A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,11

to sup with him, in the tent that served as his bedchamber. Encouraged by her, he drank a great many cups of wine. He dismissed his servants, leaving himself alone with the beautiful young widow.”

The priest hesitated, for effect, letting the implications of his words sink in.

“Continue,” Sylvanne bade him. “I’m not such a delicate flower as that.”

“Yes, m’Lady. The scripture is not exact as to what transpired between the two. It states only that after some time Holofernes, sodden with wine, lay back upon his bed. He was thus defenseless, and brave Judith took up his sword, unsheathed it from its scabbard, and raising it high, struck him on the neck. She cut off his head! Bone and flesh and gristle, all was severed by her, using his own blade against him. Then she coolly rolled that great general’s head into a sheet, and gave it to loyal Abra to carry away, tucked under her arm. Together they fled from the murderous bed, and hurried through the night, back to the city of Bethulia upon the mountain. In the morning the Assyrians looked to the city, and saw the bloody head of their own supreme leader displayed to them, high upon a long pike above the walls. They fell into panic at the sight. At that moment the gates to the city burst open, and the Jews in their armor poured forth from Bethulia, and smote their confused and trembling enemy.”

The priest fell silent. “There’s no more,” he said at last.

Sylvanne spoke in a solemn whisper. “I fear I’m not so brave, or strong. I’ve never used a sword. I’ve never tried to hurt anyone.”

“The Lord gives strength where needed, m’Lady.”

“Then let him hoard some, and give it all to me in that moment.”

7

Meghan hurried home from her meeting to find Betsy sitting happily at the computer in the upstairs office, exactly as she had left her ninety minutes earlier.

“Did you even move a muscle?”

“No. I’ve been chatting the whole time, with Brittany.”

“Is her mother still psycho?”

“That’s exactly what we’ve been chatting about!” Betsy chirped excitedly. “Did you know her mom smokes pot?”

“No, but I’ll definitely keep that in mind next time a sleepover is discussed.”

“She goes outside to do it.”

“Oh, that makes it okay then,” said Meghan. Betsy looked at her quizzically. “I’m kidding, kiddo. It doesn’t make it okay, but I guess there are worse things in the world.”

The doorbell rang. She went back downstairs to answer it. On the front steps she found Seth, come unannounced, for a quick talk, as he put it. Seth was Meghan’s husband, “my soon-to-be ex-husband,” as she had taken to describing him to friends. Meghan let him in and led him through to the kitchen. “Come have a cup of whatever,” she said.

“You’re being very civil,” said Seth. He was carrying a shopping bag, the paper kind with handles, from a sporting goods store.

“I have to be,” she replied. “Betsy’s upstairs, and likely to come bounding down any minute. I’ve gone to great pains to paint this whole business as amicable, to convince her she’s got two parents who love and care for her, and even, on some level, still care for each other. You’d better be doing the same when she’s with you.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe if we say it enough, it’ll even come true.”

“Maybe. That would be good. Living a fiction is exhausting. But then you’re more practiced.”

Seth made a face, exactly the kind of face she hated him making, the kind that said, that’s a low blow designed to hurt my feelings, and I think less of you for it. She wanted to shout fuck you at him, but of course, as she’d already pointed out, Betsy was likely to come bounding down the stairs any moment. Betsy, in fact, chose this moment to yell from the top of the stairs.

“Mom! Who is it?”

“Your father.”

Silence.

“Hi babe,” yelled Seth, with an enthusiasm so achingly fake any ten-year-old would see through it. They could hear Betsy come down the stairs, her footfalls heavy and slow.

When she came in the kitchen she said, “What are you doing here?”

“I just came by to talk to your mom.”

Without sitting down, she flipped through a magazine on the kitchen table. “So talk.”

“Well darling, it’s kind of like, very adult talk.”

“About the divorce and stuff?”

“Not exactly.”

“I can handle it, Dad.”

“It’s just, I’d rather—look, I brought you a new soccer ball.” He pulled it from the shopping bag. “The official Olympic ball.”

Betsy glanced at it and