Neferet's Curse

May 1st, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

Tonight, Monday, May first, in the year 1893, my life has irrevocably changed. No, not simply my life, but my world. It seems to me as if I have died and been resurrected anew. Truly that analogy could not be more apt. Tonight my innocence was murdered, and my body, my past, my life, did die. Yet, like a phoenix, I have risen from the ashes of pain and despair and heartbreak. I soar!

I shall record the terrible, wonderful events in their entirety, even though I believe that I must end this recording and destroy this journal. I must leave no evidence. I must show no weakness. I must be in complete control of this new life of mine.

But for now the retelling of my story soothes me, almost as much as the concealing shadows of my garden, beneath my willow, once soothed me.

I already miss them, though. I cannot ever return to my garden and my faithful shadows, so this journal is all that is left to comfort me. And, comfort me it does. Though I have walked through the fires of Hell and looked its demons in the eyes, my hands do not shake. My words do not falter.

Let me begin when I awoke mid-morning on this fateful day. It was a wrenching cough that had me sitting up in bed, gasping for air. Mary came to me quickly, clucking with worry.

“Lass! I knew the look of ye yesterday boded ill. I can foretell a fever better than most. Let me summon the doctor,” she’d said, plumping the pillows around me.

“No!” I’d coughed again, but tried to stifle it with my hand. “I cannot disappoint Father. If he believes I am truly ill, that I will not be able to accompany him tonight, he will be angry.”

“But lass, ye cannot—”

“If I do not go with him he will attend the Exposition opening alone, as well as the dinner at the University Club. He will return home drunk and angry. You must know how terrible he can be. Don’t make me say more, Mary.”

Mary had bowed her head and sighed. “Aye, lass. I know he isn’t himself when he’s in his cups. And he has been countin’ on your support today.”

“The great Ladies of Chicago have demanded it,” I’d reminded her.

She’d nodded somberly. “That they have. Well, then, there is only one thing to do. I’ll make ye my grandma’s herbal tea with lemon, honey, and a spoonful of Irish whiskey. As she used to say, if it doesna fix ye up, it will get ye through.”

I’d smiled at her purposefully thickened accent and managed not to cough again until she’d left my bedchamber. I’d told myself her tea would help. After all, I couldn’t be ill—I was never ill. I’d wondered if I had, over the past three days, spent too much time resting—and thereby avoiding Father as well as Arthur—and from feigning illness brought illness upon me.

No. That was a fantastical assumption. I was a bit unwell, probably from my frazzled nerves. The pressure of waiting and hiding and wondering could not be good for my constitution.

Mary had returned with her tea, and I drank liberally of it, allowing the whiskey to warm and soothe me. I believe it was then that time began to shift. Hours ran together. It had seemed I had only just opened my eyes when Mary was coaxing me into my green silk gown.

I remember sitting before the small mirror on my vanity and watching Mary dress my hair. I’d been mesmerized by the long strokes of her brush, and as she began to lift it into an elaborate chignon, I’d stopped her.

“No,” I’d said. “Just pull it back from my face. Weave one of Mother’s velvet ribbons through it, but leave my hair free.”

“But, dove, that’s a child’s hairstyle, and not fit for a great Lady of society.”

“I’m not a great Lady. I’m sixteen years old. I’m not a wife, or a mother. In this one respect, I would look my age.”

“Very well, Miss Wheiler,” she’d replied respectfully.

When she’d finished my simple coiffure, I’d stood and stepped before the full-length looking glass.

Regardless of what happened later that night, I will always remember Mary and the sadness that had filled her expression when she had stood behind me and the both of us took in my reflection. The emerald silk dress fitted me as if it had been poured over my body. It was perfectly unadorned by anything except the mounds of my breasts and the curves of my body. Almost none of my bare skin was revealed—the bodice was modest and the sleeves three quarters length—but the simplicity of the gown intensified the lushness of my figure. The only real concealment I had was my hair, though the thick fall of it was as sensual as the gown.

“You look lovely, dove,” Mary had spoken quietly, and her mouth had formed a tight line as she’d studied me.

Fever and whiskey had flushed my face. My breath was shallow and it rattled in my chest. “Lovely,” I’d repeated dreamily. “That is not how I would describe myself.”

The door to my bedchamber had opened then and Father, holding a square velvet jewelry box, had entered the room. He’d stopped abruptly and stared with us at my reflection.

“Leave us, Mary,” he’d commanded.

Before she could move, I’d grabbed her wrist. “Mary cannot leave, Father. She is not finished helping me dress.

“Very well then.” He strode to me. “Move aside, woman,” he’d said, brushing Mary aside and taking her place behind me when she’d retreated to the corner of the room.

His eyes had burned my reflection. I’d had to force my hands to stay at my sides instead of instinctively attempting to cover myself.

“You are a picture, my dear. A picture.” His gruff voice had the small hairs on my arms standing on end. “You know I’ve seen you so little this past week, I almost forgot how beautiful you are.”

“I have not been well, Father,” I’d said.

“You look well—well indeed! Your color is so high it makes me believe you have been looking forward to this evening as much as I.”

“Nothing could make me miss this evening,” I’d said coolly and truthfully.

He’d chuckled. “Well, my dear, I have something for you. I know you will wear them as proudly as your mother before you.” He’d opened the square velvet box to reveal the triple strands of Mother’s exquisite pearls. Taking them from the box, which he tossed away uncaringly, he lifted them and placed them around my neck, latching the thick, emerald studded clasp and then, with hot hands, he’d lifted my hair so that they settled heavily on my chest in a triple waterfall of luster.

My hand went up and touched them. They felt very cold against the heat of my skin.

“They become you, just as they did your mother.” Father placed his hands heavily on my shoulders.

Our gazes had met in the mirror. I’d kept my revulsion carefully hidden, but when he just stood there and stared, I freed the rattling cough I’d been repressing. Covering my mouth, I stepped out of his grasp and hurried to my vanity where I finished coughing into a lace handkerchief before taking a long drink from Mary’s tea.

“Are you truly ill?” he’d asked, looking more angry than concerned.

“No,” I’d assured him. “It’s just a tickle in my throat and my nerves, Father. Tonight is an important evening.”

“Well, then, finish dressing and join me downstairs. The carriage is here and the opening of the World’s Columbian Exposition waits for no man, or woman!” Chuckling at his poor joke, he left my room, banging the door against the wall after him.

“Mary, help me into my shoes,” I’d said and coughed again.

“Emily, you really are not well. Perhaps you should stay home,” she said as she bent to fasten the buckle on my beautiful silk and leather pumps.

“As with most of my life, I find that I have very little choice left to me. I must go, Mary. It will be all the worse for me if I stay.”

She hadn’t said anything more, but her pitying expression had been words enough.

I’d been grateful that the carriage ride to the Midway was blissfully short, though the roads were clogged with people. Even Father gaped around us. “My God! The entire world is in Chicago!” he’d exclaimed.

I was glad that he was too busy to stare at me, and too busy to notice that when I dabbed my lace handkerchief to my mouth it was because I was attempting to cover a cough.

Even ill and nervous as I was, I will never forget my first glimpse of the Midway and the miracle that was the World’s Columbian Exposition. It was, indeed, a great, white city, luminous as my mother’s pearls. Awestruck, I held to Father’s arm and allowed him to lead me to the group of dignitaries that waited in an elegant group before the street entrance of the Midway Plaisance.

“Burnham! Well done—well done!” Father had bellowed as we joined them. “Ryerson, Ayer, Field! Look at the crowds. I knew if they could get it built it would do well, and by God, I was right,” he’d blustered, then he’d freed my arm and hurried to join the other men.

As Father clapped Burnham on the back, Arthur Simpton stepped past him, met my eyes, and tipped his hat to me. His smile beamed happiness, and some of the tightness in my chest began to loosen as I returned his smile and even dared to mouth a quick “I have missed you so!” to him.

“Yes!” he’d shouted and nodded, and then had hastily rejoined the other men while my father was still engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Burnham.

I’d joined the women’s group, finding Mrs. Simpton easily, as she was so tall and handsome, though we hardly murmured the barest of polite hellos to one another. We were far too busy staring around us in wonder.

Mr. Burnham, who looked as if he had aged years since my dinner party, though it had only been little over a week ago, cleared his throat dramatically and then lifted an ivory and gold scepter with a miniature domed building atop it, and announced, “Friends, family, businessmen, and beloved ladies of Chicago, I bid you to enter the White City!”

Our group moved forward into pure fantasy. To either side of us was a living museum. As we walked down the Midway we passed groups of exotic village settings so that it appeared as if we had been transported instantly and magically from China to Germany, Morocco to Holland, and even to the darkest regions of Africa!

We didn’t speak to each other more than to gasp and point from one marvel to another.

When we reached the Egyptian exhibit I was mesmerized. The temple stretched above me, a golden pyramid, covered with exotic and mysterious symbols. I’d stood there, my breath coming rapidly, my handkerchief pressed against my lips stifling another cough, and the golden curtain that served as the door to the temple was pulled aside. A stunningly beautiful woman had emerged. She sat on a gilded throne that had been built atop two side-by-side poles that rested on the shoulders of six men, black as pitch and muscular as bulls.

She’d stood and commanded everyone’s attention so completely that, even in the midst of the human cacophony surrounding us, fell a pocket of silence.

“I am Neferet! Queen of Little Egypt. I command that you attend me.” Her voice was rich and distinctive, with an accent as seductive as it was foreign. She’d opened her golden cape, and shrugged it off to reveal a scant costume of silk and strands of golden beads and bells. From within the temple came a drum beat, sonorous and rhythmic. Neferet lifted her arms gracefully and began to undulate her hips in time with the music.

I had never seen a woman so beautiful or so bold. She did not smile. Truthfully, she seemed to mock the watching crowd with her icy gaze and her brazen looks. Her large dark eyes were painted heavily with black and gold. In the small indentation of her navel rested a sparkling red gemstone.

“Emily! There you are! Mother said she’d lost you. Our group has moved on. Your father would be very angry if he knew you had remained here, watching this lewd woman’s show.” I’d looked up to see Arthur frowning at me.

Staring around us, I realized he’d been right—his mother, the rest of the women, our entire group were all nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, I didn’t realize I’d been left! Thank you for finding me, Arthur,” I’d taken his arm, but as he led me away I’d glanced back at Neferet. Her dark gaze met mine, and very distinctly and haughtily, she’d laughed. I remember that at that moment all I could think was: Neferet would never allow a man to lead her around—to order her about and tell her what to do!

But I was not Neferet. I was queen of nothing, and I would rather be led around by Arthur Simpton than abused by my father. So I’d clung to Arthur, telling him how good it was to see him and how desperately I’d missed him, and listened to him talk on and on about how excited he and his parents were about our impending betrothal, and how he was not at all in the least bit nervous—though his torrent of words seemed to belie his protestations.

It was almost dusk by the time we found our group, finally rejoining them at the base of the enormous and fantastic creation Arthur explained they were calling a Ferris wheel.

“Emily, there you are!” Mrs. Simpton called to us and waved. I’d been mortified to see that she was standing beside Father. “Oh, Mr. Wheiler, did I not tell you my Arthur would find her safe and sound, and return her to us? And so he has.”

“Emily, you must not wander off. Anything could happen to you out of my sight!” Father had gruffly taken me from Arthur’s arm without so much as one word to Arthur or his mother. “Wait over there with the other women while I get our tickets for the Ferris wheel. It has been decided that we are all riding it before we depart for the University Club and dinner.” He’d tossed me toward the group, and I’d stumbled into Camille and her mother.

“Excuse me,” I’d said, righting myself. It had been then that I’d noticed what I hadn’t earlier when the Midway had completely captivated my attention—Camille was with the women’s group, as were several of my old friends: Elizabeth Ryerson, Nancy Field, Janet Palmer, and Eugenia Taylor. They seemed to form a solid and disapproving wall behind Camille and her mother.

Mrs. Elcott had looked down her long nose at me. “I see you’re wearing your mother’s pearls as well as one of her dresses, although the reworking of it has very much changed its appearance.”

I’d already been more than aware of how the alteration of Mother’s dress accentuated my body, and I could see by the censorious looks on their faces that while I had been distracted by the wonders of the fair, they had been judging and condemning me.

“And I see you are on the arm of Arthur Simpton,” Camille added in a voice that echoed her mother’s pinched tone.

“Yes, convenient of you to get yourself lost so that he had to find you,” Elizabeth Ryerson had spoken up as well.

I’d squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. There was no point in attempting to explain my jewels or my clothes, and I certainly was not going to hide from these women, but I’d felt I must come to Arthur’s defense. “Mr. Simpton was being a gentleman.”

Mrs. Elcott had snorted. “As if you were being a lady! And it’s Mr. Simpton now, is it? You appear to be much more familiar with him than that.”

“Emily, are you quite well?” Mrs. Simpton had moved to stand beside me, facing the group of sour-faced girls. I noticed she was sending a hard look to Mrs. Elcott.

That had made me smile.

“Quite well, thanks to your son. Mrs. Elcott and Camille and a few of the girls were commenting on what a gentleman he is, and I was agreeing with them,” I’d said.

“How nice of them to notice,” Mrs. Simpton had said. “Ah, Emily, there are our men with the tickets.” She’d pointed to Father, Mr. Elcott, and Arthur. The three of them were walking toward our group. “Emily, you will sit beside me, won’t you? I have a dreadful fear of heights.”

“Of course,” I’d said. As Mrs. Simpton walked forward to meet her son, who was smiling distractingly at me, I’d felt Camille brush up close to me. Behind her I could feel the weight of the other girls’ stares. Her whispered voice had been filled with spite. “I find that you are very changed, and not for the better.”

Still smiling at Arthur I lowered my own voice, hoping that it would carry to Camille and the others behind her, and said with perfectly unemotional coldness, “I’ve become a woman and not a silly girl. As you and your friends are still silly girls, I can understand that you could not possibly find my changes are for the better.”

“You have become a woman—one who doesn’t care who she has to use or what she has to do to get what she wants,” she’d whispered back. I heard murmurs of agreement from the other girls.

The coldness within me had expanded. What did this simpering child, or any of those other empty-headed, spoiled girls know of the changes I’d had to make to survive?

Without turning my smiling face from Arthur I said slowly, distinctly, and loudly enough for the entire spiteful group to hear me, “You are absolutely right, Camille. So it is best if you all stay out of my way. I would say that I would hate to see any of you hurt, but I would be lying, and I’d rather not do that.”

Then I’d hurried to meet Father, who had been so overtaken by the anticipated trill of the Ferris wheel that he’d agreed to us sitting in the same cart box as the Simptons. As we soared two hundred and seventy-five feet in the air Arthur’s mother held tightly to me with one hand, and her son with her other. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and trembled so violently her teeth had chattered.

I’d thought her a fool, though a kindhearted one. Her fear had made her miss the most spectacular view in the world. The blue waters of Lake Michigan stretched as far as one horizon, while before us was revealed an entire city that seemed to be built of white marble. As the sun sank behind the elegant structures, the powerful electric lights that surrounded the lagoon and the brilliant spotlight before the Electricity Building were turned on, making the Court of Honor and the sixty-five-foot-tall Statue of the Republic in the center of the lagoon blaze with magnificent white light that rivaled that of the fullest, brightest of moons. The light had been so bright, it had been quite uncomfortable for me to look at directly, though look I did.

Mrs. Simpton missed all of it, and her son missed quite a bit of the scenery, too, as he’d been so focused on soothing his mother’s fear.

I’d vowed to myself that I would never, ever allow fear to make me miss magnificence.

Father insisted Mr. and Mrs. Burnham share our carriage to the University Club, which gave me a much needed and unexpected reprieve. Mrs. Burnham had been so excited by the Ferris wheel and the triumph of the electrical lighting, which only served to showcase her husband’s talent, that I hadn’t needed to engage in conversation with her at all. I’d simply appeared to mimic her expression as she’d listened attentively to her husband and Father blathering on and on about every miniscule detail of the fair’s architecture.

Now that we weren’t walking about, and my nerves had settled, I was finding it easier to control the terrible cough that had come so suddenly upon me. I was reluctant to admit it, even to myself, but I was feeling dreadfully weak and lightheaded—and there was a heat within my body that was becoming more and more uncomfortable. I believed I may truly be ill, and had been considering whether it would be wise for me to ask if Arthur could escort me home early. I must wait until after he declared his honorable intentions to Father, and Father accepted, but by the time the carriage reached the University Club, I was having a difficult time keeping my vision from blurring. Even the flickering gaslights in the club caused a tremendous pain to spike through my temples.

As I write this, I do so wish that I had understood the warning signs I was being given—my cough, my fever, my lightheaded sickness … and most of all, my aversion to light.

But how could I have known? As the night began I had been such an innocent about so many things.

My innocence would soon be irrevocably shattered.

We’d exited the carriages, and I’d been pleased to note that none of the other unmarried girls had been allowed to accompany their parents to the dinner. Their envious, condemning looks were, at least, an annoyance I didn’t have to tolerate.

Our entire group arrived in a long line of carriages together and we had entered the ornate foyer of the University Club as one. I’d been relieved to notice that his father had joined Arthur and his mother. I’d only seen Arthur’s father just a couple of times, and that was easily six or seven months ago when the family had first moved into their mansion not far from Wheiler House, but I was shocked to see how bloated and pale the old man looked. He leaned heavily on a cane and walked with a noticeable limp. I saw when Arthur and his mother caught sight of Father and me, and they steered Mr. Simpton our way.

Bloated and ill though he may be, Arthur’s father had his same brilliant blue eyes as well as his charming smile. After he greeted Father and turned both on me, he said, “Miss Wheiler, it is a pleasure to see you again.” I’d felt a great warmth for the old man and realized that though Arthur, too, may run to fat and poor health as he grew old, there would always be a spark left of the young man I’d married.

I’d curtseyed and returned his smile. “Mr. Simpton, I’m so glad you’re feeling well enough to attend the dinner tonight.”

“Young lady, the Grim Reaper himself could not have made me miss this evening,” he’d said, eyes sparkling with our shared secret.

“Too bad you missed the Ferris wheel, Simpton. It was magnificent—simply magnificent!” Father had said.

“Magnificently terrifying!” Mrs. Simpton had exclaimed, fanning herself with her gloved hand.

I’d wanted to smile and perhaps say something clever to Mrs. Simpton about overcoming her fears, but a cough had caught me unaware, and I’d had to press the handkerchief against my lips and try to control my breathing. When the cough had finally spent itself and allowed me to breathe again, Father and the Simptons were all studying me with varying degrees of embarrassment and concern.

Thankfully, Mrs. Simpton’s concern had voiced itself before Father’s embarrassment. “Emily, perhaps you would accompany me to the ladies’ lounge. I must splash some water on my face and collect my nerves before dinner, and while I’m doing that you could rest yourself on one of the settees.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Simpton,” I’d said gratefully. “I think I overexerted myself at the fair today.”

“You must be careful of your health, Miss Wheiler,” Mr. Simpton said kindly.

“Yes, I know. Father has been telling me the same thing recently.”

“Indeed! Indeed! A woman’s constitution is a fragile thing,” Father added, nodding sagely.

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more with you, Mr. Wheiler. Be certain I will take care of Emily.” She’d turned to her husband then. “Franklin, do be a dear and be certain we are seated at the same table as Mr. Wheiler and Emily so that the two of us will have an easy time finding the both of you when we join you for dinner.”

“Of course, my dear,” Mr. Simpton had said.

Arthur hadn’t said one word, but his eyes had lingered on mine and he’d winked when Father hadn’t been looking.

“Father, I’ll be back soon,” I’d said, and Arthur’s mother and I had made a hasty escape.

Once in the lounge Mrs. Simpton drew me to a quiet corner. She pressed the back of her hand against my forehead. “I knew you would be warm! Your face is ever so flushed. How long have you had that cough?”

“Just since this morning,” I’d assured her.

“Perhaps you should take your carriage home and rest. Arthur can choose another evening to speak to your father.”

Panic had turned my stomach and I’d gripped her hands. “No, please no! It must be tonight. Father is getting worse and worse. Mrs. Simpton, look at me. Look at this gown.”

Her eyes had flicked downward and then back to mine. “Yes, dear. I noticed it when first I saw you.”

“Father forced the dressmaker to remake one of Mother’s favorite gowns into this. I tried to reason with him, and tell him the style, the cut, were wholly inappropriate, but he would not listen. Mrs. Simpton, I pity Father and I know he is grieving for Mother even more than I am, but his grief is changing him. He must control everything about me.”

“Yes, Arthur has told me he will not even allow you your volunteer work.”

“Mrs. Simpton, Father won’t allow me to leave the house at all unless he is with me. And his temper has become so frightening, so violent. I-I don’t know how much longer I can bear it!” My shoulders had heaved and my body trembled as another coughing spell engulfed me.

“There, there. I can see that this is all very hard on your health. You are right. Arthur’s intentions must be made public tonight, and soon tonight at that. Then I will escort you home myself so that you may rest and recover.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Simpton! You cannot know what this means to me,” I’d sobbed.

“Wipe your eyes, Emily. You can show me how much this means to you by promising me that you will be a good and faithful wife to my son.”

“I promise with all of my heart!” I’d meant the promise. I’d had no way of knowing that the rest of the night would alter everything.

Mr. Simpton had fulfilled his wife’s request. He and Arthur were seated at the same table as Father and me, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, and Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson.

Father had gloweringly pushed a crystal flute filled with champagne the color of a blush over to me, saying, “Drink this. The bubbles may help your abominable croup!” I’d sipped it, folded my linen napkin onto my lap, and surreptitiously watched Arthur’s mother whisper to him.

Arthur’s face had gone pale, obviously with nerves, but he’d nodded tightly. He’d turned to his father, and I saw rather than heard him say, “It is time.” Slowly, laboriously, his father had stood, raised his own champagne flute and, using a silver knife, tapped the crystal, silencing the crowd.

“Good ladies and gentlemen,” he’d said. “I must begin by saluting Mr. Burnham and ask that you join me in a congratulatory toast to his genius, which was the driving force behind the World’s Columbian Exposition.”

“To Mr. Burnham!” the room roared.

“I am happy to announce that tonight’s congratulations are not yet over. But I bow to my son, Arthur, as he must lead us in our next toast, and he has my blessing in doing so.”

I’d felt my rapid heartbeat pounding in my chest as Arthur, tall, handsome, and somber-faced, stood. He’d walked around our table until he reached Father. He’d bowed first to him, and then he extended his hand to me. Though mine trembled terribly, I borrowed strength from him and stood by his side.

“What is the—” Father had begun to bluster, but Arthur neatly cut him off.

“Barrett Wheiler, I publicly, formally, and with the blessing of my family, declare my deepest affections for your daughter, Emily, and ask your permission to court her with the express and honorable purpose of marriage.” Arthur’s voice was deep and did not falter one bit. It carried throughout the opulent dining hall.

In that moment I can truly say that I loved him utterly and completely.

“Oh, well done, Simpton! Congratulations indeed!” It was Mr. Burnham, and not my father who stood. “To Emily and Arthur!” The room echoed his toast, and then there was an eruption of cheers and well wishes. As Mrs. Ryerson and Mrs. Burnham gave me soft kisses and made over Arthur and me, I saw Arthur’s father limp over to my father. I held my breath. Though Father’s expression was dark, the two of them shook hands.

“It is done.” Arthur had been watching as well, and he whispered the words to me as he bent and kissed my hand.

I don’t know whether it was with relief or with illness, but it was then that I fainted.

When my senses returned there was pandemonium around me. Father was bellowing for a doctor. Arthur had lifted me and was carrying me from the room into the sitting area outside the great hall. Mrs. Simpton was trying to reassure Father and Arthur that I was simply overexcited and had not been feeling well all day.

“And the poor thing’s gown is entirely too tight,” she’d said as Arthur placed me gently on a settee.

I’d tried to reassure Arthur and agree with his mother, but I could not speak through the cough that gripped me. Next I knew there was a gray bearded man bending over me, feeling my pulse, and listening to my chest with a stethoscope.

“Definitely not well. Fever … rapid pulse … cough. But in light of the events of the evening, I’d say all except the cough could be attributed to woman’s hysteria. Rest quiet, and perhaps a hot toddy or two are what I prescribe.”

“So, she will be well?” Arthur had taken my hand.

I’d managed to smile at him and answer for myself. “Quite well. I promise. All I need is rest.”

“She needs to get home and to her bed,” Father had said. “I shall call our carriage and—”

“Oh, Father, no!” I’d forced myself to smile at him and sit up. “I would not rest well knowing I had been the cause that took you from this special dinner you have so looked forward to.”

“Mr. Wheiler, please allow me the honor of escorting your daughter home.” Mr. Simpton surprised me by speaking up. “I understand what a burden it is on the family when one member is not well, as I have not felt completely myself for months. This evening I agree with little Emily—rest shall do us both a world of good—and that should not hinder the celebration for the rest of you. Mr. Wheiler, Arthur, please stay. Eat, drink, and make merry for Emily and for me.”

I’d covered my smile with a cough. Mr. Simpton had put Father in a position twice in one night wherein he would look ridiculous if he refused him. Had I not felt so terribly ill I would have wanted to dance about with joy.

“Well, indeed. I will allow you to see my Emily home.” Father’s voice had been gruff, verging on impolite, but everyone around us acted as if they did not notice.

Everyone, that is, except Arthur. He’d taken my hand and met Father’s dark gaze, saying, “Our Emily now, Mr. Wheiler.”

It had been Arthur and not Father who had helped me to the Simpton carriage, and Arthur who had kissed my hand and had bidden me a good night, saying that he would call on me the next afternoon.

Father had stood alone, glowering, as the lovely, well-upholstered carriage had driven away with Mr. Simpton and me smiling and waving.

It had seemed that I was a princess who had finally found her prince.

Wheiler House was unusually still and dark when the Simpton carriage left me on the walkway to the front door. Mr. Simpton had wanted to see me inside, but I had protested that he not inflame his leg any more than necessary, and explained that Father’s valet, as well as my maid, would be waiting within.

Then I’d done something that had surprised myself. I’d leaned down and kissed the old man’s cheek.

“Thank you, sir. I owe you my gratitude. Tonight you saved me—twice.”

“Oh, not at all! I’m pleased by Arthur’s choice. Get well, child. We will talk again soon.”

I’d been thinking how fortunate I was to have found Arthur and his affable parents when I entered our foyer and lit the gaslight within. After the soothing darkness of the carriage and the night, the light seemed to send spikes through my temples and I snuffed it out immediately.

“Mary!” I’d called. The house didn’t stir. “Carson! Hello!” I called again, but my words dissolved within a terrible cough.

I’d longed for the comforting shadows of my garden and the concealing darkness beneath my willow—how I believed it would have soothed me! But I was feeling so very ill that I knew I must get abed. Truth be told, the severity of my cough and the burning of my fever was beginning to frighten me. I struggled up the three flights of stairs, wishing Mary would hear me and appear to help me.

I was still alone when I made it to my bedchamber, pulled the cord that would ring the summoning bell in Mary’s small, basement room, and collapsed on my bed. I have no idea how long I lay there, struggling to breathe. It seemed a very long time. I’d felt like sobbing. Where was Mary? Why had I been left alone? I’d tried to unhook the tight little buttons that ran from the back of my neck all the way down to my waist and to take off the green silk gown that was so restrictive, but even feeling completely well that would have been nearly impossible. That night I hadn’t even been able to manage unclasping Mother’s pearls.

Fully dressed, I lay on my bed, gasping for breath between coughs, in a state that was more dreamlike than awake. A wave of weakness washed through me, closing my eyes. I believe I might have slept then because when next my senses registered the world around me, I thought I was in the grip of a hideous nightmare.

I’d smelled him before I’d been able to open my eyes. The scent of brandy, sour breath, sweat, and cigars filled my bedchamber.

I’d forced my eyes open. He had been a hulking shadow over my bed.

“Mary?” I’d spoken her name because I hadn’t wanted to believe what my senses told me.

“Awake, are you?” Father’s voice was thick with alcohol and anger. “Good. You need to be. We have things to settle between us.”

“Father, I am ill. Let’s wait and talk tomorrow when I am better.” I’d pushed myself farther back against my bed pillows, trying to put more space between us.

“Wait? I’ve waited long enough!”

“Father, I need to call Mary. As the doctor said, she must make me a hot toddy so that I can rest.”

“Call Mary all you like—she won’t come. Neither will Carson or Cook. I sent them all to the fair. Told them to take the whole night off. There is no one here except the two of us.”

That’s when I became afraid. Summoning all the strength I could, I slid to the other side of the bed, away from him, and stood. Father was old and drunk. I was young and fleet footed. If I could just slip around him, he would not be able to catch me.

But that night I had not been a fleet-footed girl. I had been dizzy with fever and weak with a cough that would not let me catch my breath. As I’d tried to dart around him, my legs had felt as if they were made of stone and I’d stumbled.

“Not this time. This time we settle it!” Father grabbed my wrist and pulled me back.

“We have nothing to settle! I am going to marry Arthur Simpton and have a good and happy life away from you and your perversions! Do you think I don’t know how you look at me?” I’d shouted at him. “You disgust me!”

“I disgust you? You whore! You are the one who tempts me. I see how you watch me—how you flaunt yourself to me. I know your true nature, and by the end of this night you will know it, too!” he’d roared, sending spittle flying into my face.

He struck me then. Not on my face. Not once that night did he strike my face. One of his hot hands held both my wrists together in a viselike grip, pulling my arms over my head, while his other hand, curled into a fist, battered my body.

I’d fought him with all my might. But the more I fought, the harder he beat me. I had been propelled by terror, like a feral creature cornered by a huntsman, until he grasped the front of my silk dress and ripped it downward, tearing Mother’s pearls with the delicate fabric so that they rained around us as my breasts were fully exposed.

My body betrayed me then. It could no longer fight. I went cold and limp. When, with an animalistic growl, he’d pinned me on my bed, lifted my skirts, and rammed himself within the most intimate part of me as he bit and groped my breasts, I’d not moved. I’d only screamed and screamed until my throat had gone raw and my voice was lost.

It had not taken him long to finish. Once spent he’d collapsed, his great, sweating weight pressing me down.

I’d thought I would die, bleeding and broken beneath him, and smothered by pain and loss and despair.

I had been wrong.

He’d begun to snore, great snorting breaths, and I realized he was fully asleep. I dared to prod his shoulder and, with a grunt, he’d rolled off me.

I hadn’t moved. I’d waited until his snoring resumed. Only then did I begin inching away. I’d had to stop frequently and press my hand against my lips to contain the wet coughs, but finally I was free of the bed.

The numbness of my body was gone, though I’d wished mightily that it would return. But I did not allow the pain to make me hesitate. I moved as quickly as my battered body would allow and pulled my cloak from the armoire. Then slowly, quietly, I gathered up the loose pearls, as well as the emerald clasp, and secreted them, and this, my journal, within the deep pockets of the cloak.

I left through the rear door. Though I couldn’t chance pausing beneath my willow, I walked my dark path one last time, calling the concealing shadows to me and drawing comfort from the familiar darkness. When I reached the garden gate, I paused and looked back. The full moon had illuminated the fountain again. Europa’s marble face was turned toward me and through my blurred vision it seemed as if the water from the fountain had turned to tears, washing her cheeks as she wept for my loss. My gaze went from the fountain to my pathway and I realized that behind me I had left a trail of blood.

I went out the garden gate that had allowed Arthur, and what I believed to be salvation, into my life. I would retrace Arthur’s steps. He would still be my salvation—he must still be my salvation.

The Simpton Mansion was not far down South Prairie Avenue. I’d been grateful for the lateness of the hour. I met very few people as I stumbled along the walkway, enveloped in the cloak I clutched tightly about me.

You might think that during that painful journey I would have been imagining what I should say to Arthur. I had not. My mind hadn’t seemed my own, just as, earlier, my body had stopped obeying me. My only thoughts were that I must keep moving forward, toward safety, kindness, and Arthur.

It had been Arthur who found me. I’d paused in front of the Simpton Mansion, leaning on the cold wrought-iron fence that decorated the boundary around it. I’d been trying to catch my breath and to order my thoughts into finding the latch to the gate, and Arthur, leading his bicycle, had burst from the very gate I had been approaching.

He’d seen me, and paused, in the darkness not recognizing my cloaked and hooded form.

“May I help you?” His voice, kind and familiar, had broken me.

I’d shrugged off the hood and, in a voice so damaged I barely recognized it as my own, I cried, “Arthur! It’s me! Help me!” Then a coughing seizure, more severe than all the rest, took my body over and I began to crumble to the ground.

“Oh, God! Emily!” He’d thrown his bicycle aside and caught me in his arms as I fell. My cloak had opened then, and he’d gasped in horror at the sight of my torn dress, and my broken and bloody body. “What has happened to you?”

“Father,” I sobbed, trying desperately to speak as I struggled to breathe. “He attacked me!”

“No! How could this be?” I watched his gaze go from my untouched face down to the wounds on my exposed breasts, and to my ripped skirt and my blood-coated thighs. “He—he has completely abused you!”

I’d been staring into his blue eyes, waiting for him to comfort me and take me within to his family where I could be healed and where Father would, eventually, be made to pay for what he had done.

But instead of love or compassion or even kindness, I saw shock and horror in his eyes.

I’d shifted my body, covering myself with my cloak. Arthur made no move to keep me in his arms.

“Emily,” he’d begun, in a voice that sounded strange, and stilted. “It is clear that you have been violated, and I—”

I will never know what Arthur was going to say because at that moment a tall, elegant figure stepped from the shadows and pointed a long, pale finger at me, saying, “Emily Wheiler! Night has Chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth! Night calls to thee; hearken to Her sweet voice. Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night!”

My forehead exploded in blinding pain and I covered my head with my hands, as I trembled violently and waited to die.

Remarkably, with the next breath I drew, my chest loosened and sweet air flowed freely within me. I opened my eyes to see that Arthur was standing several feet from where I’d crouched, as if he’d begun to run away. The dark figure was a tall man. The first thing I noticed about him was that he had a sapphire-colored tattoo on his face that was made of bold lines spiraling from the crescent moon in the center of his forehead, across his brow and down his cheeks.

“My God! You’re a vampyre!” Arthur had blurted.

“Yes,” he’d answered Arthur, but had barely spared him a glance. All of his attention was focused on me. “Emily, do you understand what has happened to you?” the vampyre asked me.

“My father has beaten and raped me.” As I spoke the words, clearly and plainly, I felt the last of the sickness leave my body.

“And the Goddess, Nyx, has Marked you as her own. Tonight you leave the life of humans behind. From here on you answer only to our Goddess, our High Council, and to your own conscience.”

I’d shaken my head, not truly understanding. “But, Arthur and I—”

“Emily, I wish you well, but this is all too much for me. I cannot, will not, have such things in my life.” And Arthur Simpton had turned and fled back to his parents’ house.

The vampyre moved to me and with grace and preternatural strength, he lifted me in his arms and said, “Leave him and the pain of your old life behind you, Emily. There is healing and acceptance waiting for you at the House of Night.”

That is how I came to finish the record of what happened to me this horrible, wonderful night. The vampyre carried me to a black carriage, drawn by four perfectly matched black mares. The seats inside were black velvet. There were no lights at all, and I welcomed the darkness, finding comfort in it.

The carriage took us to a palace made truly of marble, and not the weak pretence of stone that the humans of Chicago had created for their fair.

As we drove through the gate in the thick, high walls, a woman met me on the front stairs. She, too, had a sapphire crescent tattoo in the middle of her forehead, and markings surrounding it. She waved joyously, but when the carriage stopped and the vampyre Tracker had to lift me from within, she hurried to me. She shared a long look with the other vampyre before turning her mesmerizing gaze on me. She touched my face gently and said, “Emily, I am your mentor, Cordelia. You are safe here. No man will ever harm you again.”

Then she took me to a sumptuous private infirmary, bathed and bandaged my body, and bade me to drink wine laced with something warm and metallic tasting.

I still sip on the dark drink as I write. My body aches, but my mind is my own again. And I find, as always, I am learning …