The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files? 

Cycling through museums of dream –

Christine, threatened forever by

Her hideous Phantom, Daphne

Sprouting as a laurel tree;

Philomela without her tongue.

Was that what Verne meant by

Classics? In the night’s dark heart 

I woke and thought I saw him standing there or

Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed

Mirror to beckon me closer

Or warn me away?

Somehow I became convinced

Mirabel was dead – murdered by

Lord Verne – he must have done it because

I was his perfect alibi, covering up

His appearance in the Epstein files

Of life, where old roués

Tarnish up the young.

If I stayed here

I’d be Mirabel forever – so I

Fled through shattered French windows where

Sheer white curtains blew across my face

Impeding me; supplicating

Me to dance, daring my embrace.

Where was I? Was this the ruined castle

Where the wraiths were tourists

Gazing at destruction paid for

With the lifeblood of the country?

The stone terrace beneath my feet

Was littered with the broken glass

Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way

Between the broken statues – horny Pan 

Whose face had split, cupids gaping with

Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing

Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.

Pursued by something

Too disgusting to confront

I saw his shadow –

A leering man with antlers.

At least the distant view

Was comforting – pond encircling island

Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned 

By snowy mountains. 

Surely he could not pursue me there.

Something amiss about this lighting –

Bleached too white – bad weather or

Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or

The end of the world?  I revert to

The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –

This was too horrible: I forced myself awake. 

Dreams multiplied enigmas –

I could not abandon Mirabel

Prance on home

And declare she’d

“Done it yet again.”

Either she was in danger or

I was. And all my life

I’d been preparing for this moment.

In the mirror I saw

Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –

Sunlight exacerbating a hangover

Not from overdrinking but

From over-dreaming.

Verne’s door was closed –

It would be awkward if I’d killed him

But I refused to check. Men

Should not be so dangerous.

I took control of the empty kitchen.

Some bad person – probably me –

Left out the cake – stiff and

Ruined now – only cardboard sugar

Which I guess it’s always been.

 Tossed it,

Put the last espresso in the

Microwave and

Opened cabinets sadly.

Here’s finally a place where guests could

Unpack their clothes –

Empty, empty, empty.

The front door unclicked –

I jumped so hard

I banged my head.

“Ow!”

And Verne cried

“Breakfast!”

I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems 

I’m the one who overslept.

“I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was

That stuff?” he 

Eyed my mug with disapproval.

“You can’t drink yesterday’s.”

I’ve heard it said their lordships

Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.

“I brought everything.” He went on,

Impossibly cheerful

Considering yesterday.

Waffles, eggs, fruit.

Coffee. No milk?

“It’s OK,” I said to his 

Self-recriminating face

“I noticed you have ice cream.”

Vanilla works as well or

Even better.

“Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.

“She says it makes cowbones

And soy makes man-boobs.”

She would say that.

Charming Mirabel.

I could one-up and list the

Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –

 “Ice cream is better.”

Hard to one-up when one is

Drooling. Visibly.