Page 29 of Lady Macbeth

Evander’s ordinarily bright, ruddy face is uncommonly pale, yet even now he and Lisander barely look like brothers. His chest swells.

“Fine,” he says. “I will go on with you and the boy. Lisander, you and the chancellor must prepare to depart for Moray.”

Lisander is quick to reply, “We should not be apart from each other in this moment; it will show weakness. Let us go to Moray together, now. We can return to Glammis again with the force of an army.”

Macbeth looks as if he will say something, but Evander’s response is immediate.

“I will not leave Glammis without wetting my blade,” he snaps. “We owe our father this much.”

The two brothers wage a silent war. Separate and stay, or unite and leave? But Evander is the sun and his heat and rage cannot be tempered by Lisander’s cool, remote reasoning. Eventually, Lisander averts his gaze.

Roscille has known her husband long enough now to read his expression, even when his eyes try to hide their burning. Now it is the twitch of his lip which gives him away. Though it does not quite dare to be a smile, he is pleased.

To Fléance, Macbeth says, “Saddle the horses.”

Fléance, still chafing at being called boy, dips his head and takes slightly mutinous steps out of the chamber.

“Shall I come as well, my Lord?” Banquho asks.

“Yes, you might as well,” says Macbeth—and now it is Banquho who fumes: He has become an afterthought.

Macbeth then turns to Lisander. And then to Roscille.

“I wish you safe travels,” he says. “My wife will see that you are sent off with supplies and goodwill.”

Macbeth and his party exit the castle and Roscille cannot breathe. It is the necklace, curling around her throat like a seizing serpent. It is Lisander’s stare, his singular presence, the fact that they are alone for the first time since the night he rescued her, promised his protection, the offer that she spurned so horrifically, instead dampening her hands with his father’s blood. It is the way her husband looked at her before he left, the way he said my wife, the two syllables falling like stones. When his gaze cut between her and Lisander, it was with the sharpness of a blade. There were two second, secret syllables hidden in that look.

Kill him.

She cannot. It is too much; he cannot expect her to do this. She has only just cleaned her hands. She has given three different men their deaths. Is this what it means, truly, to be Lady Macbeth? Sorceress, murderer, the dagger in her husband’s hand? Or perhaps she has always been this. All of Wrybeard’s courtiers, le Tricheur—they were right to fear her. Glammis has peeled off the dressings of innocence and uncovered the inhumanity beneath.

Lisander has been watching her in silence. Even in this mostly dark hall, his black hair catches the light and gleams. He brushes it back from his face, a swift, common gesture that makes her throat tighten even further. His hand moves with such deftness, the tendons on the inside of his wrist flexing.

In a quiet voice, she says, “I will have the kitchens prepare rations for your journey. Let me give them the order. Wait—wait here…”

Lisander nods. His lips part, and Roscille is momentarily fascinated by this simple action, too—the delicate opening, the skillful flick of his tongue.

“I will be in my chamber,” he says. And then, before Roscille can say another word, he exits the hall.

The kitchens. Roscille has never been before, but at least here there is little difference between Macbeth’s castle and the Duke’s. There are the blood-soaked butcher blocks, the baskets of apples and root vegetables, the hanging braids of garlic, the fire-grease-rust scent in the air. The cooks stammer out their greetings, as surprised to see the Lady here as she is surprised to be here. She waves them off. They scatter.

She still has Macbeth’s dagger in her chamber, but she will not use it. If she must do it, she cannot kill him with the same blade her husband used to kill Cawder; she cannot give him the brusque, ugly death of a stranger to a stranger. A kitchen knife is the closest thing there could be to a woman’s weapon—perhaps it will make Lisander’s death wound suspicious, but that hardly matters now. By the time the sun sets, Duncane’s line will be ended.

King Hereafter.

There is a place where wooden pegs have been driven into the wall, and instruments hung upon them. Blade after blade, some of them serrated, others smooth, some meant for dicing and chopping, others for sawing and rending. Roscille’s hand hovers in front of her eyes. It looks as white as the rotten hands of the washerwomen. It is shaking.

She takes the smallest knife, the one whose absence will attract the least attention, the one that will slip most easily into her bodice. The metal is cool against her skin. Her flesh does not warm it. She is bloodless, a serpent-woman. When she leaves the kitchens, she does not even hear her footsteps on the floor, only the tide that rushes up from the darkness below, as if straining toward the light.

Lisander’s chamber is easy to find—courtyard-side, without a window.

Roscille does not knock, just steps inside. The room is not unlike her own: equally as small, though without the resplendent bear-rug. Lisander is kneeling in front of the trunk, his lithe hands working to pack things away. Clothes, a bedroll. She tries to see if there are any blades glinting among the cloth, but she cannot find any. If Lisander has weapons, they are well disguised.

It will not matter, she tells herself. Once I lift my veil, nothing will matter at all.

Lisander looks up at her. “Lady Roscille.”

He knows. She does not know how, or how she can perceive this knowing from him, but Roscille’s veins suddenly run with ice. It is something in his eyes, those impossibly, surpassingly green eyes. Her heart stutters. His hand curls around the edge of the trunk.