them both in myself: my born freedom, my slave's skin. I allied myself with a cause that talked of freedom, only to drown itself in blood. But I am more than that, more than anything that came out of that more than just this one event, the worst — and most defining — moment of my life. This one encounter with
you.
Stuck in the same yearning, dreadful moment through twelve whole years of real life — even when he was working his land, loving his wife, mourning her, mourning the children whose hope died with her. Running his father's plantation, adjudicating disputes, approving marriages, attending christenings; watching La Hire decline and fall, being drunk at his funeral, at the bal , at his own wedding
Only to be drawn back here, at last, like some recalcitrant cur to his hidden master's call. To be reclaimed, over near-incalculable distances of time and space, as though he were some piece of property, some tool, some merest creeping
slave.
Marked, as yours. By you. For you.
But — this was the entire point of 'my' Revolution, Jean-Guy remembers, suddenly. That all men were slaves, no matter their estate, so long as kings and their laws ruled unchecked. And that we should all, all of us, no matter how low or high — or mixed — our birth either rise up, take what was ours, live free or die .
Die quick. Die clean. Make your last stand now, Citizen, while you still have the strength to do it
or never.
'It occurs to me,' the chevalier says, slowly, 'that after all this we still do not know each other's given name.'
Whatever else, Jean-Guy promises himself, with one last coherent thought, I will not allow myself to beg.
A spark to oil, this last heart's flare: he turns for the door, lurching up, only to find the chevalier upon him, bending him backwards by the hair.
Ah, do not leave me, Citizen.
But: 'I will ,' Jean-Guy snarls, liquid, in return. And hears the chevalier's laugh ring in his ear through a fresh gout of blood, distant as some underwater glass bell. That voice replying aloud, as well as — otherwise —
'Ohhhh I think not.'
I have set my mark upon you.
My mark. Mine.
That voice in his ear, his blood. That smell. His traitor's body, opening wide to its sanguine, siren's song. That unforgettable red halo of silent lassitude settling over him like a bell jar once more, sealing them together: predator, prey, potential co-dependents.
This fatal Widow's kiss he's waited for, in vain, for oh so very long Prendegrace's familiar poison, seeping into Jean-Guy's veins, his heart. Stopping him in his tracks.
All this — blood
Blood, for all that blood shed. The Revolution's tide, finally stemmed with an offering made from his own body, his own — damned —
soul.
Prendegrace raises red lips. He wipes them, pauses, coughs again — more wetly, this time. And asks, aloud:
'By your favour, Citizen what year is this, exactly?'
'Year Zero,' Jean-Guy whispers back. And lets himself go.
Good Lady Ducayne
Mary Elizabeth Braddon
Mary Elizabeth Braddon (1837-1915) was one of the most sensationalist and bestselling Victorian authors. Although her best-known work is probably Lady Audley's Secret (1862), a melodramatic tale of madness and murder, she also turned out dozens of novels and numerous short stories often anonymously or under various pseudonyms, in addition to editing two of her husband's publications: the monthly magazine for ladies , Belgravia, and the Christmas annual The Mistletoe Bough.
' If I could plot like Miss Braddon, I would be the greatest writer in the English language,' wrote Vanity Fair author William Makepeace Thackeray, while Arnold Bennett described her in 1901 as 'part of England' .
Her other books include a variation on the Faust legend , Gerard, or The World, the Flesh and the Devil (1891), and the collections Ralph the Bailiff and Other Tales (1862) , Weavers and Weft (1877) and My Sister's Confession (1879). More recently, eighteen of her best supernatural stories have been collected by editor Richard Dalby in The Cold Embrace and Other Ghost Stories, published in 2000 by Ash-Tree Press .
The following novella originally appeared in The Strand Magazine, just a year before Bram Stoker published Dracula. It was one of the first tales to feature an unconventional incarnation of the undead, in which a non- supernatural vampire exploits a dependent relationship with her victim. It also has some interesting things to say about the role of women in British society at that time
I
Bella Rolleston had made up her mind that her only chance of earning her bread and helping her mother to an occasional crust was by going out into the great unknown world as companion to a lady. She was willing to go to any lady rich enough to pay her a salary and so eccentric as to wish for a hired companion. Five shillings told off reluctantly from one of those sovereigns which were so rare with the mother and daughter, and which melted away so quickly, five solid shillings, had been handed to a smartly dressed lady in an office in Harbeck Street, London, W, in the hope that this very Superior Person would find a situation and a salary for Miss Rolleston. The Superior Person glanced at the two half-crowns as they lay on the table where Bella's hand had placed them, to make sure they
