Chapter 18
1527 Words
Carmichael’s Journal No. 24, 1784
“They were all bathed in blood. The assault had only taken a few minutes. I screamed in rage. Why did they have to rebel?! There were nearly a hundred of them, and I had slaughtered them all because of their stupidity. My father had ordered me to show no mercy, and I couldn’t afford to go against him. Blake had been missing for some time, and I didn’t understand why that made my father feel like that. He was more bad-tempered than ever. I knew my uncle had suffered for a long time from losing Elizabeth. But this mourning was already more than a hundred years old. My father’s anxiety seemed exaggerated to me, and his orders were becoming more and more difficult to carry out.
My gaze fell on a couple in each other’s arms, dead and lying on the bloodstained floor. I didn’t feel sadness but a deep despondency. What was the meaning of all this? Because these people had dared to dissociate themselves from the will of the Master Hand, did they deserve death?
“Lord, we’re leaving,” said Isaiah, the most faithful of my father’s followers.
I didn’t say a word to him and strode over the bodies towards the exit. A scream caught my and Isaiah’s attention. It was the cry of a baby. But I didn’t have time to consider the situation before Isaiah killed the child. I looked away and suppressed the urge to vomit.
“We can go?” Prisca asked from the back of her horse.
My sister passed her hand over my cheek. This contact warmed me. She had been part of my life for only six months, since the day Magnus had brought her to London after having hidden her existence from me for a long time. Meeting her marked one of the happiest days of my life. But that day was far away now. I wish my father hadn’t involved her in his absurd crusades. Admittedly, I carried out his orders enthusiastically at first, no doubt thinking that my cause was right. But the more time passed, the more I felt evil taking possession.
A few hours later, on returning to the tavern, I asked a servant to draw me a bath. Isaiah had left Palestine for London before us, leaving behind his wife Celeste and a few fighting castes. They were all having a beer downstairs with my sister. I went down to join them while the servant busied herself with satisfying my request.
“To Lord Carmichael!” they all cried, raising their pints.
I gave them a bland smile, having no desire to celebrate anything. The image of the dead baby was still too present in my mind. And yet, I had killed many times when I had avenged my mother in Santo Domingo. But I was no longer master of myself that day. I ordered a pint and watched my friends. Celeste gave me a look that said a lot about what she thought of her husband’s absence. I responded to her gaze and developed my magnetic power in her direction. A futile desire to avenge myself on Isaiah for the act he had just committed crossed my mind.
I went upstairs. The tub was filled with hot water. I removed my dirty clothes and immersed myself. It didn’t take more than five minutes for Celeste to join me. She undid the laces of her dress and let it slide to the floor. Then, she tackled her corset. She made a seductive gesture and released her long brown hair. She was beautiful, but something was disturbing about her charm. I knew who she was and what her character was. She wasn’t a good person. But, at that time, I didn’t care. I invited her to approach with a gesture. She took off her shirt and, naked, immersed herself in the water, placing herself on top of me. I put my hands on her hips, helping her to move for my pleasure. Her little cries made me think she had never known anything like it. I wish I could say the same. My taciturn mood didn’t ease, so I became more and more passionate. I picked her up and then got out of the tub, slamming her hard against the wall and no longer holding back my charges. The fire had seized my being, and a taste of hatred spread in my mouth. I was no longer myself.
“So is it exciting?” asked Connor, who had just crossed the hall.
I jumped up and pulled myself out of the images imprinted in my brain with difficulty. I was sweating and in a bad mood, like Carmichael when he wrote these lines.
“I’m more and more uncomfortable,” I replied.
“Sorry?”
“Immersed in the intimate memories of Carmichael, I find it indecent, and some passages are chilling.”
“And yet, you don’t stop.”
“Yes, that’s true. It takes me out of this place and feels like I’m living history. It’s strange.”
“Strange?”
“I feel like... I don’t know...”
“You can see and feel what you read?”
“More or less, yes.”
“I knew it! You have the power of projection.”
“What?!”
“Your paternal grandmother, Adriana Panchak, had that power. It’s an exceptional gift. You can project yourself into people’s memories. If you touched my head now, I could see everything you saw or felt while reading the pages of the memoir.”
“But what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a rare form of telepathy. I was sure of it. When we first made love, you touched my head, and I saw images of your past. You were on horseback alongside a young man. You ended your run in a forest and had s*x under a weeping willow. You projected these images on me without realizing it. Do you hear Carmichael speaking when you read his memoirs?”
“Um, yes. But it’s the dialogues that…”
“There aren’t any.”
I stared at him in amazement, then opened the diary in my hands, turning the pages quickly. No dialogue. How was it possible?
Connor’s fearsome smile gave way to a look of startling intensity, despite the sadness that seemed to have taken hold of him. His features seemed to tense with deep sorrow.
“I miss you.”
Surprised, I stood there, dazed by this declaration and his latest revelations about my supposed power of projection. Trying to pull myself together and think more calmly, I watched Connor. Did I ever really understand him?
“It’s up to you to get me out of here,” I said.
“Will you come back to me if I agree?”
My response was silence.
“How did you find Pia?” he asked, obviously wanting to change the subject.
“She’s lovely.”
“She’s adorable. I love her. And she makes me laugh.”
A new silence. After my reading, and given its content, I had no desire to continue this strange conversation. Carmichael’s mood had rubbed off on me. Maybe Connor was right.
“I have to leave for a few weeks.”
This news didn’t affect me, and the disappointment in his eyes confirmed that he was saddened by it. He put a hand on the window. I looked down.
“Isabelle… I’m not lying when I told you that I fell in love with you.”
I looked up. In other circumstances, I would have smiled at him and thrown myself on his neck, kissing him passionately. But in this context, how did he think it would affect me? Still, a feeling in my chest gave me away. I got up and went to stand in front of him.
“You’re not in love with me, Connor. No one would do such a thing to the one he loves.”
“We’re not no one,” he said slowly, “we’re immortal. These months will only be a brief moment of the rest of your life. One day you’ll understand.”
“That doesn’t allow you to lock me up here!”
“Except if I don’t, you’ll never be mine.”
“You’re wrong. It’s because you do this to me that I will never be yours.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Your obsession with power is driving you crazy, Connor!” I said, banging my fists on the glass. “Don’t you see that? You’ll die if you persist in your madness.”
“No,” he said, suddenly furious, “I’m not crazy.”
“Look what happened to your father. Carmichael and my mother will kill you!”
“Carmichael won’t do anything to me. He’ll agree to abdicate, you’ll see.”
“Connor,” I pleaded.
He backed away, removed his hand from the wall and cut off the intercom. Before leaving, his lips moved, and I could read the words: “I love you, princess”.
- Writer
