"Oh, no. We're not wasting this one in the stew pot."
"I'll have to get plantains, of course. And lots of fresh lime."
"Aramat, tell her this one's for the slab. Anyway, she looks awfully stringy."
"Yes, but I can marinate-"
"Just bring the tea, Alma," Miss Aramat says, interrupting the auburn-haired woman. "And sweets for the boy. I think there are still some blueberry tarts left from breakfast. You may call Isolde up to help you."
"But you're not really going to let Biancabella have all of her, are you?"
"We'll talk about it later. Get the tea. The jasmine, please."
And Alma sulks away towards the kitchen, mumbling to herself; Biancabella watches her go. "It's a wonder she's not fat as a pig," she says.
Miss Aramat kneels in front of Dancy, brushes cornsilk bangs from her white-rabbit eyes, and when Dancy tries to pull back, Dead Girl grabs a handful of her hair and holds her still.
"Does she bite?" Miss Aramat asks Dead Girl, points at the duct tape, and Dead Girl shrugs.
"She hasn't bitten me. I just got tired of listening to her talk about her goddamn angel."
"Angel?"
"She has an angel," Bobby says. "She says everyone has an angel, even me. Even Dead Girl."
"Does she really?" Miss Aramat asks the boy, most of her apprehension gone and something like delight creeping into her voice to fill the void.
"Her angel tells her where to find monsters and how to kill them."
"Angels and monsters," Miss Aramat whispers, and she smiles, her fingertips gently stroking Dancy's cheeks, skin so pale it's almost translucent. "You must be a regular Joan of Arc, then, la pucelle de Dieu to send us all scuttling back to Hell."
"She's a regular nut," Dead Girl says and draws circles in the air around her right ear.
The Bailiff laughs, and the armchair cracks again.
"Is that true, child? Are you insane?" and Miss Aramat pulls the duct tape slowly off Dancy's mouth, drops it to the carpet. It leaves behind an angry red swatch of flesh, perfect rectangle to frame her lips, and Miss Aramat leans forward and kisses her softly. Dancy stiffens, but Dead Girl's hand is there to keep her from pulling away. Only a moment, and when their mouths part, there's a faint smear of rouge left behind on Dancy's lips.
"Strange," Miss Aramat says, touching the tip of her tongue to her front teeth. "She tastes like hemlock."
"She smells like shit," Dead Girl sneers and yanks hard on Dancy's hair.
Miss Aramat ignores Dead Girl, doesn't take her eyes off Dancy's face.
"Do you know, child, what it meant a hundred years ago, when a man sent a woman a bouquet of hemlock? It meant, 'You will be my death.' But no, you didn't know that, did you?"
Dancy closes her eyes, remembering all the times that have been so much worse than this, all the horror and shame and sorrow to give her strength. The burning parts of her no one and nothing can ever touch, the fire where her soul used to be.
"Look at me when I talk to you," Miss Aramat says, and Dancy does, opens her eyes wide and spits in the woman's china-doll face.
"Whore," Dancy screams, and "Witch," before Dead Girl clamps a hand over her mouth.
"Guess you should've left the tape on after all," she snickers, and Miss Aramat takes a deep breath, fishes a lace handkerchief from the cuff of one sleeve and wipes away the spittle clinging to her face. She stares silently at the damp linen for a moment while Dead Girl laughs and the Bailiff mumbles half-hearted apologies behind her.
"A needle and thread will do a better job, I think," Miss Aramat says calmly and gets up off her knees. She passes the handkerchief to Biancabella and then makes a show of smoothing the wrinkles from her dress.
Then Alma comes back with a silver serving tray, cups and saucers, cream and sugar, a teapot trimmed in gold and there are violets painted on the side. Porcelina's a step behind her, carrying another, smaller silver tray piled with cakes and tarts and a bowl of chocolate bon-bons.
"We were out of jasmine," Alma says. "So I used the rose hip and chamomile instead."
"What's she doing up here?" and Miss Aramat points at Porcelina. "I told you to call for Isolde."
Alma frowns, sets the tray down on a walnut table near the Bailiff. "I did," she says. "But Porcelina came."
"Isolde was busy draining the corpse," Porcelina explains, and she puts her tray down beside the other. "And I've never seen vampires before."
"Is it everything you always hoped it would be?" Dead Girl purls.
"Rose hip and chamomile sounds just wonderful," the Bailiff says, taking a saucer and two sugar cubes. "And are those poppy-seed cakes?"
Miss Aramat stares at Porcelina, who pretends not to notice, while Alma pours steaming tea into the cups.
"Yes, they are," Porcelina says. "Mary Rose baked them just this morning."
"Delightful. I haven't had a good poppy-seed cake in ages."
"Can I please have two of these?" Bobby asks, poking the sticky indigo filling of a blueberry tart lightly dusted with confectioner's sugar.
"I don't see why not, dear. They'll only go to waste otherwise."
And the sudden, swelling howl from Miss Aramat, rabid sound much too big, too wild, to ever have fit inside her body, her narrow throat, but it spills out, anyway. She turns and rushes towards the red fireplace, stretching up on tiptoes to snatch one of the swords from its bracket above the mantel. Broadsword almost as long as she is tall, but such grace in her movement, the silver arc of tempered steel, that it might weigh no more than a broomstick.
Alma shrieks and drops the violet-dappled teapot and the cup she was filling. They seem to fall forever as the sword swings round like the needle of some deadly compass, finally smashing wetly against the floor in the same instant that the blade comes to rest beneath Porcelina's chin. The razor point pressed to the soft place beneath her jawbone, only a little more pressure and she'd bleed, a thrust and the blade would slide smoothly through windpipe cartilage and into her spine.
The Bailiff stops chewing, his mouth stuffed with poppy-seed cake, the sword only inches from the end of his nose. He reaches slowly for the automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and Bobby turns and runs back to Dead Girl.
The grin on Miss Aramat's face like rictus, wide and toothy corpse grin, and "Biancabella," she says, but already the fury has drained out of her, leaving her voice barely a hoarse murmur. "Remember last winter, when you wanted to do Salomè? Maybe our guests would enjoy the entertainment."
"She'll make a poor Jokanaan," Biancabella says, her eyes on the Bailiff's hand as he flips off the gun's safety and aims the barrel at Miss Aramat's head.