This night, she dreamt of Jacob walking naked across the drawbridge in the moonlight. He walked toward her, continually moving forward under the moonlight, but ever retreating at the same time, as though the bridge were pulling him back at the same pace that he walked. She could see his shoulders in the dream, the gleam of sweat on his chest, his face angling back and forth and side to side with each step, as though he were looking out for something. Lispeth thought, ‘Why don’t I go to him? Why didn’t I ever go to him?’ and she tried to step from under the great entrance of the manor onto the drawbridge, but something was blocking her. First it was a stone that she hit with her foot. Then it was a short wall that she had to climb over, but she couldn’t. Finally she found herself enclosed in a small cell, and she cursed herself for having attempted to cross the bridge at all, because it was her desire to go to Jacob that had built the wall in the dream. She ought to have just waited. God would bring them together, if not in life, then in death at last. ‘Maybe I should throw myself from the same cliff,’ she’d said when Jacob died. But the servants had convinced her that she wouldn’t make it to heaven if she did, that such a sacrifice was in service to herself, not God, and that she would turn into a ghost and live forever, invisibly. The thought of that frightened Lispeth. But she did chew tansy, as it grew rampant in the gardens to keep beetles from the potatoes, and everyone knew that in gross amounts, it could extinguish life, or at least hasten death. If her love for Jacob didn’t die, she would. God would have pity on her eventually.
Marek now stood over her and watched her sleep. He had stripped off the priest’s robes. He was thirsty.
‘Lispeth, I’m thirsty,’ he said.
Lispeth woke, her face screwed into a frown by the sad truth: Jacob was dead, and Marek was thirsty. She got up—not looking at the boy’s naked body, not looking in his eyes, nor at his dirty hands, his grimy, sweaty face—and poured warm water from the jug into his cup and handed it to him. She didn’t ask him where he’d gone or what he’d done. She didn’t express any worry or concern, only rested on the chair and waited for his next request. It came as soon as he had gulped his water and stuck the cup out for more.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘There is duck left from last night. I will fix you a plate,’ Lispeth said, getting up. She looked grumpy. She, too, was hungry.
‘No,’ Marek said. ‘I don’t want meat. Bring me whatever you eat. A small portion.’
‘I eat only cabbage,’ Lispeth said flatly.
‘Then bring me some cabbage.’
‘The cabbage isn’t cooked yet.’
‘Then I will wait.’
Marek drank more water and lay on the bed, filling the space Lispeth had left. He felt the longing in her dream of Jacob like a residue: something was being pulled away but was yet right in front of him. It was his father, he thought. His whole life, Jude had been right there, but Marek could never reach him. Poor me, he thought. Nobody loves me. And he was right. He began to cry.
Let him cry, Lispeth thought. She believed then that he was crying over his tiny hunger and the agony and martyrdom of waiting for the cabbage to cook. What a baby. She didn’t get up from her chair. She couldn’t cook the cabbage now anyway. It would ignite a great anxiety among the servants to think that their stock of food was being crept upon. The morning light was dim through a crack in the curtains. Lispeth was tired.
‘I went to Lapvona,’ Marek said finally between his tears. ‘And I found my father. He was dead.’
‘Your father is in his chambers,’ Lispeth said. ‘He’s had trouble sleeping lately. And so has the priest, I hear.’
‘My real father,’ Marek said. ‘Jude.’ And in saying his name aloud, Marek was suddenly a little more grown, as though the name carried with it the strength of the man himself. He felt his jaw strain, widen; his brow got heavy and drawn. It was all imagined, of course. He appeared just the same to Lispeth, who rolled her eyes at his emotion.
‘And how did Jude die?’ she asked.
Marek wouldn’t tell Lispeth. He could see her hatred. It came through in her pallor and her limp hands. She didn’t even care enough to fold them properly in her lap. She couldn’t be bothered to lift her chin when Marek was speaking. In the company of Villiam and Dibra, or even among the other servants, Lispeth’s posture was very different. She had a spark in her eye, a quickness to her step. Alone with Marek, she was slow and grouchy, kept her gaze blurry and evasive, as though it would make her sick to look directly at him. Her disgust showed in her narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. Lispeth and her cabbage, her sourness, and her judgment. How could Jacob have liked her so much? Marek wondered. She must have glittered under all his gold. But she would not glitter for Marek. He was too humble, he supposed.