‘Let’s see the culprit,’ Villiam said finally.
Marek picked up the chunk of meat and held it up for everyone to see. It dripped with strands of bloody saliva.
‘Very funny,’ the priest said.
Marek watched the nun, who was breathing heavily and rubbing her knees. She was a strange creature, small and pink, her hair as vibrant as a torch. Marek had once had long red hair like hers. Lispeth had cut it. ‘Red hair is a sign of wickedness,’ she had said, tugging at him with the knife. But Jude had always assured Marek that red hair had the highest value of all human hair. ‘A few drops of blood from a red-haired man turns copper into gold,’ he had said. ‘And your piss can cure diseases if you boil it right.’ Marek knew he wasn’t wicked. His hair was just the same shade of red as the nun’s. She had small, green eyes, like Marek’s. Her hands were long and freckled, like Marek’s. He watched her bite a twist of bread. Her teeth were strong and yellow like Marek’s. Her chin was soft. He watched her drink, saw the flesh of her throat pulsate as she swallowed. He felt his own throat and swallowed. It seemed to move similarly. The consistency of her flesh had a pure, flaccid quality like his. And her eyelashes were long and orange. Her lips were purplish. Her ears were large with swollen lobes.
Once Villiam caught his breath, he thanked the nun, promised her fine hospitality as long as she cared to stay, and then went on eating, a bit more carefully this time, engaging the priest in a long discussion of hell, its landscape, its economy, what kind of house the Devil lived in, how he managed his servants, and how he had escaped into the realm of Earth. And then he asked, as though he might be serious, ‘How long will God keep heaven’s gate closed? Hypothetically speaking.’ Then he chuckled. And then he frowned. ‘Honestly, Father, how much longer until the heat backs down?’
‘A few more months, probably,’ Barnabas said.
Dibra shook her head. ‘Maybe if you let some of the water go, let the rivers flow, it wouldn’t be so hot.’
‘It’s not my fault it’s hot,’ Villiam said. ‘Am I a god? Do I control the weather?’
‘You’re controlling the water,’ Dibra scoffed.
‘And you?’ Villiam pointed a lamb bone toward Marek. ‘What is your prediction for next week? Hot or not hot?’
Marek didn’t answer. He was busy staring at the nun.
‘Let the sister nibble in peace, Marek,’ Father Barnabas said.
Marek looked around. Could they not see the resemblance? Villiam sucked the marrow from the lamb bone. The priest spooned more herb sauce on his plate and coolly took a sip of wine. Dibra frowned and chewed. Marek turned away and looked down at the pool of wine on the plate. He could see his face reflected by the candlelight.
‘What’s your problem?’ Dibra asked him. Marek couldn’t answer.
Dibra took his look of shock for forlorn narcissism. Jacob had been much the same way, consumed with his reflection. But Jacob’s self-obsession was mysteriously internal, as though he were troubled by his own soul, and he could see it in his face. Marek’s face was, to Dibra, void of anything mysterious, like a mask over nothing. A curtain covering a blank wall. Still, recognizing the familiar adolescent angst made her miss her child. If she could speak to Jacob now, what would she say? Would he even listen? He had never cared what she said while he was alive. He never spoke to her as though she had a mind, but like something to operate, like a clock or compass. She hadn’t minded Jacob’s self-centeredness. She admired it in him, actually, felt that she could take part in it as he was so beautiful, so brave. He’d had all her best qualities. His narcissism was, to Dibra, an expression of his love for her, as well as for himself.
‘Sit up straight, Marek,’ Dibra barked.
Marek sat up straighter and bowed his head. He saw that wine had dripped down the front of his shirt. He covered it with a hand across his heart, a gesture that the priest misread.
‘The boy got a fright,’ he said dryly.
‘He’s a good boy,’ Villiam said. ‘Loves his father. I’m all right. I’m all right,’ he said and coughed a little. ‘No, no, I’m all right.’
* * *
*
After dinner was cleared away, Marek and Dibra went up to bed, trailed by Lispeth and Jenevere. Petra took the nun to Jacob’s old room, which had been prepared as a guest room for the singer from Krisk.
Now that they were alone, Father Barnabas and Villiam spoke more frankly.
‘I will tell Klarek to increase security around the manor perimeter,’ Villiam said. ‘We mustn’t give the appearance of weakness now. We don’t want to tempt the Devil. Or Ivan, for that matter.’