The Hunger by Susan Squires

shall be first in line.”
    Faces fell around the circle. “But the orphans . . .” Sherrington protested weakly.
    Beatrix thought she saw Langley still listening to the conversation with half an ear. He started when Perceval asked him a question. “I shall send round my contribution in any case.” She had done more for orphans than Lady Jersey dreamed of, but that was not what preoccupied her.
    It was Langley. Damnation! If she abandoned these absurd young men and sought Langley out, it would look like she was chasing him. The evening seemed all at once like a stale repetition of a thousand other evenings, or a thousand thousand. And at none of them had there been anything she wanted except sometimes the blood. She would always need blood, but even that had grown stale. Art? Her love of the arts had always protected her, butthat seemed such a slender defense. Her stomach felt as though it was filled with a heavy ball of dough. Music began. A country dance. The puppies would begin clamoring. She wasn’t certain she could bear it. Did Stephan feel the darkness gathering as she did? He was much older. The darkness ate up feeling. Perhaps he was incapable of loving her. Perhaps none of them could feel after repetition had banged at their psyches for so long. Wasn’t Asharti’s mad cruelty just another attempt to find something to feel? Or was Asharti’s insanity what waited for Beatrix in the dark . . . ?
    Beatrix looked around the room, desperate for an anchor. Slowly, the scene began to swirl as people partnered and moved into the dance. And then the colors whirled together, and the music assaulted her ears in a kaleidoscopic cacophony almost horrible in the way it warped reality. She swayed and put her fingers to her temples. The room and the crowds ran together like watercolors in the rain. She thought she could hear Asharti’s laughter in the music.
    “Lady Lente.” Her name echoed around her. She couldn’t tell if it was one or many of the faces, stretched into inhuman caricatures, who spoke. “Are you well?” What was happening?
    “I . . . I must go home.” Her own voice came out sounding like she was in a cave somewhere distant from herself. “I do not feel quite . . .”
    “I’ll . . . I’ll get your carriage.” It was Sherrington. The colors whirled and the music wailed. Asharti chuckled. Was it Ponsonby who fluttered at her elbow? She might faint at any moment like some young schoolgirl. It was almost as though she hadn’t fed for a long time. But that wasn’t true, was it? She couldn’t think. Darkness flickered at the edge of her vision. What was wrong? Nothing was ever wrong with her. The Companion saw to that.
    Strong hands gripped her arms above the elbows, under her slashed sleeves. The touch seemed to shatter her,it was so electric. Langley’s green eyes were clear in her streaming vision. “Let me,” he said curtly, in that steady rumble.
    Slowly, the whirling slowed around the weight of his grip on her arms. He steered her relentlessly toward the door. “Gentlemen, make way.” The crowds parted for her, of course. “I am quite able to navigate.” It came out petulant, but at least her voice didn’t echo in her ears.
    “Of course you are,” he agreed. But he didn’t give over guiding her firmly down the stairs. As a matter of fact, he took most of her weight, so she couldn’t fall even if she stumbled. It was annoying. He seemed to think he was entirely in control. She was stronger by ten times. How horrible to display this disgusting weakness! What would Stephan think if he could see her?
    But he wouldn’t see her. She would never see him again.
    Sherrington hurried over after ordering the carriage. The bucks from the ballroom trailed her. She might suffocate if they clamored after her. Langley seemed to know what she was feeling. He brushed them off, saying in a most commanding voice, “Give her air, lads.”
    A footman presented her sable wrap. Langley draped it over her