My Wholly Heartbreaking Heretic by Danielle Peterson
Chapter Three
Ma Bichette did not reappear that night. A mortal man may have been worried that his mortal woman had gotten run over or attacked or some other horror, but I knew she was avoiding me on purpose. The thought crossed my mind that she had sought refuge with her followers, but I dismissed that when I recalled her blunt contempt for them.
At dawn I arose. I fixed myself something to eat. There was not much to chose from as Ma Bichette is obsessed with her weight to some degree. Weight-gain is possible for us, so when she is shopping only for herself she only has all sorts of bland and healthy things in the pantry, like granola and apples and what have you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like vegetables plenty, but I also like sausages and butter. I made do with oatmeal (no sugar in the house though) and looked out the kitchen window as I ate it. Even though I knew I was in a lashing for smoking in the house by a woman in a presumably terrible mood, I still awaited her return like a loyal dog would his mistress.
She didn’t return. I ruminated over how upset she must have been for a while, then decided to take some sort of probably futile action. Wondering in the back of mind if she really had enough of a hold over them for them to work without being told to, I wandered down to the refitted stable.
While living in what is basically a barn can’t be pleasant under even the most mild conditions, living there in the tail end of winter must have been a particularly specific kind of hell. A few planks of plywood had been nailed up, seemingly at random, and padded with asbestos insulation. I paused to knock, then remembered that I certainly didn’t need to announce myself to enter the servant’s quarters. I threw the door open and surveyed the room.
Two young men, both bearded and wearing multiple layers of filthy coats and hats and gloves, turned their attention to me. “What do you need?” they asked in a sullen tone. Clearly they didn’t respect me, which is just as well because I despised them for their stupidity and/or the lust they held for Ma Bichette.
“Have you seen…” I had blanked on the ridiculous name she had assumed for herself. I tapped my fingers against the doorjamb while trying to recall it. When we had split up last time she was calling her Deirdre, but she usually changes it (as do I) after a split. As stated before I didn’t want to blow her cover, so I merely stop talking and hoped that they would get my drift.
They glanced at each other before answering. “We haven’t seen her,” the one with the thinner beard answered.
“We thought she was with you,” said his partner in puerility, their shared insinuation distinctly evident.
I smiled. “She was, yes,” I answered and traced my finger along the doorjamb in what I intended to be a very provocative manner, but probably came off as just odd. Since I was so sick of the whole underhanded nature and flat-out weirdness of the situation it took quite a bit of self control not to brag that I had been freely getting on and off for the past two hundred years what they were willing to slave for. Granted, I had to do a fair bit of drudgery as well, but I’m much more dignified about it.
“I seemed to have lost track of her,” I continued, casting my eye about the cramped and dark barracks. They didn’t even have proper beds, just some mattresses scattered on the floor. It’s awe inspiring, what she can convince men to do when she puts her mind to it.
“Who are you?” asked the one with the thinner beard.
“I don’t think you are supposed to be asking me questions,” I answered. “Now, you tell me places where she likes to go or I’ll tell your mistress you’ve been naughty and she’ll excommunicate you.”
“There is no excommunication!” said Thin Beard. “There is only death!” He said this with such apparent reverence I was taken aback for a moment.
“Whatever. Look, I have actual business with her, so tell me where she is,” I pressed.
“She’s probably entered into a state of empathetic unity,” he answered with an air of undue wisdom. “You’ll have to wait.”
My eyes fixed on a pitchfork that was lying against the wall. I got the urge to impale myself with it and then demand that they treat me as a god as well and answer my damn question, but instead I just reached into my jacket and pulled out my cigarettes. “Where does she go when she does this?”
“You don’t get it,” he sneered at me. “She has left our sphere. You will have to wait.”
“Fine, well, when she phases back into existence, tell her I’m doing what she wants and I’ll be back as soon as possible.” I turned and left. It was clear she didn’t want to talk to me. Even though she was hiding, I made a exhaustive effort to locate her on the vineyard. I didn’t find her, and each of her followers that I came across claimed they hadn’t seen her.
I left a note explaining what I was going to go do. On the back I drew a little sketch of her (drawing is one of those things that a proper classical education teaches you. Mostly useless now, but mastery of some sort of artistic ability was a part of the expected repertoire of gentleman). I drew her standing on a cloud, wearing a toga and preparing to chuck a lightening bolt. ‘Work harder!’ I captioned the sketch. ‘You’ll never earn my love this way!”