly, leaving behind a burning ember of awareness. Her bite didn’t pierce the skin, but the implication hung heavy in the air – a mere suggestion of what she could inflict if she chose.
She retracted her lips from my finger. Her bite left an indentation on skin, a brand etched in heat, marking me for her own. My forefinger stung from the press of her teeth, throbbing in time with the pounding of my heart.
And then her lips touched my cheek, soft as a fallen petal, but beneath the tenderness lurked a shadow. Like the kiss of Judas.
Chapter 4:
The flickering candlelight danced across the silver cutlery, casting shadows that snaked across the white tablecloth. We had settled ourselves at dinner – my father at the head of the table, my governesses at his left and right, flanking him like, and Carmilla directly across from me.
“Let us say grace.” Madame Perrodon clasped her hands. “Heavenly Father, bless this food, and bless our friends and family who've come to dine with us today.” She did the sign of the cross. ”In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Amen,” I recited, noting that Carmilla didn’t join in with us.
During dinner, she barely touched her plate, the roast quail growing cold under her indifferent gaze. But her eyes flitted towards a basket overflowing with late spring bounty and landed on a pomegranate. Its skin blushed a deep crimson, hinting at the ripeness within.
“They’re the last of the season, from our orchard,” said Madame Perrodon. “Do help yourself, Miss Carmilla.”
“Thank you.” With a swift, graceful movement, Carmilla tore into the fruit. A burst of ruby-red seeds spilled forth. She dug an elegant finger into the flesh and clawed out the seeds nestled within the white membrane. She brought her wrist up, and her tongue darted out to catch the rivulets of crimson.
Under the table, my fingers curled. At the carnal beauty of it, at the unadulterated desire as she devoured the fruit; how the pale ivory of her skin contrasted against the vivid red. My gaze lingered on Carmilla’s stained lips, her pomegranate-mouth. Eve was sorely misled by the serpent’s apple. Surely, it was the pomegranate, the forbidden fruit, that held the true temptation.
“I fear I have some unsettling news.” My father set his cutlery aside, his voice heavy. “There's been another one.”
My spoon clattered against my bowl, and cold dread coiled in my stomach. The air grew heavy, the silence thick enough to slice with the dull knife in my hand. We all knew what he meant.
“Who is it this time?” I asked.
"The baker’s daughter from the village. Same languishing symptoms as Bertha, same fevered dreams."
Carmilla sat hunched over her plate, picking apart the ruby red seeds of her pomegranate. Her full lips, usually curved in a playful smile, were pressed into a tight line.
"It seems unnatural,” said Mademoiselle De Lafontaine. “Like something from the old stories, curses and malevolent spirits."
"You are an educated woman,” said my father. “Don't speak of such ridiculous things.”
"We mustn't dwell on such gloomy news," said Madame Perrodon, her voice tinged with a forced cheer. "Have you heard about the masquerade ball that Lord Caspian and Lady Thalassa are hosting next week in the town over?”
"A masquerade ball?" I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “My cousin Artemisia mentioned it in a letter I recently received from her. She is to attend with her mistress, Lady Viola Voltaire.”
My father cleared his throat, his disapproval a familiar weight in the air. "Isn't that rather frivolous, considering the circumstances?"
“A touch of frivolity might be just what is needed,” said Madame Perrodon. “A chance for people to take their minds off things.”
Even if it was just an illusion, like the masks they wore.
“I quite agree.” Carmilla's hand brushed mine under the table. "Imagine, a night where identities are hidden," she mused. "Where you can forget who you are, what burdens you carry, and simply...be."
