Pyrmont, July 12

 Milena arrived at my estate late in the afternoon, a few days before the visit of her husband and his party. Alfred, my secretary, courteously welcomed her. After she moved into her accommodation, a small house on a secluded spot of the estate, Alfred invited her to join me for dinner.

She entered the dining room and greeted me, polite but ill at ease, as if she was visiting the doctor with an embarrassing ailment. The sober, neat dress she wore suited the occasion. Thanks to Alfred, I was aware of her outfit and I had chosen a simple suit in the same style. I served out dinner myself; I had given instructions to leave us alone, so that we had the spacious dining room to ourselves.

 “Don’t you like it?” I asked. She ate the first course with little enthusiasm.

“The food is delicious, but forgive me if I’m tense. I have no idea what your intentions are over the next month.”

“You are my guest, and my guests are king,” I said.

“But you are the boss.”

“You haven’t agreed with my proposal yet. “

Her eyes narrowed. “If I go by your reputation, I should never have come here.”

“Oh,” I said, faking surprise. “Really?”

“If you ask in the right places, yes,” she said. No doubt the capital grapevine had done its job after the auction and her visit to my suite. I chuckled and settled for the results. “Tell me, what’s the damage.”

She counted off on her fingers. “Let’s see. Blasphemer, hedonist, occultist, socialist, organiser of bacchanalia, lunatic, war criminal, blackmailer, profiteer, pimp, manipulator, rapist, murderer... that’s about it, I think.”

I remained silent, washing down the last bite of the appetiser with the appropriate wine. “You didn’t strike me as someone who goes to places where they know me so well. My compliments,” I said, praising her efforts.

“Is it true?” She was serious now.

My turn to count off. “Let’s see,” I said. “Blasphemer and hedonist are correct. I don’t believe in religion, so I’m not an occultist. I’m not a socialist, but some of my friends think they are, so I’m guilty by association. Bacchanalia are important for my reputation. I am not insane, but so say all in society’s asylum. I think war is the crime. Blackmailer is true, sometimes you can’t win on points alone and blackmail renders all arguments superfluous. Being a member of the nobility, I do profit from hard-working ordinary citizens. I run a brothel, which you already knew. I definitely manipulate people, so I don’t need to rape them. And yes, I have killed people, like most soldiers who survived the battlefield.”

She took her time to digest my answer. “So you’re not a zealot who wants to rape me. Great, that’s reassuring.”

“And not a liar,” I sighed. My reputation usually served as a sanctuary, but now it was a prison. “Let me promise you this: during your visit nothing will happen that you yourself did not ask for, or consent to.”

“Not exactly reassuring, coming from a manipulator, don’t you agree?” Still, she calmed down, aided by a hefty sip of wine. “And wine connoisseur, apparently,” she said, whisking the glass.

“Hardly. My sommelier told me which bottle to serve with each dish.” Now it was my turn to be serious. If I wanted to win her trust, I would have to confide in her. “If I rely on gossip, then you’re a descendant of respectable noble lineage with more than a few coins to rub together. You are pleasing to the eyes, kind to friends and family, happy with the children you were able to give your husband and good at running a household. You engage in charity and your painting is quite adequate for a woman.”

Before she could protest, I continued, raising my hand to soothe her. “I hold you in much higher regard. Yes, you are beautiful and attractive. But also a bright and a gifted artist when you get the chance. You have guts and a sense of humour, qualities I appreciate. All I ask of you is to form your own opinion of me. I sincerely hope we get to know each other and part as good friends. For the time being, I offer you to stay without obligations and you may leave whenever you wish. Only when you allow me to dress you with the collar, you will accept my proposal, and I will honour it as I’ve promised you.” I picked up my glass and toasted in her direction. “And you’re a wine connoisseur for real, apparently.”

She smirked. “That goes along with a title and running a household, doesn’t it, Duke?” She clinked her glass against mine and sipped some more Dutch courage. “Well, you have a point,” she said. “Why the collar? What is so important about it? Surely it’s nothing more than a pretty choker?”

With my finger, I touched the one I wore myself, stroking the white gold embellishments attached to the supple black leather. The strap itself was simple and functional, with a white gold clasp at the back of my neck. “Yours will symbolise you accepted our agreement. This one is a memento of events I must never forget.” I took it off and handed it to her.

 “What events? What do those signs stand for?” she said as she looked at it from all sides. The seventeen white gold symbols gleamed out of focus in the candlelight.

“Each symbol represents someone I trusted with my life, who died in an otherwise useless war.”

She returned the collar as if she was afraid to break it. “The Franco-German war? You fought in that? I never saw you wearing any medals.”

“I have always refused them,” I said, trying to fend off bitter memories and buckled the strap again. “Being honoured for that senseless slaughter disgusted me. My main merit was that most of the bullets missed me, hitting those standing by my side.” The war and its shadow was not a subject I wanted to broach tonight, although I had to, before she could decide. “Can we leave this subject for now? You may ask me anything, but some answers I prefer to give in due course.”

“No, of course, sorry.” She blushed and immersed herself in the last remains of the appetiser.

“Main course?” I suggested, “Staring at the appetiser doesn’t improve it.”

“Yes, please.” She laughed, relieved I gave our talk a turn to dispel the gloomy mood.

We talked and dined on, with wines fitting the dishes. She didn’t drink too much, but enough to reduce her inhibitions. The resulting conversation mainly concerned her; her dreams, ideals, and desires within the bounds of propriety. I didn’t mind. I interposed with the right questions and showed interest, which came easy to me. She was good company, and her allure grew. It was a pleasure to see her blossom when she could talk free of the restraints society imposed. The door to her golden cage was ajar.

When I retire after the welcoming dinner at your estate, you know more about me than I learned about you. It is a pleasure to converse with you because you really listen. I can’t remember when someone was interested in who I am, not what I am. Who appreciates my talents and ambitions, even if they have no bearing on my role as a mother and spouse. Our conversation is unrestrained. You are both duke and pimp, both too high and too low in standing to worry about the consequences of my words.

I decide to drink a little less tomorrow and let you do the talking. I can only guess at your motives for our agreement. You consider me appealing, yet you keep me at arm’s length and only seem interested in being my patron saint. It should be a comforting thought. But if I am honest, I hope I’m wrong.

Pyrmont, 13 July

The next day I have enough time to sort out my thoughts; I won’t see you until dinner again. If you want me to work on paintings for a month, it’s hardly a punishment. Although I can’t deny that I fantasise about sharing your bed, even if it would cause a complicated situation, the consequences of which I can’t foresee. The weather is pleasant and at noon I go outside to sketch.

I stay away from the main buildings, afraid of running into someone I know, and arrive at some abandoned battlements. I walk across a former bastion that offers a pleasant view of the park across the wide moat. The original builders of the fortress shaped the massive buttress like a small peninsula. The large skylight at its centre is new. It offers a view of the basement I will get to know so well later: my prison cell. At that moment, I pay it no further attention and draw a sketch, until I hear dull thuds coming from the cellar. It’s you, naked and bathing in sweat, fighting with your indefatigable opponent: a big heavy bag of sand, suspended from a beam. You are a pugilist; it shows and is disturbingly pleasant. But the fanaticism with which you train is alarming and I wonder who you imagine when fighting the bag. I tear myself away from the spectacle and start a new sketch. It won’t be my best work, distracted as I am by the rhythm of your blows.

I left Milena free to explore the estate and the quiet spa resort on her own, while I tended to my affairs. The Reichstag would soon meet to approve the government’s financial decisions. Most agreements were rubber-stamped, the result of extensive correspondence beforehand.

The National Liberal Party introduced a proposal that vied for my attention: changing the antigambling act. Institutional gambling was prohibited, hence those who wanted to throw their money away did so in Spa or Monte Carlo. Money the German Empire could earn with the instalment of government-run casinos. A member of the party asked me to support their proposal, and I would have, if it didn’t conflict with my own interests. But it did, so I arranged some favours with the conservatives in exchange for my abstention.

 In addition, several fellow investors had to be reassured about the successful completion of various projects I oversaw. All the paperwork demanded my attention during the day until the vicious diplomatic chatter in ink wore me down and I let a heavy bag of sand pay for the slow and frustrating jousting on paper.

 During the day, Milena was a welcome distraction from tedious legal texts. How would she react to the private exhibition I put together for her? Would she accept my proposal, and how would that agreement work out? It occupied my thoughts more than I initially expected. I looked forward to our dinner, where she showed me how she spent her day off.

“It is well done.” I studied her sketch. “The composition, the light from above. If you work it out, I’m sure it will be another beautiful painting.”

My reaction disappointed her. She stuck her tongue out at me. “Sure, but you don’t like it.”

“That’s not it,” I said and handed the drawing back. “There are too many details missing to say much about it. Duel in a cell? The title I mean.”

“Could be.” She glanced at her sketch. “What kind of work do you want? What do you really like?”

What did I consider worthwhile? For me, it wasn’t a certain style or aesthetic. Something either appealed to me or not. Or no, the artist did, speaking through the work. “Many paintings are nothing more than well-executed craft. The art I collect offers me more. I want to see the artist reflected in the work. His or her feelings, emotions, desires, fears ... If you like, the soul of the artist.”

“Like the painting you bought.”

“Like that painting, yes. But you didn’t know yourself what you were stating, what message it conveyed. It was an unconscious process. Once you are aware of your feelings and use them as inspiration, you will be capable of outstanding work. It will require courage, the courage to face and accept your true nature.”

“You think I can?” She looked at her sketch with pity. It did little to convince her she could.

“I hope you will try. Maybe we’ll learn whether you can in the coming month.”

“Is this the reason for your proposal? To let me paint for a month and guide me in the process?” She sounded almost disappointed.

“It’s one reason, sure,” I said. “I’ll show you some works in my collection by artists who tried, with varying results.”

My first aim was to get her away from her spouse. I’d planned to let Milena work on her art for a month, so her husband could carry out his mission unperturbed. With careful conversations, I’d introduce her to the possibility of sensual games he enjoyed, guiding her to acknowledge her own dark desires. But the shy way she looked down when we broached an intimate subject made me want to give a command or take control. She grew on me, with her wit, charm and determination. Not to mention her grace, which made me succumb to fantasies of having my way with her. The image of her naked on all fours, wet and trembling with arousal and need, became harder and harder to ignore. As did her voice. While we enjoyed polite conversation, at times all I heard was Milena begging me allowing her to come. I wasn’t the most attentive host during our dinner.

After our meal, I led her into a brightly lit, large salon. Curtains separate the works from each other, like victims of narrow-mindedness in their own hospital room, revealing themselves one by one. Paintings and a statue society deemed immoral or insulting, but I hoped nothing too disturbing. I did not intend to scare Milena back into her golden cage. With each work, I explained why it touched me and asked her what she thought of it herself.

“I have heard of this painting, at least the lower part of it. And about the riot it caused during the exhibition.” Intrigued, she studied ‘l’Origine du Monde’, a realist work by Courbet. The body of a reclining woman, naked with her legs spread. The model was anonymous, her face outside the frame. Above it hung a smaller canvas: the portrait of a woman daydreaming while gazing at the ceiling.

“Do they belong together?” Milena asked.

I nodded. “Supposedly, it was one canvas. A commission issued by an Ottoman diplomat who collected erotic works of art. After the model refused public display, Courbet adjusted the work with a pair of scissors, which made it interesting to me. Do you think the painting shames her?”

Milena shook her head. “Not necessarily, but I do understand her. There’s a difference between exposing yourself to someone you trust and allowing audiences to gawk at you.”

I shrugged. “So it’s the observer who turns her into an object of desire.”

“That is true, but it still damages the model’s reputation if people recognise her.” She had a point there, unfortunately.

“So she should be ashamed of other people’s fantasies,” I said and let my gaze wander over Milena’s body before meeting her eyes. “You are also the subject of fantasies, naked or not.”

Milena chuckled and answered my gaze with a graceful pose. “Perhaps, but as long as I don’t give any cause for it, I’m not to blame.” She taunted me, putting the charms of her sensual body to full use, ambling toward the next work. A parody on the coronation of the German emperor in Versailles, painted by Anton Von Werner. He was still wrestling with the public version. Political subjects and vanities of those involved didn’t lend themselves to artistic interpretation. It had taken Anton little effort to make a version that honoured the true nature of the protagonists, wisely refraining from signing the result.

“Why aren’t all the paintings signed?” she asked. “Even if they aren’t equally elevating, they are works to be proud of.”

“Mostly it concerns pieces that I have commissioned. I allow the artist to make a free work. The result is often personal, so some creators don’t want to be associated with their work when I show it to others. I don’t mind; what matters is the work, not the name underneath it.”

“That makes you less calculating than I expected,” she said. “Do you actually practise any of the fine arts yourself?”

“Not one that captures a subject in paint or stone. I dabble in reproductive art at best; I can tell a good story and play the cello reasonably well.”

“Writing is an art,” she said, “as is composing.”

“Yes, something I discovered by trial and error,” I said. “Fortunately, there were no tomatoes and eggs available at the buffet during the premiere.”

She laughed. “It couldn’t have been that bad. When was this unfortunate performance of your work?”

I smirked with a sigh. “Dear Countess, unlike you, I haven’t always been a recognised member of high nobility. The stories about my unjust claim to the title are not unfounded.”

“No, is it really?” she asked, not surprised at all, and continuing with a very hot potato in her mouth. “Yet your conduct and manners are impeccable, befitting one of noble birth. As does your taste in fine arts. Your collection wouldn’t be out of place embellishing a church.” She swallowed the potato with a wide grin. “A church where one practices a religion with particularly liberal views on morality and virtue, given the prevailing ethics.”

I ran my hand over the statue we arrived at. The artist had christened it ‘Passion’, which it was in every sense. The raw and intimate entwining of lovers who, without shame or pride, surrendered to each other, forever trapped in snow-white marble.

“I’ve experienced the moral elite up close and they are not superior to the rest of humanity. On the contrary.” I patted the image of the two petrified men. “I doubt they are capable of this.”

“They are. Some of them, at least.” The lovers’ timeless embrace captured her eyes. In silence, she gazed at the statue, as if in a trance. Then she turned to face me. “I can, with the right person.”

I didn’t know how to react to her obvious flirt. She hadn’t been this forward yet. Embarrassed by my silence, she reddened and averted her eyes. “That was impertinent, I apologise.” Her blush convinced me. You can’t fake a blush; she wanted me to be the right person. I wanted to be the right person, but I doubted her decision would survive the truth of my past. 

“It’s what good art does to you,” I said with a mouth full of gravel. “It touches you, making you forget things of lesser importance, if only for a moment. Like the unnecessary frills of etiquette. Why should you apologise for showing your true feelings? Isn’t it being honest with me?”

She looked up at the statue. “It’s the fate of nobility. Although we’re merely human, we serve as an example to the people. For why else would they look up to us and accept our authority? Nobility obliges.”

“Unfortunately, there are few members of the peerage who share this belief,” I said. “Most prefer the role of oppressor and despot to that of teacher and example. And we all enjoy the accompanying tax exemption a title provides.”

“The ones you meet in the dungeons of your estate maybe,” she said, and eyed me appraisingly. “How do you see yourself? Are you a teacher or a despot?”

“I try to be the former, but sometimes resort to means of the latter to secure my position.” I shrugged. “Nothing noble is foreign to me.”

“At least you are trying. You should be proud of that,” she said. “Why do others doubt your title? Besides your deliberate failing to play the part, I mean.”

“My father never acknowledged me in public. Apparently, the gods punished him for his adultery by depriving him of a suitable, legitimate and male heir. Before I became a duke, I travelled through Europe as a bohemian and visited courts as a musician until I joined the army, but you already knew that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you charmed many noblewomen as a minstrel?”

“Or noblemen. Sometimes, when it was necessary to close a deal. It was always a risky affair, best avoided. I preferred to be the jester. To be honest, I still am.”

I took her hand, and she allowed me to lead her to the next work. “How so, dear Countess. Can you imagine being seduced by a handsome troubadour?”

With a smile, her gaze wandered. “My dear Duke, while I may be an example of virtue to many, I am not innocent and naïve. I told you I enjoyed affairs before marriage and my first had a similar career to yours. In retrospect, a useful experience, though I shed many tears.” With a hushed smile, she looked at me. “The role of jester suits you, but it is a role. Despite your refusal to conduct yourself as a duke, you know the proper way to behave. Where did you learn that?”

“My complicated family tree interests you more than the surrounding art?” I nodded at the next painting. A landscape with a regal tree full of summer leaves. Up close, the ripening fruits were rotting corpses of hanged people.

“A noble family tree is never simple,” she said, and studied the work. “For how else would nobility spend its time if it wasn’t concerned with succession?” She grimaced at the painting and turned to face me. “These works haven’t asked me to spend a month carrying out every assignment I am given. I’m supposed to get to know you, am I not? Not only who you are, but also where you’re coming from. Which includes the story of your childhood, I’d say.”

I gave in. She wanted to know who I was, and I had promised to tell her. “All right, but the short version. It will be long enough already. Sit down.” I gestured the lounge chairs in the middle of the room. A side table carrying a candle holder, glasses, and a bottle of wine separated the chairs. She took a seat. I poured the wine, lit the candles, turned down the gaslight, and sat down next to her in the remaining chair. Shrouded in twilight, the room became my personal confession booth.

“My story starts and ends with Anna, the daughter of duke Waldemar Von Anhalt Bernburg. Her father was the ambassador of Prussia. He employed my mother as a lady-in-waiting for his wife, and Anna and I travelled the capitals of Europe as part of his retinue. It’s not a miracle Anna and I developed a strong bond, given that there were no other children in the household, and those we met would only be part of our lives for the time Waldemar was stationed there.

“Of course the duke thought less of our friendship, with me being of too low a stature to be a viable candidate for his precious daughter. As years passed, he became more and more annoyed with my presence. Anna and I chose to ignore him.” I could not suppress a smile. After all this time, these were pleasant memories, only tarnished by what followed.

“Eventually her father caught us in less than wholesome circumstances and the consequences were disastrous for all concerned.” I paused again and looked at my silent audience. “Is my story boring you? You’re so quiet.”

Her strained gaze disappeared. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her glass. “Please, Damian, you’re a better judge of character than that. Tell me more.” Despite the wine, she sounded hoarse. Unfortunately, the rest of my story would spoil the mood considerably.

“Waldemar sent Anna to a convent full of strict nuns. Their mission was to educate this sheep that strayed from the path, in the norms and values befitting a young noble lady. They were reasonably successful, although the strict punishments the nuns applied had an unintended side effect.”

“What happened to you?” she said, avoiding my gaze. Did it sound familiar to Milena?

“The Duke banished my mother and I from his court the same day.” A day of punishment, harsh words and tense silences. “No doubt this would have happened eventually, for though I had my mother’s darker complexion and hair, I had my father’s eyes and build. None other than the duke himself.”

The memory faded, and I looked at Milena. The flickering candles provided the only movement in her face.

“Waldemar was your father?” she said with shocked surprise. But not as shocked as I was when I learned it.

I dived back into the past. “He was. I didn’t even know he was my father. My mother told me my father passed away before my birth. And though I was angry with him, I didn’t hate him. I understood I’d crossed a line. My misconduct towards his daughter was a good excuse to get rid of me, the incriminating evidence of his affair with my mother. We moved into my now-deceased grandparents’ retreat. A small, dilapidated estate on the Swiss coast of Lake Maggiore. It suited her mood. She loved the duke, but she also loved me, the cause of this scandal. A mental chasm she bridged with alcohol abuse and laudanum.”

I would never forget her reproaches soaked in cheap brandy. Nor would I forget her regrets when she sobered up. But don’t drunk people tell the truth?

“Did you know that the duke was your father by then?” Milena asked softly.

Sombrely, I nodded. “My mother confessed it just before she died. When I looked in the mirror, I could hardly deny that truth. Then there was her diary, which I found after her death, in which she journaled her affair with Waldemar. How they made love, the games they played. Games with her tied in rope and chains, at the mercy of his hands, tongue or cock. Stories of discipline, punishment, obedience and her surrender to his will, ending in pleasures no ordinary loving could accomplish. Pleasures his wife wouldn’t offer.”

“And then?” she said and leant towards me. The story struck a chord in her I hoped to play. Her wide eyes and heavy breathing betrayed her: fear mixed with excitement. Like me in that distant past.

“It was also a time when I learnt to hate my father, but not the hate that calls for revenge.”

“You must have been lonely.”

“It wasn’t all doom and gloom,” I said. I recalled the erotic books I found, which may have inspired my mother. “The small chateau had an extensive library where I spent a lot of time, and a notary from neighbouring Locarno helped me with running the estate. That responsibility was good for my self-confidence and necessary, because in the years that followed, my mother became mentally unstable.

“She finally solved her heartbreak. The local doctor diagnosed an accident, but we all knew what really happened. After her funeral, I conceded the estate to the tenants who maintained us during those last years. I wanted to get away from it all. To visit cities I had read about in books. In Venice, I met a group of Romani and joined their company.”

“Your time as a traveller.” Milena hesitated with a sigh. “I can imagine. I seriously considered running away, following my minstrel, but I didn’t dare.”

How many times had she denied herself what she longed for? Often enough to be with me now. I would have no trouble keeping her amused for a month with painting and a few sensual allusions. It would absolve me from the obligation to tell the entire story. But I promised Milena the truth, although I lacked the courage to assess why I took such a risk. I wanted her to know who she dealt with before she decided.

“The leader of the group showed me what a father could be, or rather, should be. His family accepted me as a member. They taught me how to perform and live on the road. In return, with my knowledge of noble etiquette, I arranged engagements at country houses and chateaus of the elite. A happy period, in which I could leave all misery behind me. Temporarily, that is. For my mother’s lineage, though unimportant to me, had its disadvantages.

“The North German Federation drafted me. I could choose between serving my king in his army or going to prison. So I served. I trusted diplomats and politicians who, since the fall of Napoleon, played the Concert of Europe to keep the peace. It was a vain hope. I fought in two wars during my time in the army. According to the treaties we won, but in reality, there were only losers.”

Milena nodded. This was the topic we stranded on yesterday. 

“Chivalry, honesty, respect for the enemy. Fairy tales that die first on a modern battlefield. After that, many of my fellow soldiers followed. With the luck of fools, I survived my time in the army. As a reward, I received a series of medals that I didn’t care for and memories I rather forget.”

There they were again, white gold stars reflected in my glass, sacrificed at the foundation of the German Empire. Their uniforms soaked in the colour of red wine and no longer of any significance. I looked up at Milena and read compassion in her eyes. Compassion I did not deserve.

“Eventually, I fell during a battle in the Franco-German war. In the field hospital, high-ranking officers visited us, the brave sons who had fought for the glory of the fatherland. Dressed in neat uniforms, they talked about sacrifice and winning the war. It was there that my grudge against my father became a desire for revenge. Never again would I be a victim. With enough money and a distinguished title, I could gain that freedom, apparently.”

The hatred that had driven me returned, like a ghost from the past. The need to avenge myself on those who defined and directed my life, like a storm-driven ship across the churning sea. I would be the storm instead of the ship that I was.

“You finally succeeded.” Milena gestured at the room shrouded in darkness.

I sighed and nodded. “Both the money and the title were handed to me on a golden platter. Duke Von Anhalt Bernburg arrived in Paris as ambassador to the newly founded German Empire. After my recovery, I re-joined the diplomatic core. He never saw me. I was one of the many lieutenants stationed in Paris as part of the German occupying army.

“Anna did, however. She had left the convent and shaped herself after the mould society demanded; a respectable and beautiful young lady of high noble birth, ready to wed a nobleman and produce his offspring. Paris, with all its high-born notables, was the place to market her.” I shook my head. “Anna’s pose was false. We realised that as soon as we saw each other. Years of foreplay were not as easy to erase as her parents hoped.”

Milena frowned. “Did she actually know that you were her half-brother?” Like a stern judge, she sat up straight, attentive to the plea of the accused. The defendant studied the floor, ashamed.

“She didn’t, and I wasn’t going to tell her. With little effort, I seduced her. Paris in those days was a sketch in charcoal. Life is always celebrated more exuberantly when death held sway. In the anarchy of a city scarred by war, you could host the most uninhibited and wild parties. I smuggled her from the embassy without a chaperone, enjoyed her in every way I could imagine. If my intention had been to love her, as she loved me...” My speech faltered. The spacious room turned warm and stuffy.

“But it wasn’t like that. She was my half-sister and I was out for revenge. I advised her to keep a diary so we would never forget our time together. While she was in love, I pretended to be. I promised to propose to her. To abduct her if her father refused to give permission, knowing that he could or would never agree to our marriage.”

Calm and collected, Milena gazed at me. “All that time you spent with her...” She searched for words, selecting them with care. “Did you never hesitate to carry out your plan?” She was a judge with compassion for the accused. Were there perhaps indications of a good conscience despite the crime? I shook my head. Milena should not think my crimes had occurred in a fit of insanity.

“I was blind, full of hatred that I passed off to Anna as passion. I used what love I had left to play my part with conviction.”

Milena shivered. “Revenge you sacrificed Anna for.”

I averted my gaze to the floor and nodded. The verdict was clear. Why did I tell her this story? What did it matter to Milena? I wasn’t that idiot anymore. But I had been him. “I had prepared it all perfectly. During the private meeting I requested, he recognised me, of course. I pretended to be a timid romantic idiot, in love with his daughter. Even though she was above my station, I would make her an honourable woman. What loving father would deny his daughter this happiness? He chuckled and asked if my mother told me why he couldn’t allow it.”

Despite everything, the satisfaction of seeing him tumble from his pedestal remained. A painful pleasure, now that I knew its price. “I brought Anna’s diary, filled with the debauchery we enjoyed, and read from it. One of the more explicit accounts. His grin froze before evaporating.” I looked at my hands as if they were holding the diary.

“Now I had his attention; I had shaken him to the core. Time to offer my genuine proposal. I wanted recognition as his long-lost bastard, so he wouldn’t have to worry about me abducting his daughter. I wanted a large sum of money, as a Swiss bank deposit. In return, he’d have the diary. I would leave the rest of the inheritance to his daughter and they wouldn’t hear from me again. Furious and wordless, he signed papers I had prepared, and I left him with her diary. I had sold my hatred. I got my revenge later.” The accused was too ashamed to look his judge in the eye. I didn’t need to see Milena to know her verdict. Her snorted breath told me enough.

“After visiting her father, I met with Anna. I showed her the letter, in which he acknowledged me as his son. The proof that doomed our love before it ever began. I concealed the fact I knew all along.

“It was the moment the love for her father turned to hatred. His ultimate demise was the diary. Trapped like Narcissus by the pond, not by his own reflection, but by images of fulfilled dark desires combined with the beauty of his now-deceased wife. The memoirs of his daughter.”

An agonising silence followed until I looked up at Milena. “With which you at least followed in your father’s footsteps, if not surpassed him in criminal behaviour,” she said, her face white with barely contained outrage. The verdict was more than justified. A confession is admitting guild, not its exoneration. After guilt comes punishment.

I slumped forward in my chair. “I became the one I hated. He had used my mother like I used my half-sister. It was even worse, because it hadn’t just been revenge. I enjoyed Anna’s journey from innocent pride to guilty pleasure. I gained freedom and wealth, but could no longer face myself in the mirror.

“Was it so easy to get carried away by hatred and revenge, lust and jealousy, gluttony, avarice, and laziness? Are they seven traits everyone shares, but no one dares to acknowledge? If so, you can manipulate people with desire and sin, especially those in power. They serve as examples, as you say, and are vulnerable when they give in to their urges. Maybe I could use that vulnerability to prevent another war.

“With this insight, I carried on. I used my father’s money to buy this estate, and I had myself appointed caretaker of the accompanying sanatorium in the park. Pyrmont is a popular health resort, but special guests know this castle as the House of Seven Sins. A place where you can duly satisfy every desire. What you do here remains a secret, but keeping your secret sometimes comes at an extra charge. Information, a signature, a seal, a vote in parliament.”

“And your half-sister? Did you ever think of her again?” Milena laughed derisively. “You were obviously indebted to her for your wonderful insight.”

I endured her outraged stare. I deserved it. “There is no excuse for what I did to her. I know this. Back then, I started out making up excuses for my transgressions. Yes, what I did to her was criminal, but wasn’t she a victim of her origins rather than of me? Wasn’t it also what she deserved? Hadn’t she been a haughty brat who scorned everyone around her? A spoiled child, never satisfied even though our father worshipped her? Gave her the affection he withheld from me? Besides, Anna was a necessary sacrifice in my crusade to avoid war. That warped reasoning was in tatters when I met her again after his death. Events drove him to madness, and he committed suicide.

“Where my mother died penniless, my father owned an extensive estate and the title of duke. Because he was out of his mind after Paris, accountants, notaries, auditors and other profiteers in his court managed Anna’s inheritance. They were far from finished dismantling his financial empire, and his death disturbed their lucrative business with debt securities. They needed an heir, a straw man, and found one in my half-sister. Our father’s death left her in a golden cage where your name and status matter more than who you want, or can be. As Duchess Von Anhalt Bernburg, she was a sad, pale shadow of the promising young woman she once was. Desires that didn’t fit her role tore her apart. That’s how I met her again at the funeral. A soulless puppet, ready to be locked away in a convent by a gang of profiteers. She did not deserve this. I could no longer blame anyone else. Sure, my father’s court took advantage of her circumstances, but I was the one who put her in that position. I had to make amends.”

“Insofar you can rectify what you did to her,” Milena said.

A justified reproach. I nodded. I emptied my glass with a big gulp. It only relieved my parched throat. “I did what I could. After my half-sister recognised and acknowledged me as her half-brother, she ‘died’, leaving me as the only remaining heir. She chose an alias while I became Damian Von Anhalt Bernburg, the new puppet, but not the marionette the profiteers expected. Now I was the one pulling the strings.

“The next step was to provide Anna with the means to find happiness again. She did, by getting involved in running this estate and its dungeons. A place where she could leave the stifling weight of her upbringing behind. Where she experienced that the dilemmas she struggled with were not unique and shared by others. Where she didn’t have to be ashamed for her desires. In the end, she offered me a gift that I did not deserve.” I remained silent, back in that moment. After the anger and the tears. Anna’s kiss burned on my forehead again. Horrifying and liberating at the same time.

“She forgave you for what you had done to her,” Milena said. Her voice mirrored the ice in her eyes.

“Even after I confessed everything, yes. She also taught me you can use passions to help people instead of manipulating them for your own ends. The art here is proof of that.”

“That’s the reason for your proposal? To ‘help’ me by manipulating me?” It was hardly a question.

“That’s not how it works. My orders give you the freedom to choose what you actually want, without judgement. I do demand that you respect the choices you make and accept the consequences. Even if you cannot foresee them. Just like in real life, but without the stifling hypocrisy.”

She looked around, distraught, unable to respond, and fled into another subject. “I think we saw all the pieces. I must say, an impressive collection. Inspiring too, although not all artworks are equally appealing to me.”

I ignored her digression and stood. “You wanted to know me, Milena. There’s not much more to tell. If you reject me or my offer, at least you’re doing it for the right reasons.” I held out my hand to her. “Come, I have one more work to show you.”

She hesitated before taking my hand and following me through the double doors of the adjoining room. A baroque ballroom, the hardwood parquet inlaid with floral figures that recurred in plaster wall decorations. The only source of light was the large chandelier in the middle. The crystal of the chandelier spread the bright gaslight across the ceiling like a sky full of stars. Under it, a simple white dress on a coat hanger floated just above the ground, like a ghostly apparition. Around the neck of the hanger hung a black leather collar like mine, but without decoration. She tensed and glanced at me before her hand slipped from mine and walked towards the dress. I stayed at the entrance.

“Can I touch it?”

“Sure, you’re meant to wear it.”

Her hand slid over the dress, then stroked the clasp of the choker. She turned to face me. “This is a work of art?” she asked.

“It touches you, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “Not everything that touches me is a work of art, Damian. Your story touched me too.” Despite the sneer, the floating garment caught her gaze again.

“This is the dress you will wear and the collar I will put on you if you accept our agreement. Your first assignment will be to create a work on a subject I choose. A work worthy of the exhibition you have just seen. The question is, will you accept my proposal, despite everything you know about me? Or will you go back home? The choice is yours. Tomorrow morning at breakfast, I expect your answer.” With a hand kiss, I wished her goodnight and left.

After dinner, I stand by my resolve. It is time for your story, but I get more than I bargained for. I had no intention of sparing you, but you are definitely not sparing yourself. The gruesome story of your past confirms all the warnings I received. You are dangerous, yet I don’t feel threatened. You disarm me with your candour, your remorse seems genuine and you answer all my questions. It doesn’t make the choice you offer me difficult.