Harvest

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The sun had not yet set when Lady Gwendolyn Wyteclifff woke in the Northwood House. Squinting against the light leaking through the curtains, she rolled away to herside and pulled the covers over her head. There was a commotion downstairs already—everyone preparing for tomorrow’s Harvest Festival. She was dreading it.

The asinine guests that gathered during the Festival exhausted her, let alone the grandstanding and one-upmanship of her family members. She wanted little more than to stay where she was and hide away from the whole horrid affair.

A pang of thirst hit her, and it was almost enough to drag her out of bed. Perhaps there was something more she wanted.

After a few minutes, Gwendolyn rose, gliding through the manor in her silk pajamas.

The old, creaking staircase had been garlanded with leaves in scarlet and gold. She leaned in to smell them—to her surprise, they were real, musky and sweet. They must have been gathered from the small wood behind the servants’ house.

More than a dozen colorful gourds were mounted on the mantle downstairs, surrounded by tall, elegant candles. She admired the autumnal garlands weaving through the manor, the wreaths wrought from fall foliage adorning the walls, the sweet, spicy aroma of mulled wine—cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and star anise—that filled the halls of Northwood House.

Despite herself, Gwendolyn thought it was all rather pleasant.

And why shouldn’t she? That hideous Harvest Festival was tomorrow, but it wasn’t the only event fast approaching.

The aching thirst she felt was fathomless.

Gwendolyn strode into the kitchen, ignoring the cook who greeted her. She was focused on finding a bottle of wine in the cupboard. She poured herself a glass—a deep, lustrous maroon liquid, earthy and robust—and carried it to the manor’s drawing room. She pulled the curtains closed over the window, blocking out the last rosy rays of sunset cast across the sky, and settled into a chair to read.

She preferred reading when it was quieter, without household servants scurrying throughout the manor. Still, at least their work in the drawing room was already finished—garlands hung on the walls, festive centerpieces placed on the table—so she ought to be less disturbed here.

She had read but one page before she was interrupted by her husband, Remington. He stood in the foyer, just outside the drawing room.

“Did you hear me, dear? I said, ‘Did you sleep well?’ ”

Gwendolyn sighed and closed her book. “Yes. Dear. I slept perfectly well.”

“I’m glad you decided to join us.”

She sighed again and made a show of gazing back down at her book. “I’m sure.”

“Everyone’s working very hard. Well, everyone except our son. He was supposed to be here to help. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always been so unreliable. There’s still much to be done before the Festival tomorrow evening.”

“Is there?”

“Well, of course.”

Gwendolyn let the ensuing silence fall between them with indifference, feigning no ignorance as to his implications, but rather daring him to state them aloud.

Remington crossed his arms, disgruntled. “Perhaps, darling, you could assist in my efforts to get the manor ready for the Harvest Festival.”

“Your efforts? I don’t see you running around with the servants.”

“Running around? Of course not. But making decisions, planning—”

“Is the planning not already done, darling?”

“I—well, there’s still more work to do, and as my wife—”

“Really?” She paused. “How does that thought finish, husband? As your wife—”

“Frankly, you’re neglecting your duties. This is your house as well as mine, and your refusal—”

“My duties! I never agreed to any of this. But, then again, you never asked me.” She closed her book. It was clear that he wasn’t going to let her read in peace.

“Gwendolyn!” he called after her.

She didn’t care. She strode from the drawing room, back upstairs, where there was at least less commotion. Fewer servants to ask her for instructions she didn’t care to give, and fewer family members to interrogate her.

Still, it had been more than enough to ruin her mood.

Well, almost. With what she was planning later this evening, it was hard not to be at least a little excited.

A door in the hall upstairs creaked open as she walked past, interrupting her thoughts. It was Tabitha’s room—Remington’s mother. A black cat was perched through the threshold, watching her with indolent green eyes.

“Gwendolyn, dear?” The voice came from within the room.

The cat licked its paw, watching Gwendolyn as she stepped past it and into the room.

Tabitha reclined in a blanket-laden rocking chair next to her window, a menagerie of cats clustered on the chair and around the room.

“Tabitha.” Gwendolyn swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. Tabitha gestured her closer.

As she weaved through the sea of cats, the door swung shut behind her with a loud groan. She wasn’t looking, but one of Tabitha’s cats must have pushed it closed.

“It’s rather late for you to be rising, don’t you think? The sun is practically set already.”

“Yes, well, I had a late night.”

“Hmm. I hope you don’t have another late night tonight. I would hate for you to miss out on the Harvest Festival tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Tabitha. I’ll be there.” She appraised the ancient woman. Tabitha’s breath was a bit heavy, but her gaze was surprisingly sharp. “And how about you? Are you getting enough rest?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m saving up my energy for the Festival. I hope the preparations are going well.”

The comment was pointed; she knew Gwendolyn had stayed as far away from organizing the events as possible. Gwendolyn gave her a wide smile. There was no point in lying. “I hope so, too,” she said.

Tabitha’s grin was almost a grimace. One of her cats jumped down from her lap and trotted over to Gwendolyn, sniffing at her feet, whiskers tickling her ankle. She stepped back, and the cat meandered away, tail raised high.

Unlike Remington, it seemed Tabitha was more than happy to let the tense silence sit between them. Still, after a while, it was she who broke it.

“I think you ought to go to bed early tonight,” Tabitha said, “to make sure you get enough sleep.”

Gwendolyn took another sip of her wine. “Thank you for your concern, Tabitha.”

“Good night, Gwendolyn.”

“Good night.” Gwendolyn had already opened the door and walked past the black cat that remained sitting in the doorway, its eyes following her down the hall behind a lackadaisical blink.

She’d had enough of everyone in this house for one day. And she hadn’t even seen her children yet. The Harvest Festival tomorrow was going to be dreadful. What misery the company of her family was.

Fortunately, at least for tonight, she had plans.

With the thought came another surge of the familiar ache within her, almost joyous for the knowledge that, soon, it would be alleviated.

Gwendolyn finished the remainder of her red wine and retreated to the small sitting room outside her bedroom. It may not be as silent a refuge from the tumult of preparations downstairs, but at least, here, she would be able to read without being disturbed.

And read she did, for hours, until the drumming of feet running back and forth downstairs faded to the occasional creaking floorboard, and the voices calling and asking for directions dissolved to the infrequent muffled word. Her excitement for tonight almost eclipsed the weakness she felt from her cravings. Still, she waited, until she heard her husband, Remington, walk down the hall past her sitting room, and the door to their bedroom groaned open and rattled shut.

Then, and only then, did she rise again.

She swept through the quiet manor, her silk pajamas not daring so much as to rustle, never breaking the silence of her swift footsteps. She didn’t go through the foyer to the front door; no, she might be spotted, and even if she wasn’t, the front door was loud.

There was, however, a more discreet way to exit the manor.

At the servants’ door, she peered over her shoulders to make sure she was alone. One of Tabitha’s cats glanced at her from down the hall, before returning to grooming its sleek black and white splotched fur.

Fighting the urge to grimace—her ache was too strong, now, to ignore—Gwendolyn slipped outside.

The air was bracing. It sent chills up her arms, her spine.

She walked barefoot through the Northwood House grounds, the soles of her feet comforted by the soft grass and the damp but firm earth underneath. She moved as a ghost, keeping to the shadows cast by the almost-full moon glowing in the sky, leaving little trace in her wake.

As she came to the front of the manor grounds, a motion in the distance caught her eye. She froze for a moment, staring across the yard. But it was only the gardener, out late, crouched in the gardens in front of the house, no doubt making final arrangements to ensure everything was perfect for the Harvest Festival.

No reason for her to be concerned. It was dark enough; he would not be able to see her.

She flitted over the earth again. Soon she had left the manor grounds and found herself heading toward a small walking trail in the woods just south of the Northwood House. She thought little of where her feet were taking her, her guide was the incessant aching emptiness that had surpassed enthusiasm, encompassing now an intense passion.

For a moment, she remembered the taste of the earthy wine on her tongue. But it was not enough; a vacant flavor, full of complexity, perhaps, but lacking depth, lacking significance, lacking verve.

She was no one, anymore. Only her craving and the need for it to be appeased.

Gwendolyn had been on the trail for mere minutes when she saw a man walking toward her. Tall, average build, middle aged and far younger than she was, though they could have passed for similar ages. He wore clothes that showed he cared how he was perceived. And his eyes—when he saw her, too, when she was almost upon him—were lit with the wide, awestruck desire of a person lacking experience in intimacy in the midst of encountering one they found desirable.

It was, she thought, pitiful.

Her walk slowed to a stop as he approached and, tentative at first, greeted her.

She remembered little of their conversation. Her thirst guided her through it, so she would not have to dwell on the details herself. She retained mere glimpses of words, aftertastes of phrases, echoes of empty laughter.

She didn’t remember his name, though she was sure he’d said it, at some point. She hadn’t told him hers.

He commented on her pajamas, and how she must be cold. She had laughed at him and said that he looked warm. He hadn’t offered her his coat, but had mentioned her beauty—mentioned it several times. She pretended it flattered her.

And there was a certain beauty to him, too, or at least, there might have been.

His face did not offend her, but his personality was vapid, and his hunger for her conspicuous in its lack of etiquette or charm, his eyes watching her as if she were only there for him, as if she were not there for her at all.

Her craving besieged her and she shivered, a shiver he mistook for discomfort in the late autumn chill.

At last, as if the thought was evidence of both keen brilliance and profound generosity on his part, he offered her his coat and proposed to take her somewhere warmer.

And, at last, Gwendolyn took her opportunity.

“No, thank you. I have no need. I live nearby.” She waited for his expression to fall, savoring the disappointment in his eager eyes, before adding, “I can show you, if you like.”

His smile illuminated his face, guileless, presumptuous. “Okay,” he said.

By the time they had returned to the manor grounds, the gardener was nowhere to be seen. The lights inside the manor were off. It seemed no one was awake anymore, not even the servants.

Good.

The man was awestruck as they approached the Northwood House, evident in its grandeur even in the moonlit dark.

“You live here?” Her face was shrouded in the night; his lambent with the silver glow of the moon. “Are you—”

She took his arm in her hand, and he fell silent. This time, it was his turn to shiver. And for her—here, now, touching him—her craving almost defeated her. The excitement, the anticipation, was overwhelming, consuming. She tried to steady herself. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

He didn’t seem to notice the change in her, the hesitation as she suppressed her desire. He was too engrossed by the presence of her hand, the feel of her, her touch.

“Does it matter who I am?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She saw her smile reflected in his eyes as she began to sneak toward Northwood House again. She kept her fingers wrapped around the curve of his elbow, delicate as she led him onward.

He didn’t question her as she guided him away from the front entrance, around the manor, to the servants’ door. His eyes shone in the shadows, fixed on her, negligent of his surroundings.

They were so close now. She felt as if she could hear his heart beating; her ache was desperate in its pull to him. She didn’t think she could bear it. She could barely even stand.

The door opened with little more than a whisper as cold air drifted inside.

Gwendolyn put a finger to her lips for silence as they stepped into the Northwood House. He nodded in understanding.

Less gentle, now, more insistent, her willpower teetering on the brink of disaster, she led him through the dark manor. They wound past decorations that had been assembled for tomorrow’s Harvest Festival. A long table topped with a cornucopia of butternut and acorn squash, a small pyramid of pumpkins in the hall.

She wondered if he saw them at all; his gaze drifted between her and the place where her fingers touched—now, gripped—his arm.

He was oblivious, willing to follow her anywhere. It wasn’t until she drew open the door to the wine cellar, cautious to avoid any creaking, that he hesitated.

She glared at him, impatient.

“Down there?” he whispered. “Isn’t there somewhere more...comfortable, or…”

She bit her tongue to quell her screaming urge, cursing her endurance, her restraint. She smiled, gritting her teeth.

“The rest of the house is asleep. But they won’t hear us down here.”

More importantly, the servants had already taken all the wine bottles they would need for the Harvest Festival. No one would be coming down to the wine cellar tomorrow, either.

His grin returned, keen and greedy.

At the bottom of the stairs was a thick wooden door. She shut it behind them, shaking as she strained against her desire, ushering him through wooden shelves that housed hundreds of bottles of wine. Here, they were in total darkness. The man wouldn’t be able to see anything, now.

Whispering, still, her voice trembling, she said, “Lay your coat on the floor.”

He stumbled, tripping over himself as he tugged his arms from the sleeves of his coat, flinging it to the cold stone floor.

Gwendolyn nodded. “Now, your shirt.” When he had laid his shirt atop his coat, she said, “Now, lie down.”

His breathing was heavy as he followed her direction, his jaw hanging open, his eyes searching the darkness for her, for her voice.

She slid out of her pajamas, the silk slipping to the floor with little more than a sigh. It was important that her clothes stay clean, after all; she wouldn’t want the servants to notice anything was amiss. Her footsteps were noiseless as she crept around him and his pile of clothing, stopping next to his head.

She stood there a moment, looking at him—not to remember him, later. Not for any reason, really, that she could identify.

Then she crouched down, her cheek brushing against his shoulder, her lips hovering over his neck. He flinched, gasping, almost crying out when he felt her delicate touch. His arms were covered in goosebumps, and the hair on the back of his neck had risen.

Then the euphoric pang took over, and she was nothing but thirst, thirst and the act of quenching it.

Her hand covered his mouth before he could scream. Her teeth buried deep in the veins in his neck, and his life poured forth, flowing into her. A flood of relief coursed through her, and she laughed, even as she drained him.

He barely struggled—too shocked, or perhaps unwitting at first that he was in any true danger. And by the time he did push against her, it was too late; he was too weak. Her need was dire, and the blood spilled from him as water from a broken dam.

It was not long before he lay dead—not yet cold, the warm flow of his blood still came freely when called forth—and she could drink until she was content.

Gwendolyn wiped the blood from her mouth. Her appetite at last sated, her thoughts cleared, and she began to form a plan.

She would attend the Harvest Festival tomorrow, of course—at least, she would make an appearance at dinner, before excusing herself when her inevitable boredom with the inane affair set in. Then, late at night, once Northwood House was asleep with stomachs full of food and wine, she would return to finish drinking from him, then drag him out to the woods behind the manor to bury him. She would clean the cellar, too, of course, though with any luck it would require little work. Little enough blood had escaped her lips, and his clothes would have absorbed the rest.

Satisfied with herself, with her plan, with her harvest, she lay on the cold cellar floor for a long time, replete.

Gwendolyn had bathed and returned to bed by the time the sun rose. And when she awoke again, it was late afternoon. She could already hear the first of the Harvest Festival guests downstairs. No doubt her children had arrived.

There was a loud knock on the bedroom door. Her husband, Remington, entered. He was wearing a suit and tie, handsome despite her antipathy for him and his tireless conceit.

“Good afternoon, darling.”

Gwendolyn glared at him in return.

“I was hoping you would join the festivities. Our children are here, and I believe they’d like to see you.”

She sighed and sat upright. “I must prepare myself,” she said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t approve of me attending such a fine festival in my pajamas.”

Remington sighed, too. “No, I would rather prefer it if you didn’t embarrass us both.”

“Very well. Darling. I will come down when I have made myself presentable.”

Remington shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. Gwendolyn smiled to herself, lying back down in bed. She would rise when it pleased her, and not a moment sooner.

They could all wait.

But the annoyance that had risen, as it did from every conversation with her husband, didn’t last long. For as much as she dreaded the coming evening, she had her own feast waiting for her.

Perhaps, she thought, this year’s Harvest Festival wouldn’t be so bad, after all.