Hello, everyone, and welcome to my latest short story, Saccharine Silence! The final word count is 8,818 words. You can read the first 1,050 words for free, but the whole story is only available to paid subscribers on Patreon, Ko-Fi, Substack, and my website.

Other stories in this series:
A Priest's Lament (newsletter exclusive)
Sleeping With Devils
Wilting With Neglect
The Irish Rose

This is one from the Tales From The Night Garden universe. You don't need to have read Lemon Balm in order to enjoy it. If you like the shorts, consider buying the book!

Some trigger warnings before we jump in:

adultery
mentions of periods
misogyny (very much villainized)
violence and blood
(slight) gaslighting and emotional abuse

Reminder that I am a completely independent artist and author, so your support is literally helping to keep the garden alive. Thank you for subscribing!

Saccharine Silence

Moira

It started with a feeling that didn't match my current situation. A strange, quiet, creeping hunger gripped me in a vice-like hold, refusing to let me go. For weeks, I'd been thirsty and restless no matter how much I ate, steadily growing more and more anxious. The endless thirst needled the back of my throat, and my thoughts grew dark and cruel. On a knife's edge, I started lashing out over small irritations.

That edge scared me. I withdrew, hiding from my Milo— my husband and beloved— because I didn't trust myself not to attack him. The guest bedroom was my only friend for four days, a mini-fridge housing my blood bags and the curtains carefully held shut with safety pins. And then just like that the hunger ceased. With the loss of the sensation came a dark, chaotic laughter that echoed through my mind. It was chilling. It didn't feel like mine, and it left my pale flesh raised and prickled in goosebumps.

When it faded, the aftermath was a strange calm. The only sound that permeated the locked bedroom was the pelting rain against the windows. The sudden lack of stimuli had me reeling, an endless feedback loop of incessant ringing in my ears with the echo of that horrid laughter. The rain drove harder against the glass. And then — the phone rang. I gasped, my head snapping towards the direction of the dresser. An ache ran from my shoulder blades all the way to my feet, and I reminded myself to release the air trapped in my lungs.

My steps were shaky and my movements chaotic and quick as I rushed to the phone and fumbled with the buzzing device. Corbin, the screen read, and I didn't bother with pleasantries as I answered and brought it to my ear. "You felt it too? Do you think it's Acanthus?"

The line was silent for a moment, the subtle noise and feedback crackling in the receiver. At least it wasn't the shell-shock from the laughter, but the pause was maddening. Then — a sigh, clipped and exhausted. "Yes. Yes, I felt it too. Yes, I think it's Acanthus."

A curse swelled on my breath, falling from my lips despite myself. "Fuck," my accent was thick and clipped as I added, voice shrill, "What the bloody hell do you think is happening over there? Radio silence for a century and a half, and then this? What on earth?"

"I know, Moira. I know. It can't be anything good. But, now that I know you felt it too, I can start to investigate."

I wandered to the bed, my long red hair falling into my face as I hunched and sat on the side, shoulders sagging. "Aye…" I chewed on my lip. "But, it's four thirty here. You'll have dawn in less than an hour, Corbin. Do you need help? Can I help?"

"With this? No." I could picture the short man standing rod-straight in front of a window, frowning in his reserved British way. I nearly asked if he was certain, but then he spoke again. "There is something else that I have to alert you to, as well. I hesitate to bring it up in such…” he paused. Knowing Corbin, he was searching for a nicer word than ‘shite’, “…inopportune circumstances; however, there is a chance that it is related. I need time to confirm my suspicions. This feeling just happened to line up to my query."

I didn't like the sound of that. What could be on par with or even worse than that strange feeling? My stomach rolled, dread threatening to open up a pit and swallow both me and the bed whole with it. "What?"

"Moira, I think the Interrogator's back."

The words froze me in place. Acanthus was in danger and the Interrogator was back?

1329

My first time in France was at the behest of a man named François; later to be known as The Interrogator. I was to meet his ward, Acanthus, as a prospect for marriage; something my father, Revelin, was desperate to coordinate. That meeting and the resulting courtship that followed were only the beginning. In the late summer of that year my father walked me down the aisle to the gentle man with the alluring hazel eyes and long auburn hair. He gave me away to tie our hands together; quite literally. A cord of viridian and scarlet bound us in body and spirit. That was the last time that I saw Revelin Byrne. Though I was wed to Acanthus, I was an obsession of François.

My new life was one of comfort, being the wife of a Marquis; but, it was also rife with loneliness. Most of my days were spent separated from my husband as Acanthus slept. They patrolled the city as a member of the night watch, which meant they kept odd hours compared to the town. While I did have a community with the other women of Toulouse, I was an outcast. The wild, foreign, red haired wife of an odd, night loving, red haired man. Compared to other women, I was more outspoken and opinionated; uninterested in serving, but curious of gossip.

When I was not doing chores or working with the women on our spindles, I was home, dreadfully alone until unimaginable hours of the night. Acanthus would wake as the sun set, regardless of the season. Those early hours of dusk were spent alone while he made his rounds. I found this dedication and commitment to the safety of our city courageous, especially for him. More often than not, François was an unwanted irritant, coloring the short, precious moments Acanthus and I did have together.

We lived with François. He was a bishop connected with the large church in the center of town, and The Pink City treated him well. Acanthus brought him great joy, and where they had money of their own they were reticent to leave his side. The first several weeks after our wedding were spent in comfort and joy, often dancing and singing the night away. I loved our nights, especially when it was spent with just us three, taking turns dancing with each other. But, life is not sustained by revelry alone. About a month after my move to Toulouse, the vibrancy began to fade.

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