Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XCI. The Scarlet Letter

10
PRINCE MANOR
Robin
Vinci, LA
The Siren's Moat
October 31st, 2014
Time: 6:30 AM
____________________________

   When the singing of the wolves aded, when Trevor went back to bed, when nothing was left, sobriety burned like a thousand suns and she let the sting of whiskey continue to burn her. Her throat was dry, her eyes were hollow, and her head throbbed. The soreness between her thighs was still prominent, still deliciously sweet, and the sobriety awakened that feeling. Heightened it, made it burn.

    As the dawn stirred from her madness, and greeted Robin, she stood on the cupola in nothing but robe and in her golden cross necklace that she'd received from her adoptive father, Peter DeMarcus, who salvaged it from her biological father – Caïn Dunkeld. She sat pensively, silently, and as she stared at the Gulf of Mexico from beyond Desdemona Princeʼs cupola – she watched the wolves of the Princeʼs Praetor bow. The monsters that took everything from her. Bow, and sway, and howl.

   The sea was seductive in her ear: never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring – and the Order of the Dragon didnʼt either.

   She drowned in the melancholy, bittersweet, taste of citrusy lemon water, waiting for her babies to yawn and giggle as they woke up for the day. For Trevor to find it in his heart to forgive her. The foamy waves curled along the beach, and the Order ate. Hunting for the beasts under the sea. Hot blood spurted from the underbellies of the creatures, and Robin watched – queenly in her right. She lost herself in the carnality, the bloodlust, the intoxicating violence, the way the Spanish moss soaked in the carnage – and she heard her voice. Heard the rose gold tip of her pen hit paper. She heard the letter, and as she gripped her cross, she recited it from memory in her Spanish tongue. Softly, slowly.

   She wrote and wrote until her fingers bled:

❦❧♱❦❧

853 Jackson Road
The Prince Estate
Vinci, LA 70008

❦❧♱❦❧

Scott,

I am sorry I didnʼt reply to you sooner.

This letter was the only way.

The nights are getting restless here in Vinci. Everyday this prison grows into a cathedral. Chafing me, plotting against me. Everyday this dungeon eats away at my spirit. The Hellbenders – the mercenaries that hired me to sabotage the Order, their enemy –  they constrict me like a doll in a corset; and if I donʼt play the role of the dutiful wife, if I donʼt infiltrate the Order of the Dragon, theyʼll erase me and theyʼll cannibalize my children. 

The walls have ears, Scott, and I have at least two tails on me. I donʼt know if theyʼre from Medellín or Curaçao; if the Volta Grande wants revenge. I donʼt know if theyʼre envoys of the Order of the Dragon. I donʼt know if theyʼre the Aragons seeking revenge for the murder of their daughter.

I know you had nothing to do with that, but Sebastian did, and incriminating his foreign wife by laying the blame on her to further his campaign for the Order wouldnʼt make him lose an eveningʼs rest. He hates me. I am predisposed. I am...a flock of sheep, falling into the butcherʼs knife. And every day I am being followed.

The raven and the sparrow sleep together in the darkness the Louisianan twilight provides them, and their whispers never stop. They never end. Their desire for my head burns. The days grow colder. They question the legitimacy of my children. They say Trevor is Gustavoʼs, or yours, but itʼs just rumor.