must share what bounty we are given,’ Florence stated, ‘for the good of all, and not only are you better equipped to provide than either of us, but your name is at the head of the rota.’
Cicely didn’t trouble to answer, sparing only a brief downward glance for the way her chest bulged from the top of her corset before turning to stare out across the moonlit lawn. The cedars and the turrets and chimneys of the house created oddly shaped shadows on the grass, while a faint breeze was making the leaves of the beeches clack and their branches creak, all of which would have been very pleasant were it not for the intransigence of her companions. The Baroness was bad enough, with her superior airs and malicious humour, but Florence was worse by far, with her firm but reasonable tone and irrefutable arguments.
None of the three spoke for some time, each thinking her own thoughts and listening to the sounds of the night. The Baroness, as always, had dressed for the evening and in garments she felt correct for her age and status: a long, high-necked gown of black silk, black boots with a sharp heel, gloves and a tall hat from which depended a veil, all black save for a spray of feathers that showed a hint of dark, iridescent green. Florence, in a sense, was no less formal, in the flowing white shroud she’d been buried in a hundred and forty years previously. Cicely had dressed for town, in a corset of brilliant-green satin, voluminous split-seam drawers, stockings and smart brown shoes decorated with brass buckles.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘It’s fully dark, and the traffic will have died down a little.’
‘Not until you’ve fed Aunt Isabella,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘And, besides, you can’t go out like that. You’re in danger of popping out, and your hair is a bird’s nest!’
‘It’s the fashion,’ Cicely explained, ‘and, besides, I need a man, or a woman, maybe, some nice, plump, baby vamp who’ll let me lick –’
The Baroness drew herself up. ‘Manners, Cicely! In my day –’
‘In your day,’ Cicely interrupted, ‘I could have bought myself a prostitute for less than a shilling and done as I pleased with her, but I don’t suppose you ever did that?’
‘One does not remark on such things,’ the Baroness answered in her most glacial tones.
‘What about that nice Rococo boy?’ Florence put in hastily. ‘Aren’t you seeing him any more?’
‘Goth,’ Cicely corrected. ‘Marco is a Goth, and no I’m not. He was getting too weird.’
‘Too weird?’ the Baroness queried. ‘Strange, coming from you.’
‘He wanted us to sleep in a coffin,’ Cicely explained, ‘half full of earth.’
‘I can’t understand why people do that,’ Florence said. ‘It’s desperately uncomfortable, and, besides, the whole idea of a coffin is to keep the earth out.’
‘I used to have a beautiful coffin,’ the Baroness mused. ‘It was padded throughout the interior, even on the underside of the lid, in crimson velvet, with my coat of arms worked in gold leaf. Wretched peasants!’
‘You have to see their point of view,’ Cicely retorted.
‘I am only too well acquainted with their point of view,’ the Baroness snapped back. ‘Now go and feed Aunt Isabella. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’
‘Yes, do, Cicely, darling,’ Florence added. ‘It is your turn.’
‘I don’t want to! You know what she’s like!’
‘A little eccentric, I grant you, but you normally rather like that sort of thing.’
‘Not before she’s fed! Look, I’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Now,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘You are beginning to try my patience, Cicely St Cyr.’
‘Don’t start that again, please,’ Cicely answered. ‘I am more than one hundred and ten years old, and –’
‘Do as you are told,’ the Baroness said firmly, ‘or you will have to be spanked.’
‘Isn’t it really about time you stopped doing that sort of thing?’ Cicely demanded. ‘This is the twenty-first century.’
‘So it is, my dear,’ the Baroness answered, ‘but you and I belong to the nineteenth, and I see no reason to change our behaviour.’
‘I do!’ Cicely exclaimed, but it was already too late.
A pale, bony hand had shot out, to grab hold of her arm. She was quickly drawn in, her squalling protests ignored as she was hauled into place across the Baroness’ knee, her skirts turned up, her drawers pulled open and her rounded, milk-white bottom soundly spanked in tune to her howls of pain and indignation. When she was finally allowed up she stood rubbing at her rear cheeks, her face set in a resentful scowl.
‘And if you continue to pout you’ll get more,’ the Baroness warned her, ‘with my hairbrush. Now go and feed Aunt Isabella.’
Cicely made a face and continued to rub at her bottom, still defiant.
Florence had watched the spanking with a curious mixture of sympathy and approval, in silence, but now gave a sad shake of her head and spoke up. ‘Run along, Cicely, or it will be the cane.’
Not deigning to answer, Cicely gave an angry toss of her unruly curls and stamped indoors, but Florence’s argument had been persuasive. Being spanked across the knee was something she could cope with, but the cane was another matter entirely, although having given in didn’t make the task in front of her any easier. She climbed the stairs slowly, twice stopping as some new argument occurred to her, but both grounded on the fact that if she employed them she was more than likely to end up touching her toes with her bare bottom sticking out of her drawers as she was given six of the best.
She hesitated again when she reached the landing. Aunt Isabella’s door was closed and there was absolute silence, which was only to be expected. Plucking up her courage, she went in, taking a moment for her eyes to adapt to the dull orange light of the single candle that illuminated the room. In front of her was a great four-poster bed, the canopy half-concealing the occupant, who lay with the bed sheets pulled back, her body limp and naked, the skin stretched taut and yellow over angular bones, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, the mass of ghost-pale hair oddly incongruous.
‘Aunt Isabella?’ Cicely queried, suddenly worried that the woman on the bed might actually be dead.
A voice like cobweb answered her. ‘Cicely? Come close, my dear.’
Cicely obeyed, seating herself on the bed and extending one cautious hand to touch the desiccated chest. Aunt Isabella’s flesh felt cold and oddly waxy, while one withered nipple had already begun to crack, yet the bony hand which had settled across Cicely’s shoulders was pulling her in with considerable strength.
‘I’m sorry we left you so long,’ Cicely said quietly, as she allowed herself to be drawn in against Aunt Isabella’s mouth.
A sharp cry of pain escaped Cicely lips as the fangs punctured her neck, and Aunt Isabella had begun to feed. Cicely stayed still, trembling badly, her breathing growing deeper and more urgent as the blood flowed from her neck and into the mouth of
