“Is she here this summer?”
“Yes. Aspen and Finn are as well.”
Conversation wound down after that, and once my dinner was finished, he took the tray and bid me good night. After pulling on my obscenely soft pajamas, I turned out the lights and sat on the spacious windowsill a while, staring out at the purple sky. My attention was drawn down to the woods momentarily when I thought I saw a flash of a brilliant white light issuing from the tree line. Focusing in on the area, I waited to see if it happened again, but it didn’t, so I opened the window, took a deep breath, and once again was lost in the ache that rose up when I was alone. I was better now, but when things went south with Charles, I was truly an abject mess. My mom used to say that usually when I thought I was mad, I was actually just hurt. And I was hurt—deeply hurt—but when it came to Charles, couldn’t I be both?
We used to go to this Russian bar on the Lower East Side that served flavored vodka in little crystal decanters. We’d sit inside for hours, the lighting soft and warm on winter nights, and we’d talk. On those glorious evenings, time seemed to expand, as if the world around us had stopped and there was nothing but laughter and a deeply joyous calm. In the aftermath of the rupture, I was sick with the loss of that friendship. It sounds cliché, but it genuinely felt like losing a part of myself. You read about heartache, when people say they can’t sleep or eat, and I always thought,Yeah yeah yeah, but you still eat, like, breakfast and snacks and stuff, right? You still sleep, like, at least five hours, right?But it turns out clichés are clichés for a reason. Food repulsedme. I cried so much and so fiercely that I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed some days. And the nights were somehow even worse. When I closed my eyes, all I saw were the happy times, the person I used to know, the sense of being whatever the opposite of alone is. But here I was again, alone. Perhaps that was just my fate.
As I sat in the windowsill, I poked at those emotional wounds like a tongue running over an aching tooth, and no doubt I would have gone on like that for hours, but then I saw that light again. Out in the woods, it flashed unmistakably, a series of beats. Morse code? I was just leaning out to get a closer look when a single terrible howl rose up, a monstrous pained growl that drifted out over the trees and up toward the pale moon. I pulled away from the window, stunned.
My mind immediately went to werewolves, though I knew that was ridiculous. My research was getting to me. It was a dog, that was all, and I had gotten way too used to the city. I closed the window and drew the curtains. Climbing into bed, I turned out the light, and before I could even take in a breath, it was as though the room suddenly dimmed. Confused, I tried to reach for the light, but to my utter horror, I could no longer move my limbs. Inside my body, I stretched and strained, but outwardly, I remained totally immobile. I couldn’t move a muscle. Trying not to panic, I did my best to take deep, steady breaths. I’d read about this state—sleep paralysis. It was a common phenomenon, no more than a parasomnia in which waking states and REM states overlapped, resulting in the cognizance of wakefulness with the normal muscle paralysis associated with deep sleep. It would pass eventually. I just needed to ride it out.
However, as I lay there, unable to control any part of my body—except for my eyelids, which, curiously, I was able to openand close at will—it soon became clear that understanding the science behind the disorder did nothing to relieve the visceral terror of actually experiencing it. No wonder people throughout history equated it with demon possession. It really felt like there was some demonic force holding sway over me. It truly was unnerving. I didn’t believe in witches or demons, but if I had grown up in a culture that gave credence to such things, I would have been close to losing my mind with fear. The truth was, there was something about the experience that simply feltwrong.It felt malevolent.
I was doing my best to stay calm when once again that terrible howl rose up. It was deafening and I closed my eyes against it.
When I opened them again, I was outside.
Cool evening air brushed against my cheek as I stared around in horror. With a cold shock I realized I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. Just a moment before, I had been in bed dreaming, but now I was fully awake, standing outside on a garden path in the dead of night. Trying to get my bearings, I realized I was on a brick walkway on Hildegard’s grounds, not far from the main house. How I had gotten down here, though, was anyone’s guess. In front of me stood a blue-and-white cabana, the blues turned to shadow by the waxing gibbous moon. The sign above the door read:DR. ISABELLE CASIMIR.
Around me the night seemed to beat, a thick blackness that throbbed despite the clarity of the starlit sky above. I stared straight ahead at that door, feeling a terrible compulsion to go toward it. My heart raced and my brow was sprinkled with sweat. As if moved by some unseen force, I walked toward it and turned the handle, but it jarred, the door firmly locked.
Somewhere far off, an owl screeched and terror shot throughme. I knew with every fiber of my being that I had to get out of there. I bolted up the path back toward the house, where I found a set of French doors standing wide open. Apparently this was how I’d gotten outside, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember opening them. I hurried inside, careful to lock up behind me, and then crept upstairs as quietly as I could.
Once inside my room, I locked the door and got back in bed. Had I seriously started sleepwalking? How was that possible? To sleepwalk, one must fall asleep, and I was absolutely certain I hadn’t fallen asleep. The room had seemed to dim, but I’d never lost consciousness. I’d been awake the whole time. Hadn’t I?
I’m not sure when I drifted off, and although I must have dreamed, it seemed instead that I was consumed by a velvety darkness. From within that darkness, I was aware of an onslaught of strange noises as if something large were moving just beneath my window—heavy legs, labored grunts—but when I awoke just after dawn, I found the terrace completely empty, save for a pair of blue swallowtail butterflies that landed on the balustrade momentarily before flitting away again.
1.3LYCANTHROPY
The Were-Wolf is a fearsome beast. He lurks within the thick forest, mad and horrible to see. All the evil that he may, he does. He goeth to and fro about the solitary place, seeking man, in order to devour him.
—MARIE DEFRANCE, TWELFTH CENTURY
I didn’t want to disturb anyone, so I spent my first morning at Hildegard up in my room doing some light reading and feeling generally positive about life. It was true that my uncharacteristic bout of sleepwalking had left me uneasy when I’d first awakened, but as dawn bled into a heavenly morning, I began to feel alive with possibility. I couldn’t stop thinking about Casimir’s relic. Thirteen figures and a two-faced god—it seemed very likely that this could reverse popular opinion of Murray’s work and vindicate my own. Of course it would need to be authenticated, but I had a feeling deep down that we were dealing with the real thing here. I just had to get my hands on it.
The possibility of the relic meant that my dissertation had taken on a decidedly more exciting tenor. Suddenly my lot in life had gone from pitiful to potentially important within the span of a few months. It was a reminder, I supposed, that the wheel of life is always turning. Apexes swiftly plummet to nadirs, but nadirs never need trap us for long.
Once I heard stirring downstairs, I wrapped up my work andbegan readying myself for the day. After brushing my teeth, I tried to make myself look presentable (academic presentable, which isn’t saying much), slipped on some shoes, and headed out into the hallway. Downstairs, I stood mesmerized by the daylight view out the grand French doors that opened onto the terrace. The sky was the color of a tropical sea, and nasturtiums and bougainvillea dripped from trellises just outside.
Finding myself alone, I took the opportunity to poke around. Until I knew more about Casimir, I had to assume that the artifact could be anywhere. As quietly as I could, I started down a narrow hallway. When I came upon a room with a piano in it, I slipped inside and looked around, scanning shelves, looking on every surface. Satisfied it wasn’t in there, I returned to the hall and walked until I reached what appeared to be an old-fashioned flower room. There was a large counter, a deep sink, and a surplus of glass cabinets filled with vases, but nothing else of note.
“Feeling better?” Dorian’s voice came from behind me, and I whipped around to see his smiling face.
“Yes. Thankfully.”
“Come in to breakfast, and once you have eaten, you can get to work in the archives.”
I followed him down the hall and into a formal dining room, its walls painted a vibrant blue. A silver coffeepot sat atop a long, intricately carved oak table. Cups made of delicate porcelain were set near a basket of fresh pastries. I poured myself some coffee, grabbed a croissant, and sank into a high-backed wooden chair with a deliciously soft blue cushion. The croissant was warm and fluffy, with a wonderfully buttery lightness.
“Professor Duarte may join us. She’s finishing up some work, but she’s eager to meet you. Everyone is,” he said, sliding into a chair kitty-corner to mine.
“So you live here alone?”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “My father is the chancellor. I’ve lived here since I was a boy.”
“Nice if you can get it.” I gazed out the window at the bright blue sky beyond. “And the campus looks amazing. I’d love to get out and explore.”
“I’ll make sure you have a tour of the grounds this morning, and then we’ll have lunch with the others.”
