Chapter 1

I used to be an average teenage country girl, no model student but quite mundane in regards to my hobbies and goals. I helped my parents at the farm, took care of my bunny rabbits Elmo and Hubert, rode my bike to the few girl friends in reach and shared the usual conflicting dreams with them of great adventures in big cities on one hand and one day having my own loving family on the other. I nicked booze from Dad’s stash – not enough to get drunk, but it was about the thrill of camping in Marge’s backyard and sipping the forbidden, stinging stuff while looking at the stars, anyway, not about getting intoxicated, but about feeling grown-up and dangerous. We were young, carefree and naive, protected from the real world in our bubble, out of reach of cellphone reception and internet connection.

Everything changed in the summer before my seventeenth birthday. Great-great-aunt Elena had suddenly died, the sister of my grandma’s mother, and left everything to us. My mother had visited her about once a year. I had known she existed and that she was positively ancient, but not much else. Mom had taken a bit of a tumble in the hay barn the week before and had her foot in a cast. It was about a hundred degrees outside, and she couldn’t stand the heat. Dad was busy with the harvest and couldn’t afford to take time off. I overheard them arguing about it in the middle of the night, Dad telling her that I was responsible enough to take care of it while Mom worried about me going off into the unknown. Dad put his fist down.

And so, out of the blue, I was presented with a key for her house and a bus ticket, and told to sort through her belongings, give everything not highly valuable to charity, sell the finer stuff sans jewelry right away if possible and have a moving company transport the rest home. A lot of responsibility for a sixteen-year-old on her own and three hundred miles from home, but I’m a country girl. We do what needs to be done and ask questions later.

It’s a neat little house a little outside of the small village, a bit worn down by the years, and when I enter through the old, narrow door, it’s immediately apparent that my relative was a frugal woman. A few old pictures in faded frames line the walls, some of them still black and white, most people featured in them probably long dead. It’s a travel back in time. There’s no electricity. A huge wood stove is used instead to cook, and gas lights and candle holders are there for lighting. A sense of adventure dissolves my insecurities.

I brought my bike along, so after stowing my backpack in the house and making a quick tour, I ride back into the village. There’s a small grocery – closed, as it’s a Sunday – with a pay phone outside. Putting a few dimes in, I dial home and let Mom know that I’ve arrived and everything is in order.

“Make sure to turn off the gas if you’re not using it,” Mom reminds me, “and check if the chimney is free before you heat the stove.” As if I didn’t know that kind of thing. “Do you have something to eat?”

“I brought the bread and dried meat you gave me, remember? And there are all kinds of vegetables in the garden patch behind the house. I’ll just need to buy meat and butter every so often. There’s even a brick-built bread oven outside.”

After assuring her a few dozen times that I’m fine, I finally manage to wrap up the call. On the ride back, which takes me about an hour, I start planning where to begin.

That evening, after a dinner with bread and meat and the bottle of coke Dad slipped into my backpack when Mom wasn’t looking, I take another tour, armed with a candle – I have a torchlight in my pack, but a candle feels more fitting. Her bedroom only got a cursory glance the first time. Now I take a closer look around. There’s a huge four-poster bed in the center of the room, sturdy and made from dark wood. A small wardrobe holds a few dresses and other clothing items. What draws my eyes though is a large, framed photograph, grainy and black and white, on the wall behind the bed’s head end. It depicts a young woman with short hair sitting on a rocky beach, leaning against a rock and smiling coquettishly into the camera. She wears an incredibly old fashioned bathing suite with frills over her chest and lower body, but it’s still easy to see that she has a lean, curved body. Behind her, the waves wash against the rocks and small fountains of spray almost reach her.

I step closer. There’s something immediately familiar about her. The candlelight flickers, and it takes me a little until I understand what that something is. She looks a lot like me. If I cut my hair and put on a similar bathing suite, we might pass off as sisters. But then I spot the flowery script in the lower right corner. “Barbados, summer of 1918,” it reads. And underneath that, in letters so small that I have to move close and squint, is written, “The summer that changed everything.” I’m curious now. Suddenly, I want to learn more about that woman, about the mystery of that summer 90 years ago.

But not today. I’m tired. I’ve gotten up at four today, biked thirty miles to the bus stop, then rode and changed buses for hours, arrived here at three in the afternoon, then went into the village and back for the phone call. It’s getting pitch black outside, so it’s past nine already, and I traipse downstairs where I have rolled out my sleeping pad and bag in the small living room. I wouldn’t feel comfortable using her bedroom, not yet at least.

By ten in the morning, I’m exhausted and sweaty. I woke with the first light of dawn and couldn’t keep still. So I searched the wooden shed at the corner of the lawn and found a scythe and a grindstone. After a small breakfast of just bread and a cup of tea – the water heated on my camping stove since heating the wood stove was a bit overkill for that little water – I tackled the overgrown property. I have just fetched a jug of water from the spring behind the house and am about to sit down against the stem of the walnut tree to cool down a little when a squeaking noise startles me and I spin around.

“Sorry,” the man says and holds up his hand. His bike’s breaks have made the noise, apparently. “I just rode past and thought I saw something moving. Are you a relative of Elena?”

“Oh. I’m her grand-grandniece Theresa, Mr...” He looks friendly enough, in his late fifties or early sixties, but my mom’s warnings are still ingrained and I don’t move towards him.

“Where are my manners,” he says lightly. “Jason, Jason Roberts. I live about two miles down the road and helped Elena fix her garden tools from time to time.” He looks sad for a moment. “Though I don’t think she really needed the help, no, quite the talented woman she was. But I think she enjoyed a little company every so often.”

“I never met her,” I blurt out before I think it through and blush.

“She would have liked you,” Jason says.

“I’d like to learn more about her,” I say and put down the jug, then walk to the fence and lean against it, still a few feet from Jason.

“I don’t know all that much about her,” he tells me. “We only used to talk about gardening, and the weather, and the plants and animals around. I think you should talk with Annabel. She’s the village teacher. Until a few years ago when her health left out, Elena used to visit them quite regularly.”

“Where can I meet Annabel?”

“Annabel, Mrs. Blackstone, is at the opposite side of the village. It’s quite a ride there, but you can meet her every Tuesday and Thursday morning at the grocery around nine.”

We talk a bit more. Jason seems a bit sad when I tell him that we’re going to try and sell the property. He also put a damper on my hopes that there might be a charity nearby that might be interested in some of the furniture.

That evening, I fall asleep with mixed emotions. I’m wondering what to do about the furniture, but I’m also excited to learn more about Elena. I spent half an hour in the bedroom, staring at the picture in the daylight and being fascinated by the resemblance between us. I also snooped through the papers in the kitchen drawers, but besides a few bills, there was nothing that told me anything about my relative.

“Mrs. Blackthorne?” I heard the owner of the grocery address her by name earlier, so I know it’s her. I’ve waited half an hour outside in the heat, loaded with my own purchases, hoping that Jason wasn’t wrong.

The woman turns to me, and I can’t help but feel a little intimidated. She’s tall, with her gray hair in a tight bun that makes her look severe, yet it’s undeniable that she used to be a very beautiful woman. She wears a light, white summer dress with small purple and yellow flowers, and her feet are in open sandals that are far too elaborate for the dusty sand road we are standing on. For a moment, she seems to turn pale, almost as if she has seen a ghost.

“Do we know each other?” she asks, her eyes widening, and slowly looks me up and down.

I cringe inside. Getting all the paths around the property free of overgrowth took longer than anticipated, and I’m still in my sweaty pink t-shirt and the clashing, dirty, faded, pale blue shorts. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “I’m Theresa Harding,” I introduce myself and hold out my hand. I have to hold the strap of my bag with my other hand to keep it from sliding down my shoulder. “I’m Elena’s grand-grandniece. Jason, I mean Mr. Roberts, told me you knew her. I was hoping you could maybe tell me a bit about her since I never met her.”

A small shiver seems to run through her body, then her expression softens. She takes my hand in hers. Her nails are painted in purple, matching the flowers on her dress, and they are long and immaculate, unlike my own scrapped and dirty nails. She has a strong grip, and she holds my hand for a while. “Theresa. A lovely name,” she says. “Yes, I can see the resemblance now. How old are you?”

“Sixteen, Ma’am,” I say and blush a little. The words somehow rush out.

“And polite, too.”

My blush deepens.

“I’ll have Anthony fetch you at half past eleven tomorrow,” she says. “We’ll have lunch together, and then we can spend all afternoon talking about Elena.”

I stare at her. She didn’t even ask if I have time. One of her eyebrows slowly shifts upwards. “Okay,” I say, but the eyebrow keeps moving and her eyes narrow a little. “Thank you, Ma’am,” I say, and her smile turns warm again.

“It’s my pleasure,” she says and lets go of my hand, but her fingertips slide over my palm, and I have no idea what to make of her.

I have put all the paperwork into one of the used moving boxes Jason dropped off when he drove by on his tractor. He already knew that I met Mrs. Blackthorne. Apparently, there aren’t many secrets in the small, spread out village.

At half past eleven, a small dust cloud approaches in the wake of a black Mercedes. A tall man Mrs. Blackthorne’s age, wearing formal black trousers and a white shirt, steps out, and I go outside and close the wooden gate.

“Nice to meet you,” he says and shakes my hand. “I’m Anthony, Annabel’s husband.”

He too keeps my hand in his too long. He is tall. His eyes are a deep blue. The slight gray stubble on his cheeks gives him somewhat of a rugged touch.

“She didn’t exaggerate. You really look a lot like Elena. Annabel is preparing fish. Do you like fish?”

“I love it,” I tell him, and out of some strange notion, I feel the need to be polite and add, “Sir.”

“Wonderful.” He lets go of my hand and opens the passenger door. The car has leather seats and burl wood inlays. It has to cost a fortune. “Please, get in so we don’t leave Annabel waiting.”

“What kind of person was Aunt Elena?” I ask when we roll down the bumpy gravel road. The Mercedes swallows most of the bumps though.

“I don’t want to tell too much,” he says, “it’s Annabel who knows her best, but she was a wonderful person. Loving, devoted, compassionate and incredibly brave and strong.”

“Brave?” I ask, now even more curious than before.

“You need to ask Annabel for details.”

We turn left onto the main road and immediately left again, through a small forest and then along a good number of switchbacks up a hill. After the last switchback, we pass between some tall firs and roll to a stop in front of a huge bungalow. Behind us, a massive, opaque metal gate rolls closed.

The modern house is all glass fronts and wooden terraces, with a huge pool right next to it. “Wow,” I breathe and stare.

“Not bad, huh?” Mr. Blackthorne asks and exits the car.

I get out too and catch myself smiling broadly. Under a large awning held up by thick ropes, a table with three chairs has been set. Mrs. Blackthorne just sets down a plate with baked potatoes, and I gulp. The moss green dress she wears is tight and short, cut out deeply at the front, and the sides are just half an inch wide straps of fabric every few inches, showing off her bare skin. A few more thin straps span over her cleavage and keep the dress in place. It’s almost indecent, and mom would be clucking her tongue and telling me we’d be leaving.

“Come on,” Mr. Blackthorne says and puts a hand on my shoulder, gently steering me towards his wife.

“Perfect,” she says, looking up and smiling at me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you so much for the invitation, Ma’am,” I say, and something tingles inside me at the warm smile my formal address paints on her lips.

“Sit down, sit down,” she tells me, pointing to the chair at the head of the table. “Anthony, be a dear and pour her a glass of wine while I get the fish.”

“Uh, I’m only sixteen, I’m not allowed to drink-”

“Balderdash,” she says and pats my shoulder. “Nobody’s going to tell. Without a nice glass of wine, the meal would just taste half as good.”

So, five minutes later, I take my first official sip of wine. The fish filet with sage and butter tastes brilliant. Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorne talk all through the meal and when we’re finished, I feel like I know most of the village’s inhabitants. The wine gets to my head, and I feel a little dizzy and can’t stop myself from laughing too loud every so often. They don’t seem to mind.

Mr. Blackthorne clears the table, and then his wife serves Italian ice cream with strawberries. “So, Elena,” she says after a spoonful, “you’re surely antsy to learn about your ancestor. Do you know how she came into the states?”

“She wasn’t born here?” I ask.

“No, she and her sister, your great grandmother, came from Russia. Their father died in a hunting accident when she was five. Their parents were some lower level of aristocracy. It was 1913. She was eleven and her sister was nine. Russia was suffering under famines and war was brewing. Their mother, an educated and world wise woman, realized that the time of the Tsar was about to end and feared for the safety of her daughters. An American merchant she and her husband had developed friendly ties with was relocating back to the states, and his wife volunteered to take the girls with them and raise them until their mother could convert her assets into money and follow them.

I’m glued to her lips. “What happened then?” I ask. “When did their mother follow them?”

Mrs. Blackthorne sighs. “Their mother never made it. With war starting, her family’s money was confiscated and put to the use of the military. Nobody knows exactly what happened to her, but she stopped writing the merchant’s wife in late 1916.

I sigh too. “That’s sad,” I say. “So the girls stayed with the merchant’s family?”

“Your great grandmother did. Elena had a riding accident in the spring of 1918, and a massive splinter of wood was lodged in her lower body.”

I shiver and feel my eyes grow most. “What – what happened?” I ask, my voice thick with worry.

“It was touch and go for a few days. The doctors could save her, and she didn’t have any lasting damage on the outside that a small scar. But the doctors revealed that she would never be able to have children, and for a while, she was depressed and nearly catatonic.”

“Poor aunt Elena,” I whisper.

“They didn’t dare and leave the girl alone, fearing that she might harm herself, so they hired a governess for her, a stern woman in her early forties. At first, Elena and the governess didn’t get along at all. Elena seemed to withdraw even more, and they were about to dismiss the governess when the girl’s behavior suddenly changed. Over the course of two months, she was no longer depressed and withdrawn.”

“Thank god,” I say quietly. “The poor girl.”

“That’s what they said too. But then, one night, the merchant and the wife returned a day earlier than planned from an excursion and heard strange sounds from upstairs. When they went to investigate, they were shocked what they found in Elena’s bedroom. The girl was completely naked, her wrists and ankles bound with rough hemp ropes and draped over the governess’ legs, and the governess was hitting the sobbing girl’s backside mercilessly, berating her with the crudest words.”

“Oh my god,” I breathe.

“They fired the governess on the spot. Yet, Elena immediately went back into her shell and couldn’t be reached with words. The family was getting desperate.”

My ice cream melts, but I don’t care. I’m fascinated, horrified and touched by the story. “Did they reach her somehow?”

“Unfortunately not. The merchant was tricked into a bad investment and went bankrupt. The family had to relocate into a tiny flat. Elena ran away at that time and left a letter that told them it was not their fault, and that she didn’t want to be a burden on them anymore, then asked them to take care of her sister and that she would find her own way.”

“Did she?” Somehow, she had to.

“In a way. She lived on the streets for a short while, but she met the eyes of a wealthy couple and got employment as a maid.”

“Thank god.”

“Oh, don’t be so quick,” Mrs. Blackthorne says and stares hard at me. I almost fidget under her icy gray eyes. “The wealthy couple did not just want a household aide. They wooed her with gifts and pretty dresses, and took her on travels, and to the outside world, she was almost like a pampered daughter. But shortly after she turned sixteen, they took her on a holiday to the Carribean, and they demanded compensation for their generosity.”

I gulp. Mrs. Blackthorne’s gaze never leaves my eyes. “The summer that changed everything,” I whisper. It takes me a moment to understand, but like two puzzle pieces, the words in the photo and the story snap together. I might be a naive country girl, but I’m no idiot. “Compensation?” I ask quietly. “Sex?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Blackthorne replies, “they took her into their bedroom. She had to please not just the husband, but also the wife. And their tastes were ... dark.”

I swallow hard again.

“They liked to be rough with her, very rough. She was their servant. Or you could say slave. They used her and punished her.”

I feel dizzy, but it’s not just the wine. Sweat coats my forehead. “Did she run away again?” I ask, my throat dry.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Blackthorne tells me with a strange smile, “for you see, Elena quickly started to crave that treatment. It continued what the governess had started. Elena learned to love the shame of being exposed and used, and she even desired to be punished mercilessly.”

“That – that’s crazy,” I stammer. I can’t imagine such a thing. Why would a girl let herself be used like that and hurt?

“But not completely uncommon.” It’s the first time in a while Mr. Blackthorne speaks. “Sexuality is a wide field. There are people who like to control others and feel the power of being able to hurt others, and there are those who like to have their control taken away and have that fact driven home.”

I’m blushing all over. I reach for my glass, but my fingers are trembling so much I retract my hand and hide it under the table. “I – I think I should leave,” I tell them, unable to meet their eyes. “Please drive me home.”

I keep silent on the way home and get out of the car as fast as I can, but before I can flee into the safety of Aunt Elena’s property, Mr. Blackthorne steps in my way. I freeze, but all he does is hold up a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Take this,” he says softly. “I you want to drop by to talk more, you can do so any time, day and night, seven days a week.”

“I don’t think so,” I say softly, but I take the package. The moment he moves aside, I race inside. My trembling fingers unlock the door, and I lean heavily against it the moment it snaps shut.

I should just call a moving company and have them pack everything up. It will be much easier to sort through the stuff at home and have charity take everything we don’t want to keep from there. But then I would have to leave. So I take a lot of time to sort the small things into boxes. Most of the time though I spend reading through the horrible, exciting book Mr. Blackthorne has gifted me. My Aunt’s autobiography, dictated by her to Mrs. Blackthorne.

I’m appalled. I’m revolted. I’m disturbed and I am, to my utter shame and guilt, aroused. It’s only the last quarter that describes her stay with that wealthy couple, and my stomach dropped when I finally learned their name. Blackthorne! The book described their stay at Barbados, and how the couple had at first gently seduced her into their bedroom and quickly increased the lewdness of their games.

And Aunt Elena, once past the initial guilt and shame, had enjoyed it!

I stare at the huge bed and finally notice the thick metal rings in the posts, perfectly matching the description of the bed the couple bound her on, the girl’s extremities pulled painfully taut. I’m not naive, but I’m in no way prepared for the detailed, pornographic description of what happened in the couple’s bedroom, of the man using every hole of the petite girl while the woman spurred him on, of the woman forcing herself upon the girl and having her kiss and lick her down there. Certainly not prepared to read about twisted little games where Elena was forbidden from climaxing herself and about the punishments with canes and whips when she inevitably failed under the couple’s mean stimulation.

“Two weeks,” I lie to mom. “There’s a lot of stuff up in the attic that needs to be dusted off first. How’s your leg?”

“I can put some weight on it,” she tells me. “The doctor says it shouldn’t be more than two weeks until the cast can come off, and another two weeks until I have back full use.”

“That’s great news. How’s dad?”

“The rye’s in, a bit on the smaller end but dry enough to make some profit, and he thinks the corn will be ready in two weeks and rather good this year. Eddie is going to help him with the straw.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you still okay with the money? We can wire you more if you’re running short.”

“Mom! I haven’t even made a dent yet. I’ll have to see how it is when I have talked with the movers, but I’m pretty sure I have enough.”

“Just don’t keep it lying out in the open, honey.”

“I know that, mom.”

“I just want you to be safe. Take care, honey.”

“You too, mom. Love you.”

I hang up the pay phone and cross the street. It’s a little past three, and the tiny salon just opened. My hands get a little sweaty. I enter the room and a small bell chimes. A young woman hurries through a door to the back.

“Hello,” she greets me. “I’m Linda. Are you new here?”

“Theresa.” She wears a yellow summer dress and has her chocolate brown hair braided and rolled into buns, a bit unconventional but nice. Her matching brown eyes are large and friendly. I immediately like her. “I’m staying at Elena’s house. She’s my great-grandaunt, and I’m sorting out her things.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, but her frown quickly leaves. “You want a haircut or a perm?”

“A cut,” I tell her and hold up the paper with my amateurish copy of the picture in the bedroom. “Can you do it like this?”

“Nice drawing,” she says, “I see what you want. Yes, I can do that.” She steps behind me and whistles while running her fingers through my hair. “A lot of that will have to come off, though. Are you really sure? It’ll take ages until its back to this length.”

“I’m sure,” I tell her. “A hundred percent. It’ll be so much easier to keep it nice in the heat.”

“Okay. I’m free right now, so shall we start right away?”

“Yeah,” I say, and my breath shivers a little. My heart beats madly. What am I doing?

“Do you feel adventurous?” Linda wants to know.

I swallow my question of what she means with that. Lately, I do feel that way. “Yes?”

“Then take a seat while I fetch something. Be right back.”

I sit down in the green leather chair with the dent for the neck and look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed. My hair is frizzled from the garden work and all the lifting and sweating and needs a cut anyway.

“Here,” Linda says and startles me a little, holding up two white pads. “Close your eyes and keep them that way.”

The moment I do so, she pushes the pads over my eyes. There’s some kind of sticky stuff on them to hold them in place. “Oh,” I say softly.

“That way, you can’t peek and it will be a surprise,” Linda says a little giddily. “It’s not often in this tiny village that I get to do something new,” she says. I feel the chair move, which is a little disconcerting. “Lean your head back,” she instructs softly, and I can hear water splash behind me.

It’s a really nice feeling when she massages the shampoo into my hair. Mom normally cuts my hair, just the tips, so it’s been ages since I was in a salon. Linda knows what she’s doing. The shampoo smells of roses.

“How long will you be here?” she wants to know.

“About two weeks more,” I tell her and sigh softly under her ministrations.

“You should stay a week longer,” she says. “The moon festival is will be in two and a half weeks.”

“Moon festival?”

“It’s some mix of native American traditions and pagan rites. There’s a community living around here, and everyone assembles at the blue lake on the first full moon in August. It’s incredibly spiritual. I think you’d love it.”

“Why do you think that?”

Her fingers stop moving for a moment, and suddenly, she captures my wet hair in on hand. There’s a pull, and I have to tilt my head further backwards and arch my back a little to keep it from getting painful. “You’re adventurous,” she says, and a strange feeling buzzes in my tummy. Before I can say anything, she lets go and starts working conditioner into my hair, though.

After toweling off and brushing my wet hair, she has me sit upright and I can hear the soft snip-snap of scissors, and I feel my head slowly get lighter. Every so often, her fingers touch my cheeks when she measures and compares the length on both sides of my head, and they leave a tingle on my skin. “You have lovely hair,” she says. “It’s like ... made for that style.”

“Thank you,” I say and blush a little.

“There, time to dry them. Don’t get startled.” Warm air starts to flow over my head, and her comb slides through my hair. “Yes, I think I got it right.”

It doesn’t take long at all to dry, far from the ten minutes my long hair used to take.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say.

“Keep your eyes closed a little longer,” she instructs and removes the pads. I feel her wipe my eyes with a soft cloth. “Now you can open them.”

“Oh my,” I stammer. “Wow. It’s perfect.” It’s almost as if Elena is staring back at me from the mirror. Strange feelings suddenly somersault through my lower body and I feel breathless.

Linda grins at my reflection. “Gosh, you really wanted that haircut, didn’t you?” Suddenly, her fingers brush my cheek. “It does enhance your large eyes,” she says. “It makes you look very delicate and vulnerable.”

A shiver races up my spine. My cheek tingles like mad. I’m unable to reply anything, but thank god, she winks at me and removes the cape.

“There, all done. That will be twelve fifty.”

I hand her a ten and a five. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says and puts her free hand on my arm. “Will you come to the festival? I’ll take you there. Just drop by before so we can flesh out everything.”

“I – I need to see how long I can stay,” I say and swallow. My mouth feels parched for some reason.

“I’ll be here,” she says again and hands me a small leaflet from the shop that I pocket without thought.

“O-okay. Bye, Linda.”

“Bye, Theresa.”

What am I doing? The first book of Elena’s biography is under the cushion in my bed. Her bed. Our bed. I don’t know how to think of it. I feel guilty, as I couldn’t control myself last night and played with myself after reading the final chapter. The ride is endless. It’s already nearing eight when I slowly tread up the switchbacks and try not to get out of breath. After a last hard push, I glide past the firs and stop at the gate. There’s a large brass plaque reading “Blackthorne” with a bell button underneath. I wait a minute to get my breathing back under control to push it.

Another minute later, the gate silently glides to the side. My heart speeds up again, and I ride the last hundred yards to the entrance.