The Duke In His Castle by Vera Nazarian Page B

rank—wives and maidens, daughters and sisters—all are equal in the eyes of anguish, all are royalty of unfulfilled desire. In the moment of their emotional nadir they are all Mad Queens, tearing out their hair and gouging eyeballs, screaming and foaming, if only within the recesses of their broken minds. Meanwhile, their outsides often remain composed and placid till the end, numb hollow shells over roiling death inside.
    The tower stands, has stood for decades unto centuries unto stretches of time unaccounted, for the Dukedom of Violet is one of the oldest in the realm, and this place, the castle grounds, is older yet. There is a bit of irony that most recently the Mad Queens Tower houses neither Queens nor madwomen, nor any other tormented souls, but occasional guests of the living Duke.
    Such as tonight.
    The Duchess of White and the strange creature Nairis are both given elegant accommodations in the tower—as elegant as the crumbling castle permits. While the Duchess enjoys the services of a maid for the night, a change of clothing, a warm fire in the hearth, much perfumed linen and warm coverlets, a sleeping cap and gown of the softest fabric, a tray of sweet pastries and a hot tea service, Nairis—not much more cognizant than a newborn—is unveiled by three maids no less, dressed in a sleeping gown, placed on the chamberpot to no effect then finally success, cleaned up, spoon-fed a hot soup, scrubbed around the neck, face and ears, hair brushed till it crackles and gleams, and finally laid upon a feather bed upon which the slender body of Nairis sinks.
    Nairis lies thus, listening with the precise awareness of a wild animal to each snapping twig and hissing spark of the fireplace, to each rustle and creak of settling stone (for even after all these centuries, the castle moves, breathing like an ancient legendary wyrm). She is warmed by a thick quilted coverlet and a hot brick wrapped in several layers of cotton. One maid has gone but two maids still hover over her even now, watching her motionless form, her gently flickering eyelids as they become groggy with the need for sleep.
    But apparently, as many newborns, Nairis has the curious inability to fall asleep even when exhausted. And thus they come to rock her; one older buxom maid draws Nairis up to her motherly chest and moves to and fro, making soothing hum-noises of a lullaby, while the very young one runs her fingers kindly over the forehead and tender filaments of auburn hair.
    It must be noted that the buxom maid has been selected for this task because she is a nursing mother with a steady and reliable supply of milk. Before coming to attend Nairis she is told of the possibility that the strange young woman—who is explained to be suffering from a malady and is unable to understand or look after herself—might require a breast to suckle, just as a newborn, in which case the maid is ready to accommodate her.
    Eventually all three become drowsy. Nairis is soothed and lies back against the feather bed, is covered and cosseted, and her eyes, overcast with languor, are finally closed.
    Since she appears to be asleep, the two maids pull the draperies nearly closed around the great bed leaving just a small space to observe her, then make themselves comfortable in two large upholstered chairs. They have been told to stay with her overnight, to watch for any peculiarities, to handle any of her needs. And so they do as they are told for the most part, watching with one eye, as the common saying goes. The older maid is already snoring softly, chin sunken down toward the deep shadowed space between two fat bulging breasts, while the younger maid goes to bank the flames in the fireplace, stirs the coals, then clambers up into the other chair, feet curled up underneath her apron for extra warmth.
A single tallow candle remains lit on the side table.
By three o’clock past midnight, the candle is nearly down to one third of its column, with the rest of it pooling in