“She is, in fine, the Queen of the borrowed light, but this is the light of all.”
~A. E. Waite, Pictorial Key To The Tarot
When the west wind blew just strong enough, and swept across the grassy moors and over the trickling brook, it would fall upon the House of Rue-Blackthorne, an old, mesmerizing mansion with gables covered in moss. The lord of the house, Lord Rue-Blackthorne, married an Italian woman named Gravata Belgiojoso Grimaldi some twenty years ago. Gravata wished to showcase her collection of paintings to the rest of England, and shortly after their wedding ceremony she opened their house’s doors to the public. When Gravata heard from a servant that there was a painting in the attic, she nearly lost her mind. She hiked up her dress and ran to the very top of the house, where the air was cold and animal nests were hidden in almost every shadowy corner. When the maid revealed the painting, Lady Rue-Blackthorne nearly fainted. It was of a woman, a most miraculous woman, with battling members of the Rue-Blackthorne family behind her. She had dark black hair tucked behind the grand, silken crown on her head, and her dress was made from the finest blue fabric. Her face was relaxed and calm, her lashes long and heavy. Her hands were placed neatly over a scroll, and a crescent moon sat at her feet. The chaos which surrounded her did not seem to phase her. She stared straight ahead, although there was something in her eyes that made it appear as though she was not looking ahead at all, but rather straight into Lady Rue-Blackthorne’s soul.
“Go fetch my husband,” Gravata said, “now.”
When Lord Rue-Blackthorne arrived, his wife demanded he explain the painting’s origin. She went on about how dare he hide such a beautiful painting, how dare he never tell her, of all people...her voice was sounding more and more like a boiling teapot in Lord Rue-Blackthorne’s ears.
“ENOUGH!” he yelled. “I will explain.” He stepped forward to the painting. “This is a painting of the high priestess. She’s been a symbol of my family for ages, and everyone worth knowing in England knows her story. She lived hundreds of years ago, long before the Rue-Blackthorne line even began, giving out fortunes to the nobles who would travel here just to listen to her prophecies. Then, long after her death, my ancestors built the estate on this land, and quickly were met with a series of terrible disasters; famine, drought, floods...I can never remember what exactly. They started to fight for money and power--” he motioned to the bloody battles depicted on the painting, “--and all hope seemed to be lost, until a young maiden arrived at their house. She gave them a large amount of money, and our family was saved. She told them she was the same high priestess from so long ago, and promised she would return if we were ever in need of help again.”
“I see nothing wrong with that story,” Gravata said, gazing at the painting fondly.
“Fine, fine!” Lord Rue-Blackthorne yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “Bring this legend back into light. Make all of England think we rely on a nonexistent gypsy for our strength! Showcase it at the main entrance, see if I care!”
Lady Rue-Blackthorne turned to him, slipping her hand against his side.
“Oh, dear, it's a children’s tale, and I’m sure all of England will think the same.”
All of England did not. The lord and lady of the house were not thought of often, and, even after so many years, it was the tale of the high priestess that captured the attention of every Englishman and woman.
“Ah, yes, my newest painting, quite a beautiful one,” Lady Rue-Blackthorne said as she swished up to the nearest wall. “We were at the Dondleton’s--yes, those stuffy old folk who live near Hertfordshire--when I saw it, and I told them I simply must have it. They were quite surprised, since its a dark little thing, and at least a hundred years old, but I’ll tell you it called to me--”
“Lady Rue-Blackthorne,” said a girl named Lizbeth who was no older than sixteen, “I’ve heard that there is a painting of the high priestess. Could we see this one?”
“You must never interrupt a lady when she is speaking,” Lady Rue-Blackthorne said, clicking her tongue. “And you also must be rather blind, because that painting is right by the main entrance. A servant will lead you there.”
So, after a short bow, Lizbeth walked away with an excited speed. Lady Rue-Blackthorne sighed unevenly, listening to the expected murmur from her older friends about the rudeness of the younger generations. She gave one last look of admiration at the new painting, which depicted the devil stabbing some helpless, naked woman’s back, then turned away to the ballroom.
Meanwhile, Lizbeth cornered a wide-eyed chambermaid in the hall, who pointed her to the painting.
“You can’t miss it,” she called as Lizbeth sped away.
But Lizbeth never made it to the main entrance. Edward, a tall, handsome boy a few years older than her, grabbed her shoulder from behind.
“Where are you going?” he asked, a laugh in his voice.
“Get off of me,” Lizbeth said, rolling her shoulder. “Don’t you have someplace better to be?”
“There’s nowhere better than with you, my dear,” Edward smiled.
“Look,” Lizbeth breathed, “my father would disown me if I married you, so stop trying.”
Edward raised his eyebrows.
“Is that so?” He touched his fingers to her cheek, and she flinched slightly. “Lizbeth, I, unlike your father, care very much about you. I was there when no one else was. I was there after the man from Wales took advantage of--”
“Don’t say it!” Lizbeth gasped. Her eyes darted to the ballroom. “Don’t.”
“I know the truth is eating you up inside,” Edward said, slowly backing away from her. “And I will, because I care for you so very, very much, tell everyone...unless, of course, you marry me, whereas I won’t tell a soul…”
He slinked back into the shadows of the house, leaving Lizbeth standing alone at the top of the grand staircase. She looked to the ballroom, then to the open doors. For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she hiked up her skirts and ran, fleeing into the rolling moors of England. Instead, she started to cry, great, terrible sobs, which shook her entire body.
Suddenly, the air of the room shifted, as if a cold wind had been blown through the doors. A young woman dressed in baby blue was walking up the grand staircase, bowing her head to Lizbeth. Lizbeth returned the bow, and was too busy dabbing her face with a handkerchief to wonder where the woman had come from.
“Good evening,” the woman in blue said. “Is this the House of Rue-Blackthorne?”
“Yes, indeed,” Lizbeth replied. “The ballroom is right this way. Would you like me to show you to it?”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” the woman smiled. Lizbeth could read nothing about her character, except that she must be rich, as her dress was made from the finest silk.
“Your hair is quite beautiful,” Lizbeth said as they turned towards the ballroom. “It looks like a sky full of stars.”
The woman in blue touched her dark black hair, which was piled neatly atop her head with many glowing pearl pins. She laughed.
“I am flattered,” she said, “but it is I who should be complimenting you. I have never seen hair as golden as yours.”
“You are too kind.”
When they approached the ballroom, all eyes turned on them. Panicked, Lizbeth stepped away, but the woman in blue carried her arm forward.
“They are watching you,” she whispered in her ear. “You are too beautiful.”
“No,” Lizbeth whispered back, “it is Edward, he must have told them all--”
But the onlookers turned away, their conversations resumed, and all was normal again. Lizbeth released the woman in blue from her grip, took a short bow, then darted towards the cakes. She kept a watchful eye on the mysterious new woman, who weaved between the guests with the smoothness of water. Head turns and whispers followed her as she passed, but nothing seemed to affect her.
“Look at her,” Edward said into Lizbeth’s ear. Lizbeth jumped.
“Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. Edward chuckled, then continued,
“Who do you think she is?”
“She really just...appeared on the staircase.”
“Really?” Edward leaned back. “That’s peculiar. Are there any other doors in that room? No, I don’t think so, there’s only the entrance, the stairs, and the--” Edward stopped abruptly. He looked down at Lizbeth with a mischievous look in his eyes that she knew far too well. “Lizbeth,” he said. “Allow me to demonstrate how quickly my rumors spread. I recommend you keep this in mind.”
Then, he walked across the ballroom to Lady Griffiths, one of Lady Rue-Blackthorne’s confidants. He struck up a conversation, then motioned to the women in blue. Lizbeth watched as Lady Griffiths gasped, nodding her head vigorously, then hurried off to Lady Roberts, another good friend of hers. Edward smirked at Lizbeth from across the room.
Within minutes, the entire ballroom was convinced that the high priestess had returned.
“Preposterous!” Lord Rue-Blackthorne said to his wife later that night, long after all had left. “That woman was not the high priestess. The high priestess does not exist!”
“I agree,” Gravata replied, “but everyone seemed to believe it. You have to admit, she has an uncanny resemblance to the painting…”
“Even if she was the high priestess,” the lord said, trying to lower his voice, “why would she be here? We are in no trouble. We are not quarrelling over the loss of money, or the loss of--”
“I do not know why, nor do I care,” Gravata said. “I had a new painting to showcase today, you know, but no one ever pays any attention...after all this time, it’s still high priestess this, high priestess that…”
“Well, at least she is gone,” her husband said. “Let us hope she does not return.”
She did. At their next party, the woman in blue--or, the high priestess, as they were now calling her--returned. She wore the same dress, the same pins in her hair, and the same unreadable smile. Lizbeth was talking with a group of girls when the supposed high priestess started walking their way, but instead turned to--
“Edward,” the woman in blue said, giving her peculiar smile to the boy, who looked quite different now that so many eyes were on him. “Is that your name?”
“Why, yes, my lady, I am Edward Davis, son of Martin Davis of Nottinghamshire. And you are?”
“I am just a lady, asking if I could have this dance.”
A very audible gasp echoed through the room, for a lady never asked to dance. Edward raised his eyebrows.
“Why...yes, I suppose, only if you will accept my offer, that is.”
“But of course.”
He took her hand and led her out onto the ballroom, where the other courtiers and their partners were already preparing. The string quartet began their piece, a light, peppy waltz, and they danced. The woman in blue knew every move, and although Edward was leading her, it did not look the part. Her dress swirled out like a morning glory whenever Edward spun her, and the entire ballroom could not seem to tear their eyes off of it.
The party ended soon after, and while people tried to catch a glimpse of where the woman in blue had gone, she seemed to disappear into thin air. That night, Lord Rue-Blackthorne demanded to his wife that they hold no more revels, but she insisted they continue.
“I will not make some woman destroy my only source of socialization!” she exclaimed. “We will have a ball next week, and the next, and the next, until my dying breath! If she continues to come, I will demand to her to explain who she is, I will--”
“No, don’t do that!” Lord Rue-Blackthorne gasped. “If you do that, she will confess that she is the high priestess! We mustn’t let that happen!”
Lady Rue-Blackthorne did not reply, and instead walked across the hall into her room, slamming the door quite loudly behind her.
The next revel was a nightmare, especially to Lizbeth. As soon as the woman in blue arrived, still with no one seeing where she came from, she had Edward hooked on her arm. They strode side by side all night, making small talk with the guests who were secretly daring each other to ask who she was. Lizbeth wondered if maybe she was finally freed of Edward, as the only time he even came close to her was when he talked to the group she was in.
Then, just as they were turning away to some other guests, he walked up close to her ear.
“Do not think that I have forgotten about you,” he said, his voice full of menace. “This has just given me a reason to tell everyone anyways.”
He returned to his position next to the woman in blue’s side, a smirk still plastered on his face. Lizbeth could not handle it. She rushed out of the ballroom, and once she was in the shadowy, moonlit hall, she broke into a sprint.
She remained in those quiet hallways, lit only by the borrowed light of the moon, for the rest of the night. It was getting late, she assumed, and she must find her way back eventually. Her father would be wondering...then again, maybe not. She found herself sobbing again, and it was only the murmur of voices that made her go quiet.
“Where are you showing me to?” said a familiar, playful voice--Edward.
“I already told you, I am showing you where I am from,” replied the woman in blue. Lizbeth ran behind a suit of armor, and saw them striding down the hall. “Now, it is quite strange, and I understand if you won’t believe me,” she continued. “But I…”
“You are from a painting,” Edward finished for her. The woman in blue laughed.
“My, how did you know?”
“I knew it the moment I saw you,” Edward said. “I knew you were something special. My heart has been swayed. I care very much about you, too much about you.”
“Wait a moment,” the woman in blue said, “I am not sure if we are thinking of the same painting. People rarely give me compliments like that if they know my true origin. Let me show you.”
She guided Edward down a different hall, one that was decorated with different paintings from Lady Rue-Blackthorne’s collection. Lizbeth followed, careful to remain in the shadows.
“Here,” the woman in blue said as they stopped in front of a painting, the one that showed the devil stabbing the naked woman. Lizbeth watched Edward’s eyebrows raise.
“This...this is not what I was thinking. Why are you being stabbed?”
The woman in blue laughed again, and it was then that Lizbeth realized just how eerie it sounded.
“No, Edward, I am not the woman. I am him.” She pointed to the devil. “You, Edward, you, are the woman.”
Edward was suddenly struggling in her grasp, his body twisting and shaking. He could not release himself, and the woman in blue revealed a dagger just like the devil’s, then stabbed him in the back. He let out a cry of pain, then immediately crumbled to the floor. The woman in blue turned to the painting, and pushed her fingers against it. There was a slight click as it shifted out of place, rotating to reveal a hidden room. She carried Edward’s body inside, then walked back into the hall, her face still expressionless.
Lizbeth felt herself stepping into the moonlight. The woman in blue looked up at her.
“I do not think Edward will be pestering you any longer,” she said, then walked away, disappearing into the shadow of the night.