Do you dream of me, Rosalind when I am drenched in blood? When your nightmares become dreams, you will long for me. Call for me and I will crawl my way into the very marrow of your existence.
Rosalind heard the wind wailing outside while she slept. In her dreams it came and wrapped itself around her. A whisper seeped into her ear and made its way to her chest causing her heart to thud wildly. Rosalind's breathing quickened. With a gasp, Rosalind tore the bed covers off her and opened her eyes to the awaiting darkness.
Night married with the howling wind yet inside her chamber, Rosalind felt protected. It was still hours until dawn. When Rosalind lifted her head to look out the window, all she saw was a sheen of black coating everything outside.
Touching her hand to her heart, Rosalind willed herself to calm down. She drew in slow, steady breaths until her heart no longer raced. In her shattered sleep, a voice echoed, Do you dream of me? Do you...? Do you...?
The voice was ghost-like. For a few long moments, it felt like a stranger's. But soon, a sense of familiarity washed over Rosalind. "I have heard you before," though at that moment she uttered into the empty room in certainly, once the words had left her mouth she quickly felt unsure. "No...I," pausing, she sat up and moved her legs off the edge of the bed. "I do not know," she replied to a question resiting silently in her brain. "I may be going mad here. The beast's home is a tomb, perhaps I am already dead."
The stone floor was cold when she stepped down. Her slippers remained off to the side. Barefoot, Rosalind walked the length of the room and knelt by the dying embers that glowed faintly in the fireplace. Last night's wine lingered on her tongue. A slight sense of dizziness resided in her head. But the feeling did not settle unpleasantly.
Rosalind reached for the poker and wrapped her fingers around it tightly. Agnes would think it unladylike yet Rosalind did not care. Sliding the metallic tool in the fireplace, Rosalind unsettled the embers and watched as rogue ash floated upwards only to be sucked into the gaping maw of the chimney. She felt the warmth on her face, a gentle burning that began to fight for the lingering chill. Rosalind knelt down and placed her free hand on the cold floor. Hypnotized by the fluttering ash, the young woman felt herself getting sleepy. Her lids closed half-way. The dancing coals swayed. The poker was lowered. She felt herself give in to the sleep that was beckoning back. Rosalind lowered her body on the stones, felt winter under her flesh. Closing her eyes, she fell into a dreamless slumber.
Rosalind rose at noon, after having shooed Agnes away when she came to collect the raven-haired girl for breakfast.
"Why are you on the floor, my lady?" Agnes had exclaimed. "Are you ill?" Helping her back to her bed, Agnes tucked Rosalind under the warm blankets and then sighed when Rosalind answered she was well and simply wanted to sleep on the floor. "I do not understand why a fine lady like you decided to curl up next to the fire like a cinder-girl."
While the sun stood high in the blue sky for the rest of Transylvania, it shunned the lord's domain and only allowed a few tendrils of light to poke through the perpetual fog.
When Rosalind woke, she saw flurries moving lethargically across the land. She watched them dance. The ones that dared float higher caught the slivers of light and shone like silver. Rosalind watched as they turned into butterflies and fluttered away.
Rosalind rose groggily. Her recollections of the dream were faint. The whispered words no longer spoke to her. Silence greeted her and nothing more.
After splashing her face with some water, Rosalind moved to the wardrobe and opened the wooden doors. The dresses hung before her in an array of hues. She reached up to touch the yellow one but stopped herself and moved towards the black one instead. Her fingers inched closer to the inky material, then just as she was about to touch, Agnes knocked and entered without Rosalind telling her to come in.
"My lady, you rose late today." There was no chastising in the maid's voice, simply truth. "You must be famished for it is nearly time for tea." Agnes set the silver tray on a table but Rosalind had yet to speak to the maid.
With quick steps, Agnes made her way to the young woman. Rosalind stood motionless. The older woman frowned with worry. "Come, sweet lady, have something to eat," Agnes said turning her full attention to the young guest. Rosalind remained quiet. Choosing not to address Rosalind's silence, Agnes gently led the young woman to the tray of food and helped her sit down.
Green eyes moved to the tray ladled with fruit, buns, and sweet-scented tea. Rosalind reached for a cherry. Ripe and red as blood. "Will he join me tonight?" Finally speaking, she asked the handmaid.
"My lady," Agnes began with a sigh, "the lord wishes to convey his apologies--"
"I will not hear of it!" With a flourish, Rosalind hurled the cherry down where it landed in the bowl of cream. Droplets of thick milky liquid splattered all over the fruit and buns.
"My lady," Agnes proclaimed. "He--"
But Rosalind cut her off again. "He brings me here, to this hell on a hill, pulling me away from my beloved family and does not have the courtesy to even greet me as a proper lord does." Rosalind bolted up sending her chair flying back much to Agnes' shock.
"My lady, please. The lord has had a difficult few days." Why am I defending him? Agnes thought. He deserves all her fury.
"Has he?" Rosalind asked with an unladylike mocking tone. "Very well." she lifted her hand to dismiss Agnes. "Do not call me down for dinner tonight either, dear maid. This tray of food will suffice for today."
Agnes' gaze hurried to the tray. There was a small feast for tea, definitely not for a full day. Certainly not for a young lady who still needed nourishment. But Agnes simply pursed her lips and nodded. "As you desire, my lady. I will leave you to your meal then. If you change your mind or need me for any matter, do not hesitate." With a curt bow, Agnes exited the bedroom and made her way downstairs.
When evening came, Rosalind finally changed out of her nightgown and into one of her own frocks after having spent the majority of the afternoon sitting by the window, disheveled and not dressed for the day. There was no need for her to wear one of the lord's fine gifts since she would not be meeting him in the dining room. As soon as Agnes had left that noon, Rosalind slammed the doors of the wardrobe shut, refusing to look at the luxurious gowns again.
Her white dress slid easily over her slender frame. There were no peculiar buttons dotting the back, rather, a ribbon in the front held the top part of the dress in place. The sleeves reached just under the elbow, the hem puffed out and swished around her ankles. Upon her feet were a pair of dove-gray boots that fit her snugly.
Rosalind pulled her hair up and secured it in a loose bun. Raven tendrils escaped and cascaded around her face.
An eerie silence greeted Rosalind as soon as she opened the door and walked out of her room. She paused the moment she exited, something pulling at her attention. The chambers on either end of the hall were silent. For a moment, she thought about heading back to the room with the violin but it was a commotion coming from downstairs that won her over.
The sound of something being dragged was followed by two loud thumps. As she wandered down the staircase, Rosalind listed to what sounded like knives being sharpened. Perhaps it was Agnes cooking supper after all. Rosalind would not feast, she had no appetite at all.
The tip of her boot touched the last step. Rosalind hesitated before craning her neck to catch any more sounds. But the house was now silent. She looked towards the kitchen where she was sure the sounds had come from. Picking up her skirt, she continued on her way.
"Curiouser and curiouser," she muttered.
At the end of the long hall, a shadow brushed along the candle-baring wall. Rosalind gasped and stopped abruptly as the shadow slipped in a room adjacent to the kitchen. Rosalind did not know what lay beyond the door and assumed it was simply another part of the kitchen. Moving to it silently, she felt as though eyes were upon her. Looking around, Rosalind realized she was alone.
"This house is mad," she said to herself putting her hand to the door and carefully opened it.
The small room could have been a study were it not covered in blood. Knives of various sizes hung by hooks on the wall. A large butcher's table stood in the middle of the ill-lit area. Shadows cast upon a large mass on the table. It was only when Rosalind stepped closer did she see the stag laying upon it. The once white animal was covered in its own blood. There was a large wound on it, like that a sword would cause. The deer stared vacantly at Rosalind through deep black eyes.
Her heart thundered at the sight even though she had seen fresh kills before. In her heart, Rosalind knew this animal was slaughtered by the lord of the manor and this caused her breath to quicken. Though she knew that it would be logical and wise to walk out of the small room, she moved even closer to the deer and placed her hand upon its neck. Once, a pulse lay under the stag's flesh, a strong beating pulse that the lord had stolen away. Rosalind's hand moved from the white fur to the open wound. The cut was deep. Rosalind believed it went right to the deer's heart killing it instantly. When she placed her hand over the bloody wound, Rosalind closed her eyes and envisioned the lord's sword severing the deer's life.
"Do you dream of me?" A phantom voice spoke in Rosalind's ear making her cry out softly. Opening her eyes wide, she backed away from the lord's kill and ran out of the room.
Rosalind felt as though she were drowning. The library before her was a life-raft in her turbulent sea. Thinking her heart would burst, she entered the sanctuary of books and looked around to make sure she was alone.
A small fire roared in the corner fireplace. Where there once were visible walls now there were shelves full of books. A small window overlooked the lord's bleak land. Two armchairs sat by the fireplace. The purple velvet upholstery was thin and fading but when Rosalind touched the material she felt its smoothness.
There was no light in the small library except for whatever glow came from the flames. Rosalind stepped next to the fire and inspected her hands. The stag's blood lingered on her palms. When she lifted her hands to eye-level, she saw the blood had trickled down the length of her arms. Drops stained the cuffs of her white sleeves. I didn't even touch it that much. She thought astonished. When Rosalind looked down, the whole of her white dress was bathed in vermillion. Letting out a gasp, she grabbed at her skirt and turned to face the fire. The light danced over the ivory material indicating that what she thought she saw was nothing more than a trick her mind was playing on her. There was no blood on her dress other than the faint drops on her cuffs. Her hands bore a few streaks where her fingers and palm had glided over the animal's wound, but nothing more.
"I could have sworn...," she uttered under her breath. "I truly am going mad."