Page 4 of Burying Venus
‘Why give it to them?’ Dermot said. Immediately his curiosity was met by chimes of laughter.
‘My motivations don’t concern you. Do as I ask and be glad your task is a simple one,’ the boy said. He thrust the vial into Dermot’s palm amidst loving caresses before shutting his fingers tight over glass. ‘I won’t keep you all night.’
Dermot watched the faerie disentangle himself. He couldn’t imagine how he was perceived, lying naked from the waist down.
‘What is your name?’ Dermot blurted.
The boy already had his back to him, retreating into the forest. ‘Maldred,’ he said.
Chapter Three
Trudging through the halls with Will, Dermot clenched his fists. There was nowhere to look. The walls were barren, the only paintings in the entire castle being portraits of Lord Stanley and his forefathers, or tapestries of beasts strung across the dining room designed by a man who had evidently never seen the creatures in his life. He gritted his teeth again. After days of scrubbing chamber pots and disembowelling animals by way of their rectum, Dermot felt the vial heavy in his pocket. The bishop was coming to sup, and his mind was hazier than he could ever remember it being.
‘Say, we haven’t really talked much in the last few days,’ Will said. Dermot could feel eyes boring into him. ‘What have you been up to?’
There was nothing to discuss. Their days were comprised of simple drudgery, something Will knew well enough. It made talking a chore; all they had were monotonies to be repeated.
‘You know, I overheard something last night. A rather interesting titbit about a certain someone. If you’d care to listen,’ Will said.
Dermot shrugged. ‘Go on then.’
‘Well, after I cleaned up from an exertion, I had to pass the grand staircase. I heard two distinct voices, Lord Stanley and Aubrey. They were shouting back and forth. It’s a wonder the whole castle didn’t hear. Poor Aubrey. He’s always so soft-spoken.’
The fire beneath Dermot’s skin was lit. The body he imagined under him each night, though lately his partner took a different form; black hair turned ashen blond.
‘What were they arguing about?’ Dermot asked. He could barely muster the enthusiasm Will wanted.
‘The bishop’s dinner tonight, of course. Lord Stanley said Aubrey doesn’t show the bastard proper courtesy, that he brings shame on the family. I can’t imagine what he meant,’ Will whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘Aubrey said he couldn’t help it, that the bishop was just as bad. That didn’t go over well.’
Dermot looked away, fingers brushing against the bulge in his pockets. Lord Stanley’s affairs weren’t his concern.
‘But I’m sure you like that he’s got some fight in him, don’t you?’ Will laughed. They were nearly in the kitchen, and a joke that should’ve left Dermot fumbling turned him cold.
The two of them entered together, and Dermot thanked any magic that existed for it. They were late. Will, ever the favourite, won them a glare and not much else.
‘The cockentrice,’ Béchard said with utmost seriousness. ‘I’ve already scalded the bird and piglet. I wouldn’t trust any of you when it comes to cleanliness. Your nations don’t know a damned thing about it.’ He huffed and looked pointedly between the two creatures. ‘Dermot, we’re in need of your strength for the pig. Stephen, you’re cutting the chicken, and Will, you’ll run for the needle and thread from Mrs Aisling.’
As if slicing through the wisp on the table required strength. His was best served in fantasy, enjoying Maldred with the stamina won from years in service.
‘Why are you standing about? Get to it, Dermot!’ Béchard shouted. He was off to the side, close enough to observe the butchery. No doubt armed with a litany of abuse should they stab wrong.
Approaching the piglet, Dermot seized the knife. He hadn’t known himself to be so hazy, fragments struggling to coalesce into one complete thought. The knife was all he had to steady himself, and finally he brought it down. The tiny body collapsed,yielding like butter underneath his attentions. With the lack of force required, it was likely it’d been snatched before suckling the sow that bore it.
‘A good cut, Stephen,’ Béchard commented. He said nothing to Dermot, which was tacit approval. If something had gone awry with the butchery, Béchard would’ve boxed him round the ear. ‘And William, stop that malarkey and get in here with the thread.’
Dermot jolted as Will came to stand next to him. He hadn’t seen him come in. Something was amiss, that was for certain, but simple lust hadn’t made him act out before.
‘Will, get to threading.’ Béchard turned to face Dermot and Stephen. ‘The yolks, you sorry bastard. And you, Dermot, I expect some initiative from a man who’s been working for so long in my kitchen and has more than half a brain in his head. Or do I have two invalids on my hands?’
As usual, Béchard enjoyed Will’s shenanigans, and he was fair in his treatment of Stephen. But when speaking to Dermot, his voice belied an antipathy that couldn’t be made sense of.
They’d stitched corpses together before. Lord Stanley and Aubrey’s brothers enjoyed it immensely. Not for the taste, of course, but the sheer absurdity of it. Whether it was simple desecration or the pains taken to create it, Dermot couldn’t say, but the sadism was the same.
‘Salt, suet, saffron, Dermot! Sans ton père, je te battrais. C'est ce qui arrive lorsque les peuples se mélangent.’
Dermot rushed to the shelf without another word. When the bastard started speaking his native tongue, there was bound to be trouble. Imported from France, though how Lord Stanley tempted his pets, Dermot couldn’t guess. Anyone fool enough to come to the island made a mockery of those born to it.
He grabbed the suet only to find a giant handprint etched into it. The saffron, salt, and ginger were all within arm’s reach, andthey kept the breadcrumbs in an affected box Béchard brought from his homeland. He couldn’t guess where the spices were from, no one would say, and the flecks had always alluded him.