2

Rebekah watched her husband’s silhouette disappear into the steel-gray fog as he embarked on his morning visit to the house that had become an obsession; back to creating a gaudy monstrosity he had decided to sell in order to buy more gold bullion to feed his kiln.

She wore her extravagant attire and ran to the stable. She scrubbed Venus, rubbed his pelt with animal fat, braided his tail, and laced donkey-beads around his hind legs. From his neck, she suspended an amulet of turquoise and a satchel of gum arabic to ward off the evil eye. This would be her secret daily ritual. She would never alter the ceremony until Jacob’s gifts—skirts and dresses and veils—were stained with Venus’s spittle and inherited the odor of manure.

Tears swam in the animal’s eyes. Were they for her? She touched her lips to the donkey’s, brushed her cheeks against his neck, and swept her scarred fingers over his tongue. “You’re my only friend,” she whispered.

Venus nuzzled his ear against her shoulder. His sweeping tongue was a cool balm. The thumping of his heart gave her courage. She pressed her nose against his hide to stop the stink of iron she carried with her. The comforting smell of domestic animals emanated from him. “Would you still love me if I became a wife-whore?”

The donkey’s flank shook against her cheek. His ears pointed up. The odors of rain and hay and sweat assailed her. Lightning drenched the stable with violent shades of purple. Heavy boots crushed the hay behind her. She pressed her eyes shut and held the reins tight.

Jacob the Fatherless approached. He stared at her flushed face; at the stained silk and velvet clothing he had bought her. She prayed he would curse her, because his silence carried more poison than his words. He jumped back to escape the kick Venus aimed at him.

His voice was steady: “Don’t move until I return.”

Venus knelt and rested his head at her feet.

She heard Jacob descend into the cellar under the stable and then climb back up the steps. The crackling of hay and the tinkle of metal preceded him.

The iron box that held the metal trinkets he had fashioned in their first days together lay cradled in his arms.

He dragged her out of the stable and into the house, strode to the hearth, and tossed a bunch of mint into the fire. His nostrils flared. He touched himself between the legs where he was growing hard. Opening his vest, he removed the key from its secret pocket. The key scraped in the lock. He pushed the box into her arms.

“Put these on!”

Bafflement and dread paralyzed her.

“Raise the lid.”

She did not budge.

He snapped the lid open and lifted the ornaments one by one. “The tools of a whore!” he proclaimed. “Deck yourself befitting the harlot you are.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Say your last prayers then,” he hissed, his hands circling her neck.