Victoria
Victoria, the love of my life. The embodiment of goodness, grace, and beauty; beloved by all who meet her for her kindness and charm.
But the truth isn’t quite what it seems.
I could hardly believe it myself when I found out. It was the night of the annual University Awards banquet. I was being recognized for some research I’d had published in a prestigious journal during the past academic year, and I’d also been nominated, as usual, for the “Most Fair Professor” award from the student body. Not to be confused with the “Favorite Professor” award, for fairness cuts both ways. However, I would rather be fair than popular, if I am to look myself in the face in the mirror every morning.
As usual, the dinner was somewhat edible, the chicken was neither too undercooked nor too overcooked, the vegetables had not quite been boiled into mushy oblivion. The wine was quite good; at least the University President always makes sure to select good wines for the annual awards dinner. Perhaps this is because he consumes far more of it than he does of the food. As usual, a student string quartet scratched its way through something inoffensive and unmemorable as we dined.
After the usual speech by the President, filled with witticisms at which no one dared not laugh lest they be given some odious committee assignment next year, but otherwise devoid of substance, the awards were announced.
“The winner of the Most Fair Professor award,” Dean Anglich proclaimed in her bullhorn voice, “goes to Professor Barsett Berning. For the twelfth year in a row, I might add, a most impressive achievement, speaking to the excellence of Professor Berning’s character.”
“You should have won.” Victoria’s whisper brushed my ear beneath the sound of applause as Berning walked up to the stage to claim his award.
“It’s all right, my dear,” I replied to my wife, also in a whisper. “Just being nominated, out of the hundred or more professors at the University, is honor enough.”
“Hm.” Her lips pursed. That was what I told her – and myself – every year when I was passed over for the award. She didn’t seem to believe it any more than she ever had.
“I am, as always, astonished and humbled by this honor,” Berning said as he accepted the award with his usual wide, white-toothed smile. The lights from the chandeliers shone on his tanned, chiseled face, his cleft chin, his thick, wavy black hair; his build was strong and hearty in his impeccably-tailored black evening coat. Not that I was jealous of his good looks, you understand; I prefer substance to style, myself. Neither was I jealous of his attractiveness to the female students. Why would I want any of them when I have my lovely Victoria?
He was popular, no doubt about it. Still, it was uncanny that he managed to win that same award every year.
Berning sat down, clutching his plaque, and the ceremony went on. I was recognized for my publications, then the award for “Professor Published in the Most Journals” was announced. As the winner went up to accept her award, I noticed Berning slip out of the ballroom, presumably for a quick visit to the gentlemen’s room.
A moment later, Victoria touched my hand lightly. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Orvis?” she whispered.
“Would you like me to come with you?” I asked. I felt uneasy about my young, attractive wife wandering alone through the darkened hallways of the University Union.
She smiled and shook her head. “I’ll be all right. I’ll only be a moment.”
Before I could press the issue further, she arose from her chair. I let her go; she was a grown woman, with her own life and career. She didn’t need me to watch over her every moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I admired her slender, graceful figure, clad in flowing violet silk, and her long mass of golden hair as she left the room. Berning, I noted, had not returned.
Several more awards were given, but neither Berning nor my wife returned to the ballroom. I began to feel a bit uneasy. I love my wife and trust her utterly, but I am nearly twenty years her senior, and, to put it mildly, do not cut quite the dashing figure that Berning did. I always found it difficult to believe that my young, vibrant student, whose thesis I served as an adviser for, actually chose me – in fact, she was the one who proposed marriage to me. When I asked her what she had seen in me that led her to ask me to marry her, she said, “It isn’t what you are, it’s who you are. You are the best, kindest, most honest man I’ve ever known, and I knew I could trust my well-being and happiness to your care.”
No, it wasn’t her I didn’t trust. It was Berning. Accustomed to having his way with the ladies and to besting me at all our rivalries, large and small, over the years, perhaps he’d decided to score yet another victory over me by claiming my wife for his own.
It wasn’t the need to visit the men’s room that drove me from my seat and out of the ballroom, but concern for my wife’s safety. I hurried down the long, dimly-lit hallway, passing one or two others along the way who’d needed to make the walk down to the facilities. I still didn’t see Victoria or Berning.
When I reached the door of the ladies’ room, that mysterious forbidden zone, I knocked. “Victoria?” I called out softly.
There was no reply.
I went across the hall to the men’s room and stepped inside. No one was in there.
Now I felt more uneasy. Had Berning taken her away somewhere? Perhaps he was even now at this moment –
I couldn’t think about it. I had to remain calm in order to help my wife.
Where would be a convenient place for a man to take a woman in order to carry out his nefarious intentions? I stepped back out of the men’s room and looked around. Down at the very end of the hallway was a door leading out to a small, secluded courtyard between the three main university buildings. Pain seized my heart at the thought of my sweet, gentle Victoria in the hands of that brute, crying out for help that didn’t come. Driven by fear, I hurried that way.
Near the end of the hall was a small stairwell that led down to some utility and storage rooms in the basement. There, I realized. They could have gone down there.
At that moment, I heard a muffled “thump” from the lower level. My heart threatening to burst from my chest, I ran down the stairs, somehow managing not to trip and fall along the way.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see a fresh disturbance in the dust before the closed door of a storage room. That was where he must have taken her. I longed to call out, to assure my sweet Victoria that help was on the way, but I didn’t want to give that cad Berning any warning or any cause to do something drastic. I walked silently to the door, set my hand on the doorknob, and pushed it open.
There, amidst stacked boxes and cartons, in a faint, glowing light from no source that I could see, a man’s black-suited body lay crumpled on the floor. A dark, wet puddle was spreading out from his chest.
Berning; there was no mistaking that build, or that wavy black hair.
And crouched beside him, looking up at me – Victoria. But somehow not Victoria. Clad in form-fitting black, her body appeared even more lithe and slender than usual. Her delicate face was as pale as moonlight and somehow more pointed and delicate-looking; her green eyes were larger and tilted, more like a cat’s than a human’s. The glow of light was coming from her hand. In her other hand, she held a long, thin knife, from which dripped blood.
She sat poised in mid-action, looking up at me, but didn’t seem alarmed. Far less alarmed than I was; seeing one of the legendary Faemort in person was an experience to make one’s heart seize and one’s blood run cold. Few ever saw these mythical, inhuman assassins, loyal only to those who paid them for their services, and fewer still had lived to tell the tale.
I couldn’t speak. Who had paid her to kill Berning? And was I next? My mouth was dry as I waited for my beloved to strike me down.
Instead, she whispered a word to her knife, which instantly appeared clean and shining as though it had never been used. With another word, it disappeared. She made an intricate gesture with that hand over Berning’s body, which likewise vanished from sight. In a supple, fluid motion, with even more than her usual grace, she got to her feet and gave me a wry, familiar smile.
Instantly, I was at ease again. Faemort or human, she was still my Victoria. “I found out he’d been bribing students to vote for him,” she said. “Money, good grades and references.” Her lip curled. “Drugs. And worse. I’m between assignments, and we’re permitted to take on small jobs of our own every once in a while. So, darling,” she said as she tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, her face and clothing shifting back into their earlier, familiar appearance, “next year, I’m certain you’ll win.”
Indeed, I did win, that very next year, and dedicated the award to my lovely wife, Victoria.
Copyright 2020 Kyra Halland. All Rights Reserved.
But the truth isn’t quite what it seems.
I could hardly believe it myself when I found out. It was the night of the annual University Awards banquet. I was being recognized for some research I’d had published in a prestigious journal during the past academic year, and I’d also been nominated, as usual, for the “Most Fair Professor” award from the student body. Not to be confused with the “Favorite Professor” award, for fairness cuts both ways. However, I would rather be fair than popular, if I am to look myself in the face in the mirror every morning.
As usual, the dinner was somewhat edible, the chicken was neither too undercooked nor too overcooked, the vegetables had not quite been boiled into mushy oblivion. The wine was quite good; at least the University President always makes sure to select good wines for the annual awards dinner. Perhaps this is because he consumes far more of it than he does of the food. As usual, a student string quartet scratched its way through something inoffensive and unmemorable as we dined.
After the usual speech by the President, filled with witticisms at which no one dared not laugh lest they be given some odious committee assignment next year, but otherwise devoid of substance, the awards were announced.
“The winner of the Most Fair Professor award,” Dean Anglich proclaimed in her bullhorn voice, “goes to Professor Barsett Berning. For the twelfth year in a row, I might add, a most impressive achievement, speaking to the excellence of Professor Berning’s character.”
“You should have won.” Victoria’s whisper brushed my ear beneath the sound of applause as Berning walked up to the stage to claim his award.
“It’s all right, my dear,” I replied to my wife, also in a whisper. “Just being nominated, out of the hundred or more professors at the University, is honor enough.”
“Hm.” Her lips pursed. That was what I told her – and myself – every year when I was passed over for the award. She didn’t seem to believe it any more than she ever had.
“I am, as always, astonished and humbled by this honor,” Berning said as he accepted the award with his usual wide, white-toothed smile. The lights from the chandeliers shone on his tanned, chiseled face, his cleft chin, his thick, wavy black hair; his build was strong and hearty in his impeccably-tailored black evening coat. Not that I was jealous of his good looks, you understand; I prefer substance to style, myself. Neither was I jealous of his attractiveness to the female students. Why would I want any of them when I have my lovely Victoria?
He was popular, no doubt about it. Still, it was uncanny that he managed to win that same award every year.
Berning sat down, clutching his plaque, and the ceremony went on. I was recognized for my publications, then the award for “Professor Published in the Most Journals” was announced. As the winner went up to accept her award, I noticed Berning slip out of the ballroom, presumably for a quick visit to the gentlemen’s room.
A moment later, Victoria touched my hand lightly. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Orvis?” she whispered.
“Would you like me to come with you?” I asked. I felt uneasy about my young, attractive wife wandering alone through the darkened hallways of the University Union.
She smiled and shook her head. “I’ll be all right. I’ll only be a moment.”
Before I could press the issue further, she arose from her chair. I let her go; she was a grown woman, with her own life and career. She didn’t need me to watch over her every moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I admired her slender, graceful figure, clad in flowing violet silk, and her long mass of golden hair as she left the room. Berning, I noted, had not returned.
Several more awards were given, but neither Berning nor my wife returned to the ballroom. I began to feel a bit uneasy. I love my wife and trust her utterly, but I am nearly twenty years her senior, and, to put it mildly, do not cut quite the dashing figure that Berning did. I always found it difficult to believe that my young, vibrant student, whose thesis I served as an adviser for, actually chose me – in fact, she was the one who proposed marriage to me. When I asked her what she had seen in me that led her to ask me to marry her, she said, “It isn’t what you are, it’s who you are. You are the best, kindest, most honest man I’ve ever known, and I knew I could trust my well-being and happiness to your care.”
No, it wasn’t her I didn’t trust. It was Berning. Accustomed to having his way with the ladies and to besting me at all our rivalries, large and small, over the years, perhaps he’d decided to score yet another victory over me by claiming my wife for his own.
It wasn’t the need to visit the men’s room that drove me from my seat and out of the ballroom, but concern for my wife’s safety. I hurried down the long, dimly-lit hallway, passing one or two others along the way who’d needed to make the walk down to the facilities. I still didn’t see Victoria or Berning.
When I reached the door of the ladies’ room, that mysterious forbidden zone, I knocked. “Victoria?” I called out softly.
There was no reply.
I went across the hall to the men’s room and stepped inside. No one was in there.
Now I felt more uneasy. Had Berning taken her away somewhere? Perhaps he was even now at this moment –
I couldn’t think about it. I had to remain calm in order to help my wife.
Where would be a convenient place for a man to take a woman in order to carry out his nefarious intentions? I stepped back out of the men’s room and looked around. Down at the very end of the hallway was a door leading out to a small, secluded courtyard between the three main university buildings. Pain seized my heart at the thought of my sweet, gentle Victoria in the hands of that brute, crying out for help that didn’t come. Driven by fear, I hurried that way.
Near the end of the hall was a small stairwell that led down to some utility and storage rooms in the basement. There, I realized. They could have gone down there.
At that moment, I heard a muffled “thump” from the lower level. My heart threatening to burst from my chest, I ran down the stairs, somehow managing not to trip and fall along the way.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see a fresh disturbance in the dust before the closed door of a storage room. That was where he must have taken her. I longed to call out, to assure my sweet Victoria that help was on the way, but I didn’t want to give that cad Berning any warning or any cause to do something drastic. I walked silently to the door, set my hand on the doorknob, and pushed it open.
There, amidst stacked boxes and cartons, in a faint, glowing light from no source that I could see, a man’s black-suited body lay crumpled on the floor. A dark, wet puddle was spreading out from his chest.
Berning; there was no mistaking that build, or that wavy black hair.
And crouched beside him, looking up at me – Victoria. But somehow not Victoria. Clad in form-fitting black, her body appeared even more lithe and slender than usual. Her delicate face was as pale as moonlight and somehow more pointed and delicate-looking; her green eyes were larger and tilted, more like a cat’s than a human’s. The glow of light was coming from her hand. In her other hand, she held a long, thin knife, from which dripped blood.
She sat poised in mid-action, looking up at me, but didn’t seem alarmed. Far less alarmed than I was; seeing one of the legendary Faemort in person was an experience to make one’s heart seize and one’s blood run cold. Few ever saw these mythical, inhuman assassins, loyal only to those who paid them for their services, and fewer still had lived to tell the tale.
I couldn’t speak. Who had paid her to kill Berning? And was I next? My mouth was dry as I waited for my beloved to strike me down.
Instead, she whispered a word to her knife, which instantly appeared clean and shining as though it had never been used. With another word, it disappeared. She made an intricate gesture with that hand over Berning’s body, which likewise vanished from sight. In a supple, fluid motion, with even more than her usual grace, she got to her feet and gave me a wry, familiar smile.
Instantly, I was at ease again. Faemort or human, she was still my Victoria. “I found out he’d been bribing students to vote for him,” she said. “Money, good grades and references.” Her lip curled. “Drugs. And worse. I’m between assignments, and we’re permitted to take on small jobs of our own every once in a while. So, darling,” she said as she tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, her face and clothing shifting back into their earlier, familiar appearance, “next year, I’m certain you’ll win.”
Indeed, I did win, that very next year, and dedicated the award to my lovely wife, Victoria.
Copyright 2020 Kyra Halland. All Rights Reserved.
