His Dark Queen

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  I was the fourth.   I remember how he walked. Hands clasped behind his back, head held high. I remember every fold of the black suit, the perfectly tailored fabric, the small silver buttons, and the blinding white of the shirt. The gleam of the grucifix embroidered in silver over his heart. I watched greedily. Absorbing his image, etching it onto my retina in case he chose someone who wasn’t me. But that case would never come. Because this is my story, and it’s told by me in my own head, even if only mentally, which means the ending is in my power. At least, I allowed myself to believe that. But what could I do when only one dance remained, and maybe a few words? “Will you dance with me, Eva?” His voice shattered the torpor. I had to mentally spell out my own name to remember: Eva — that’s me. I came alive, put on the mask: chin lifted, eyes half-lidded in boredom — and still wasn’t sure that the ecstatic, cloying adoration gushing inside me wasn’t leaking through the slits. The answer stuck to my tongue, and the tongue fused to the roof of my mouth, a useless, heavy lump of flesh. At least I remembered etiquette. Crossing one foot behind the other, I curtsied and bowed my head. Reverence. That’s what the Sisters called it. And then he took my hand. I remember the softness of the gloved fabric. And the warmth. His living warmth beneath it. We froze in the frame. A delicate, scattering run of keys pierced the silence. I shouldn’t have lifted my gaze then.   In his eyes the world was divided in two. The right one — human, pastel green. The other — steel bleached by a lightning strike. The mark of the Lord, his Father, who had seen the birth of stars and their death. In that astonishing combination lay the history of the universe: the first childish laughter, the weight of centuries-old sorrow, the fury of love for which cities were turned to ash. My soul slipped away, soaking into those colors, leaving only the realization: I am lost without him. Utterly. Irrevocably. The deep moan of the cello tore through the spell. The first bar of the waltz, his step forward — mine back. I let him lead. We spun into the center of the hall, and reality around us dissolved into blinding golden spots. At last, only we remained. Papa pulled me closer. Chest to chest, so tightly I felt the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath the ribs through the fabric of his suit. That meant he did have one after all. There had been all sorts of rumors. I remember being stunned by the closeness. My mind, which I proudly called “sharp”, resembled a broken compass: the needle spun wildly, unable to find north. “You feel it, cara? Thunder that's breaking in your heart?” The question-bow touched my nerves as insinuatingly and tenderly as a stroke across taut strings. His hand on my waist tightened, guiding me into a turn. I arched into his rhythm, and as if by accident let my hip slide along his leg. A brief, forbidden contact. I needed to say something, to break the hypnotic intoxication, not be melting wax on a chandelier, not to be pliable clay in the sculptor’s hands. “You ask that of every one, right?” I answered evenly. I managed it. “Every one deserves to believe in her own exceptionality. At least for the length of this waltz.” He drew me close again, almost robbing me of breath. “But you’re above such illusions, right? You don’t need anyone else’s approval to know your worth.” “Yes,” the words burned from inside and spilled out, “honestly, Papa… I hate this Selection.” His black eyebrow arched questioningly. I went on, driven by some unknown, honest impulse. “I don’t want to be inspected like a pedigreed cat at a show.” Unable to stop myself, I ran my fingers along his shoulder. The shift of muscle beneath dense fabric. My nails dug lightly into the arm. “I don’t want to be chosen. It makes me sick. I want to be the one who chooses.” I watched his face. His pupils narrowed slightly, surprise flashed in them, and then — it wasn’t my imagination — pure, undiluted admiration. A thin, promising smile born because of me touched his lips. “Ambition,” he whispered, leaning right to my ear, “pride, and red hair. A dangerous cocktail. In the old days they would have burned you at the stake for it.” “In that case, it’s good that you’re the one in charge now, Papa,” I whispered back. The organ filled the space with a final triumphant roll, demanding submission, and we turned again. His hand slid lower down my back, to the curve of my hip, pulling hard, stealing my air. Sparks and stinging current at every point of contact. And in my stomach something hot twisted into a tight knot from the closeness. Not ordinary excitement, but a sweet, pulling something that usual touches couldn’t satisfy. “Maledettamente vero,” he said, almost breathing the words against my lips. “My Darkness doesn’t frighten you. That’s remarkable, Eva. That’s… precious.” When the final, fading piano chords hung in the air, I arched my back and threw my head back. Baring my neck defiantly — an illusion of vulnerability, but inside triumph. I held the position. I held the stalemate. He returned me upright but didn’t let go. I met his gaze. “Your Darkness is just another night to me,” I said, fighting the rasp that had appeared. “I’ve survived them all. But now, with you… I think I’m seeing dawn for the first time.” I didn’t even notice right away that the music had stopped. I remember how greedily I studied the dashes in his eyes, the curve of his brows, the coal-black hair. Almost perfect canvas. One strand had come loose, lying beautifully against his face. My fingertips ached to fix it, smooth it back, accidentally brush the edge of his ear. Did he like having his hair stroked? And then everything turned into catastrophe. Papa touched his lips to my hand and stepped back. “Thank you, Eva. Dancing with you was a true pleasure.” His last words. A bow. He turned away. And that tiny world, borrowed for the length of the waltz, collapsed like a Jenga tower, wooden blocks clattering sharply against the parquet. I watched him go. And in my head two neon-blue letters pulsed like the sign above the shop near home.   Him Him Him   The light converged on him like a wedge, piercing straight through my chest. My aurora, morning star, flash of lightning in eternal darkness. I wanted to see him, to breathe him. To possess him. And to be possessed by him. Could I really feel this? Was I even capable of it? I stood there like an absolute fool, all that was left was to start drooling.   The legs that had carried me lightly across the hall turned softer than cotton. I somehow made it to a chair and sank heavily into it. I downed the wine in one gulp, and someone immediately refilled it — an ordinary someone in a black shirt and white apron, face unreadable. Then came the insistent burning. It made me flinch and touch my chest — the pendant under my fingers was almost fire. The skin had already pinkened — a little more and it would have branded me with its mark. Yes, I remembered that they are “special” but it wouldn’t have hurt to mention it. And so I sat on the chair, on burgundy velvet, back to the golden scrollwork, thinking all this while voluntarily locking myself in a photo booth with a single memory, printing the dance frame by frame until the gloss of the paper turned sepia. But unkind reality kept shoving itself into my eyes. The Clementine Hall, already solemn enough, had turned into a grotesque pageant where the Ghouls had taken on the roles of gallant cavaliers. Tall shadows in impeccable tailcoats, whirling the ladies around the hall. That’s probably why there were eleven of them — so no one would be left without a partner. Time and again a hand appeared before me, a silent invitation to return to the feast of life. But dancing felt like sacrilege. Right now I felt like the Ark of the Covenant, no less — to touch me would be blasphemy, and for that they punish with death on the spot. Except my “God” was still shared, he was out there on the parquet.   Unbearable.   So I went into a mental holding pattern. I became a huge cat, pressed my paws to the table, lowered my head, and flattened my ears. I watched, tracked, controlled every gesture. That became my only purpose. Minutes stretched into hours while I, a panther in ambush, followed him relentlessly with my eyes. Then it was Mari’s turn. That scrawny church candle stood before Papa all trembling, enthusiastically sticky like caramel dripping through fingers. The same routine: question, curtsy, and they spun away. Mari opened her mouth and out came only cloying chirping: “Oh, Papa, I am so insignificant before your greatness, allow me simply to breathe the same air as you!” she must have squeaked. “Hush, child, save your strength for words, keep them for my chambers,” he must have replied. Of course I couldn’t hear them, but this pulp melodrama was my only salvation from the urge to hurl that fucking sugar-plum fairy out the window along with her voluminous skirt. It was better to invent stupid, cardboard lines for them than to see him holding her the way he had held me. Rage — a thick, tarry viscosity. It bubbled in my throat, foamed, spread through my lungs, stole my breath. It demanded. It seemed the perfect moment to snap. To lunge, to sink my teeth into her bony neck just for daring to touch what I already considered mine.   “Eva, darling, is everything all right?” I flinched, feeling arms wrap around my shoulders from behind. My knuckles, white on the edge of the table, relaxed. My gaze reluctantly tore away from the figures on the parquet and landed on Daliah as she sank into the neighboring chair. We had barely seen each other all evening. They had been generous with her refills too — her already peach-flushed cheeks now blazed with wine. When Papa invited her she had nearly fainted, but then she danced almost without pause. In that whirlwind, I thought, Daliah had remembered her past. Formal dinners, probably balls at Herlufsholm… A fallen princess granted one night of her old, fairy-tale life. “Your pendant…” I nodded at her chest, if only to avoid talking about mine. “Doesn’t it bother you?” “Oh, the little thing is warm,” she touched the silver at her neck and smiled so sincerely that my tar momentarily froze. “I noticed it too. It’s like it’s alive, isn’t it?” She took a sip from her glass, hastily popped a grape into her mouth, and stood up at once, unable to stay seated any longer. “I want to squeeze in one more dance! And you come join us — it’s such a wonderful evening!” She pressed her hot cheek to mine for a fleeting, sisterly moment, then fluttered away. One of the Ghouls caught her at once, sweeping her into the general whirl. My lips stretched into a smile of their own accord. For the first time I saw her unafraid, saw carefreeness and liveliness and happiness. And like this she almost appealed to me. Maybe in some parallel reality this Daliah and I would even have become friends. I turned back to the hall, hunting predatorily through the crowd for the familiar silhouette, but Papa was gone. The emptiness where he had just stood stabbed me with a sharp, panicked jolt. The air grew heavier. I had missed him. Missed him. Where was he now, with whom?   Another nameless hand appeared before my eyes. I didn’t even lift my head — just irritably waved it away like a pesky insect. “I’m afraid… I must… insist.” The voice wasn’t a voice. It was the grinding of gears, the rasp of metal shavings caught in machinery, the creak of ancient door hinges. Ragged, labored words. I snapped my gaze up. A Ghoul towered over me. A giant Ghoul, blocking the chandelier light, a head taller than the others and twice as broad in the shoulders. I recognized him, of course. The very one I’d “chatted” with in the car. “The dance… His request.” It hit like a slap. I rose, a hundred questions boiling inside, but I crushed them before they could spill from my lips. His request had to be obeyed — here I was still absolutely nobody. He led confidently — my hand in his massive paw that felt like enormous vise grips. But those grips were strange: astonishingly gentle for his size. He could probably crush my skull with one movement, yet he barely touched me, as if afraid of causing accidental pain. That unexpected tenderness breaking through raw power struck some deep, long-numbed strings inside me. In the camps tenderness had been rare, more a hard-earned privilege. And this enormous demon was gentle with me for no reason at all. “Still… staring?” The question caught me off guard. I really had been staring at his mask, chin tilted up. Looked stupid probably, but I didn’t want to admit it. “No.” “Yes.” I hesitated a second before surrendering. “Fine, yes. You’re just… different. Somehow.” A turn under his arm, face to face again. A sound, half laugh, half metal scraping asphalt, rumbled in his chest. “You too, Eva.” Then he said, and nothing more.   But I, enthralled, missed the main thing. I didn’t notice how we passed the center of the hall, how the music and voices receded, blending into a beehive hum. I didn’t notice how we ended up at the dark rectangle of the balcony door, leading away from the noisy pomp of the Clementine. We stopped. There on the balcony I spotted a silhouette. My pulse stuttered, and childlike, greedy impatience tugged me toward it like forbidden candy. It was Him, definitely Him. I stepped almost across the threshold, but at the last second my gaze caught the Ghoul. In the slits of his mask, now perfectly clear, embers glowed. I nodded to him with sincere, uncharacteristic of me gratitude, and took the step.  

***

So I stepped into another world. A world of silence, where thick darkness flowed upward into the sky, where at the very zenith the Moon, that beautiful mistress, hung frozen in a huge circle — a circle the color of carded cotton, the color of white lilies; and she slowly surveyed her domains, slicing the cold light through the chain of arches and admiring the curves of the vaults painted by Raphael’s hand. She caressed the dome of the Basilica, but disdainfully skirted the well of the San Damaso courtyard — there blind, shapeless rabble ruled. The Moon kissed her favorite, the silhouette frozen by the stone balustrade. His sculpted slenderness, almost marmoreal, and she surely called him her tender “Phoebus.” Well, in that we were alike. The night chill settled like a blanket over my shoulders, licked my bare ankles with an icy tongue. Freezing wasn’t frightening; frighteningly, I craved the other — the blanket of yearned-for arms. Papa turned instantly, breaking his stony stillness. He extended his hand, and I took it with gratitude: my legs ached terribly in these unfamiliar heels, and I feared my carefully measured gait would betray me any second. We stopped at the balustrade. I wondered why he had called me, alone, to this balcony, and two options spun in my head: either to throw me off it or to declare me his. Papa wasn’t in a hurry. He stood motionless, eyes lowered, and began to study my open palm. Weightlessly, almost ticklishly, he traced the lines of my fate with his fingertips, ran along the veins at my wrist. And in response I stroked his knuckles. Where had that courage come from? The fabric of the gloves was soft, but my teeth ached with the desire to feel his skin. My hands and legs trembled traitorously. Finely, shamefully, unmistakably. “What is it, cara?” He lifted his gaze. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me?” “Only if infants are on your breakfast menu.” The stupidity tumbled out of my stupid mouth. But fortunately Papa smiled in reply, then laughed — quietly and sincerely. That laugh meant the same to me as a stolen juicy apple, the first gust of spring wind, the smell of wet earth after rain. “No, Eva. Babies are worth their weight in gold these days.” He was joking. Good sign. Though, to be honest, if he had been deadly serious right then — I wouldn’t have cared. Suddenly he reached for the pendant blazing on my chest. “Forgive me. You must be barely enduring this heat.” The moment he touched the silver, the grucifix quieted under his fingers, turning cool. “These pendants aren’t mere jewelry, Eva. They are conduits of the Father’s will.” “And what does the Lord desire?” “In this case…” He gave the chain the slightest tug, drawing me forward. “…that two become one.” We were close. Almost molecularly close — and yet horizonally far. A lump rose in my throat; my parched lips barely formed the words. “So that means… the Selection is over?” “The Selection? Ah, yes. Over, if one can call it that.”   Papa released my hand and stepped back. The space between us instantly filled with cold, and I barely suppressed a groan of disappointment. What kind of fool talks business at a moment like this? It was astonishing that losing his warmth felt like the greatest loss of my life. “I’ll be honest with you, Eva. I knew from the very beginning it would be you. From the moment I saw your stunning, tantalizing…” Papa slowly slid his gaze over my shoulders, lingered on the line of my collarbones, brushed the edge of the corsage, then returned to my eyes. “…Darkness.” The words ran down my spine like chilling sobriety. A burr of anger pricked in my chest. “So this whole ball, and the fact that you danced with the others… was nothing but farce?” “Oh come now! More like…” He paused for a second, staring somewhere through me. “…a classic two-act tragedy. ‘That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’…” I froze. The last thing I expected to hear here was that familiar, hammered iamb. “‘The Conqueror Worm’?” It burst out before I could think. “Edgar Poe?” Papa raised his hand; his eyes flared with live, eager fire. “Incredibile, Eva! The very one. You’ve managed to surprise me. You know…” His index finger touched the tip of my nose softly, almost weightlessly. “I think we’ll get along just fine.” A short, almost cozy gesture that turned all my indignation to dust. A smile bloomed on my lips of its own accord, and I desperately tried to pull myself together. All that was missing was to melt completely into a sugary puddle before him, losing the last scraps of pride. But then his face changed. He took my hands in his, and his voice grew serious, quiet, almost airless. “I should have announced it in the hall, before everyone. To move straight to the second act, because that’s what the Father commands, and unfortunately not always and not for everyone is there the luxury of choice. But you’re here. And I’m telling you this now because I want you to have that choice. ” Back then I still didn’t understand the true value of those words. I didn’t know that the Lord would most likely have left a smoking crater in the Vatican’s place if I had dared to refuse. Simply, Papa was Papa. He couldn’t do otherwise. “So I’m asking you, tesoro. Do you want this?” His palm swept through the air, encompassing the space around. “This Empire? The palace? The power? And me?” I was being given a choice. The illusion of choice. The absence of choice.   Maybe I should have paused. Should have played a little hard to get, but for me everything had been decided the second I saw this man emerge from behind the altar. I opened my mouth, ready to exhale a hasty “yes,” but Papa gently pressed his finger to my lips. He cut me off mid-word, as if he knew exactly what I was about to say. “The answer is wrong,” he said firmly. “I feel how your Darkness clings to mine, how desperately you want to surrender to that pull. But right now I need you to think.” He removed his finger, but his gaze kept holding me in place. “To rule — it’s not just the weight of a golden crown on your brow. It’s endless apprenticeship. It’s rites that nourish the heart of our Empire, and exhausting, complex rituals. The world outside still writhes in chaos, and we are the only ones holding it in check. You will become my support, Eva. But power — it’s not just a rush. It’s a burden. Decisions that sear your guts, and duty that overrides pity.” His hand descended to my belly. His palm lay flat, with a barely perceptible authoritative press. “And blessings that come from Him. Heirs of our blood who will continue this path when we become dust.” Inside me everything seemed coated in a crust of ice. It sounded inevitable, but sobered me more than a slap. Not just to rule. Not just to be close to Papa. I was being offered to become the core piece of this grand, terrifying mechanism. To become a vessel for its continuation. I understood he expected not ecstasy from me, but awareness. He wanted me to peer into that abyss before I leaped. “Fine…” I swallowed hard, trying to restore firmness to my voice. “And what happens if I refuse? Will they kill me?” I expected anything: anger, disappointment, icy indifference. But Papa only clicked his tongue softly and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “You? Kill you? Oh come now, cara, how could they!” His voice carried an almost paternal reproach. “You’ll stay in the palace if you wish. Become a Sister of Sin. With your ambitions you’ll quickly carve a path to the rank of Mother Superior. Your Darkness will serve us splendidly either way.”   It made me shudder. To voluntarily give up undivided power to become a high-ranking nun in a black wimple? A pitiful handout instead of a throne. I snapped my gaze up. Papa narrowed his eyes slightly, frozen with that very smile of a satisfied cat who had just swiped the fattest piece from the table. He knew exactly what reaction his words would provoke. Was I really an open book to him? The sensation of my own insignificance burned from within. Suddenly I remembered: behind this youthful face hid an entire life lived before the Purification, before the Lord granted him a second birth. And me? To him I was just an unreasonable child who blushed and trembled at the mere scent of real power. Lousy. Rage instantly flushed blood to my cheeks, scorching away the remnants of embarrassment. “Well then, Papa. You’ve explained it all more than clearly.” I straightened, holding his gaze. “Here’s my decision. I agree. And it’s final. I won’t back down, no matter what awaits me. It doesn’t matter. I’m stronger than I seem, and I’ll prove I’m worthy to stand beside You. Even if it means memorizing the Satanic Bible cover to cover. I’ll become an equal. And I’ll be worthy.” A slow exhale through my mouth. That tirade cost me my last strength. My heart staged a wild rodeo in my chest. My knees turned soft as margarine, and I leaned my hip against the balustrade. The porous travertine stone drove a chill under my skin through the dress fabric, but it helped me not to fall. I had staked my pride, my life, my soul. Now I awaited my judge’s response. The verdict. Fortunately Papa didn’t make me suffer the wait. He nodded slowly, not breaking his stinging gaze from me, and took a step forward. He stopped right up close. I felt the heat radiating from him with my skin. “I don’t doubt you for a second. But remember: it all begins tonight. Your initiation will happen in two stages. First we’ll free your Darkness, and after — we’ll unite completely. Are you ready to begin?” “Yes.” He extended his hand, and I confidently placed my palm in his. We walked along the long loggia to the far door leading straight back to the center of the hall. My heart fluttered wildly, choking with anticipation. There it was. It was about to happen. I would emerge arm in arm with the ruler of this world, the avatar of the Lord, the very embodiment of power. The world would never be the same.   Oddly enough, the last thing I thought before Papa pushed open the door panel: “Mari’s mug is gonna be a sight.”

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