The book of the Beast
“Pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: The only pang my bosom dare not brave Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.
—Byron For thirty-nine days she was their prisoner. On the fortieth she was their victim. It was her punishment.
She knew that she was guilty. She had looked for no kindness, and her first actions were prompted by the habit of human commerce, not fantasies of pity.
The truth had come to her gradually, as if she returned to consciousness: nothing had happened to alert the house.
Even her screams had been those of pleasure, and doubtless, if anyone had overheard them, they were correctly interpreted.
The metamorphosis occurred in silence.
It had been visible only to herself.
At the recollection—the full absorption of what had taken place in front of her—Helise wrested herself to her feet and swayed there in her ripped gown, her hair raining round her shoulders.
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