I put the book down, a chill rippling through me. The cushion I’m sitting on isn’t green, and it definitely isn’t torn—for the kind of prices people paid to stay here, I doubt anything that isn’t pristinely Shabby Chic is allowed. But the view from the window does look over the lawn, and the lawn does eventually become trees, and past those, I can make out the tops of a few buildings.
This is Italy, though, not the English countryside, and the description isn’t super specific. Still, looking at the view from this window and reading the view described in the book, I keep imagining Mari Godwick sitting in this same spot almost fifty years ago, a notebook on her raised knees, scribbling down the story that will one day become one of the most famous horror novels in the world.
I lift the book again, ready to read on, and as I do, my eyes drift to the windowpane.
And there it is.
I put Lilith Rising back on the cushion, leaning forward.
At first, it just looks like a flaw, a smudge even, but I reach out and touch the corner of the pane with my finger, tracing the shape etched there.
Not a V.
An M.
MARI, 1974—ORVIETO
“Do you like it?”
Mari sits at the end of the bed, her cotton floral nightgown sliding off one shoulder as the last note Pierce played seems to hover in the air between them.
He’s reclining against the headboard, guitar cradled in his lap, his hair a wreck, and Mari thinks she’s never been more in love with him. Not even that first night he kissed her in the back garden of her father’s house.
By then, he’d admitted that he was married, and she had known that this was wrong and probably headed for disaster. But she hadn’t cared.
And in moments like this, when it’s just the two of them in their perfect cocoon, she doesn’t regret any of it.
“It’s gorgeous,” she tells him now, crawling forward on her knees and placing her hands on either side of his face. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
Pierce smiles, leaning in to kiss her softly. “You think everything I play is gorgeous.”
“Because it is,” she replies, and then she’s scooting closer, wishing the guitar weren’t between them.
Luckily, Pierce must want the same thing because she hears the twang of the strings as he places it on the floor, and then his arms are around her, their bodies pressed close.
Italy has been good for them, just like she’d hoped. A bedroom at the end of a long hall, not next to anyone else, no worry that Lara could hear them from her spot on the sofa on the other side of the thin walls of their flat. A comfortable bed, and time. That was the thing Mari craved the most, the thing she felt she and Pierce never had enough of, had never had enough of.
From the very first, every moment had been illicit and stolen, and while that had been exciting, she’s grateful for the luxury of togetherness.
“I’ve missed you,” Pierce murmurs against her neck, pushing the strap of her nightgown down, and she presses her forehead to his.
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
He looks up at her, his eyes so blue in that pale and serious face. “Have you?” he asks.
She knows he’s talking about Billy. How losing their baby turned her into a ghost for months on end. But that memory belongs to cold gray England, not to this sunny bedroom in Italy, and she pushes it away even as she pulls Pierce closer.
“All right now, plenty of time for that later!”
There’s a loud rapping at the door, and Mari looks over her shoulder to see Noel standing there in the doorway.
“It’s not even noon, you heathens,” he says, and Mari scowls at him, pulling her nightgown back up her shoulder.
“Closed doors mean something, Noel,” she says, and he gives one of those elegant shrugs she’s seen so many times over the past few weeks since they arrived.
“Not in my house they don’t.”
“It’s not your house,” she reminds him, but Pierce is already getting up from the bed, reaching for the pair of worn jeans crumpled on the floor.
He’s naked, but Pierce has never been the slightest bit modest. And why should he be when he looks like a marble statue come to life? All pale skin and hard muscle, and Mari’s eyes can’t help but drift longingly over him.
But when she glances back at the door, her face suddenly hot, she sees that Noel is also looking.
He doesn’t even try to hide his interest, his gaze frankly assessing, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
And when he notices Mari watching him, that smirk blooms in full.
Winking at her, he once again thumps the door. “Allons-y, Sheldon! I’m actually in the mood to make music for fucking once.”
Pierce finishes buttoning up his jeans and shoots Mari a sheepish look, pressing a kiss to her forehead before dashing out the door, guitar in tow.
Mari sits in the middle of the mattress, the sheets still warm from Pierce’s body, and wraps her arms around her knees, thinking about that look Noel gave Pierce, wishing the feeling unfurling in her was something as simple as jealousy or irritation.
It’s not, though. It’s something altogether more interesting and complicated than that, and Mari tucks it away, a thought to poke at later.
She showers and puts on one of her favorite dresses, a lilac A-line with a gauzy white scarf around the waist, then heads downstairs, expecting to hear music. She hopes Pierce plays Noel the song he played for her this morning. The melody was gorgeous, and what Noel could do with it, lyrically …
If Pierce could actually produce a song, or several, with Noel Gordon, if Pierce could be a part of Noel’s comeback, their entire world would change. There would be money, there would be opportunities, and there would be that precious commodity again, time. They wouldn’t have to hustle to simply make ends meet, and Pierce wouldn’t have to say yes to every gig on the off chance that the right person from the right record company might be in the audience.
Noel Gordon can do that for them.
But there’s no music playing when she goes downstairs. In fact, there’s no one around at all. She’s standing in the front hallway when she hears a distant shout from outside.
It’s a warm day, the sun blanketing the lawn, and Mari immediately sees the source of the noise. It’s Noel, standing up in a little rowboat out on the pond, declaiming something while Pierce sits on the bench, oars across his lap, laughing up at him.
So much for music, apparently.
There’s a small dock out over the pond, and Mari can see Lara sitting at the end of it, dangling her feet over the murky green water. As Mari watches, Lara calls something out to the two men in the boat, her hands cupped around her mouth, but either they can’t hear her or they just ignore her.
Lara’s hands drop. So do her shoulders just the littlest bit, and Mari feels that tug in her gut, that feeling that she needs to go out there, sit with Lara, make her feel less awkward and alone.
But Jesus Christ, she doesn’t want to.
It had become almost immediately clear that whatever Lara thought her relationship to Noel was, Noel did not see it the same way. They weren’t sharing a room, for one thing, Lara tucked away upstairs with Pierce, Mari, and Johnnie while Noel claimed the largest bedroom downstairs as his lair. Mari doesn’t doubt that Lara still occasionally finds her way into that room and into Noel’s bed, but she gets the sense that it’s more out of convenience on Noel’s part than any real desire.