it
had on me was to make my stomach turn. I didn’t touch it and placed the cover
back over it. Instead, I turned my attention to the armoire that covered nearly
an entire wall. Fat cherubs and skinny devils had been carved into the dark wood
in intricate detail. Pitchforks stabbed into angel wings, and the cherubs’
hands wrapped around the devils’ necks, choking them.
These were sick people.
I opened the doors, not surprised to
find a single item hanging there all alone. The red skirt was so long that in
my bare feet it would trail behind me ridiculously, and I would need to hold it
up slightly at the front to prevent tripping and falling on the stairs. The
heavy fabric would hang from my hips in a way that would leave bruises by
morning. Although, was it the skirt or was it Michael’s hands that left them? I
could never be sure. Bruises easily stained my skin anyway, and I took extra
care when I walked not to bang my limbs against anything otherwise dark colors
would blossom by the next day.
I removed my robe before I reached for
the skirt. The wooden hanger that held it was heavy and expensive, and it swung
from side to side as I pulled the skirt free. The skirt was velvet and soft.
For just an instant I ran my hand over it, enjoying its touch. I didn’t know
the significance of the skirt, only that it was tradition that we all wore
them. Except for Danilo; I didn’t know what they had designed for him. It was
rare that a male would have our gift; normally it just passed down the female
line. Somehow, that made him even more alone than the rest of us.
I bunched up the skirt and stepped into
it before fastening the hooks to hold it around my waist, immediately feeling
the drag of the weight of the heavy fabric. Was this how women felt on their
wedding days, or used to before women’s lib? Clad in their expensive fabrics
that confined them as if a metaphor for the life of servitude to come? I was
sure that I would never know.
The door opened, taking me by surprise.
I brought my arms up across my chest to cover my naked breasts.
“Just me. No need to be shy.” Dorothea
Corin swept into the room, closing the door behind her and setting down a hatbox
on the bed before turning her gaze to me. That superior smug smile that was painted
a sultry and seductive red sat on her face; I didn’t know what she looked like
without it. The brightness of her lipstick served to make her skin even paler
and her teeth shiny and white. That skin was exquisite, nearly flawless, but up
close I could see that tiny lines were beginning to sneak in around her eyes,
making me guess that her age was closer to forty. She always seemed eternally
young, and I gained some kind of satisfaction in the realization that she was
just as vulnerable as the rest of us to the ravages of time. It made her seem
breakable and able to be defeated. One day she would decay to nothing more than
brittle bone and skin lined with time.
“You seem happy today,” she commented in
that sly way of hers.
I hadn’t realized that I’d been smiling
at the thought of her demise as an aging hag and I immediately straightened my
mouth and made sure my face was like stone.
“You’re early.”
She shrugged. “I saw that you didn’t wish
to eat your meal and thought we may as well get started.” Of course she
watched. Were there cameras in the room, or did she choose the more traditional
way of spying through holes in the room, carved through the eyes of portraits
perhaps? “You know my husband is just salivating to spread his seed all over
you,” she said casually as if speaking of the weather. I didn’t flinch. I
didn’t give her the satisfaction.
I watched as she lifted off the lid of
the hatbox to expose the garland. The scent of fresh flowers of the moiraine herb hit me before she even lifted it out. The smell always made me slightly
queasy. Where the leaves of the herb blocked the visions, its flowers were said
to enhance them. Perhaps though, that
had on me was to make my stomach turn. I didn’t touch it and placed the cover
back over it. Instead, I turned my attention to the armoire that covered nearly
an entire wall. Fat cherubs and skinny devils had been carved into the dark wood
in intricate detail. Pitchforks stabbed into angel wings, and the cherubs’
hands wrapped around the devils’ necks, choking them.
These were sick people.
I opened the doors, not surprised to
find a single item hanging there all alone. The red skirt was so long that in
my bare feet it would trail behind me ridiculously, and I would need to hold it
up slightly at the front to prevent tripping and falling on the stairs. The
heavy fabric would hang from my hips in a way that would leave bruises by
morning. Although, was it the skirt or was it Michael’s hands that left them? I
could never be sure. Bruises easily stained my skin anyway, and I took extra
care when I walked not to bang my limbs against anything otherwise dark colors
would blossom by the next day.
I removed my robe before I reached for
the skirt. The wooden hanger that held it was heavy and expensive, and it swung
from side to side as I pulled the skirt free. The skirt was velvet and soft.
For just an instant I ran my hand over it, enjoying its touch. I didn’t know
the significance of the skirt, only that it was tradition that we all wore
them. Except for Danilo; I didn’t know what they had designed for him. It was
rare that a male would have our gift; normally it just passed down the female
line. Somehow, that made him even more alone than the rest of us.
I bunched up the skirt and stepped into
it before fastening the hooks to hold it around my waist, immediately feeling
the drag of the weight of the heavy fabric. Was this how women felt on their
wedding days, or used to before women’s lib? Clad in their expensive fabrics
that confined them as if a metaphor for the life of servitude to come? I was
sure that I would never know.
The door opened, taking me by surprise.
I brought my arms up across my chest to cover my naked breasts.
“Just me. No need to be shy.” Dorothea
Corin swept into the room, closing the door behind her and setting down a hatbox
on the bed before turning her gaze to me. That superior smug smile that was painted
a sultry and seductive red sat on her face; I didn’t know what she looked like
without it. The brightness of her lipstick served to make her skin even paler
and her teeth shiny and white. That skin was exquisite, nearly flawless, but up
close I could see that tiny lines were beginning to sneak in around her eyes,
making me guess that her age was closer to forty. She always seemed eternally
young, and I gained some kind of satisfaction in the realization that she was
just as vulnerable as the rest of us to the ravages of time. It made her seem
breakable and able to be defeated. One day she would decay to nothing more than
brittle bone and skin lined with time.
“You seem happy today,” she commented in
that sly way of hers.
I hadn’t realized that I’d been smiling
at the thought of her demise as an aging hag and I immediately straightened my
mouth and made sure my face was like stone.
“You’re early.”
She shrugged. “I saw that you didn’t wish
to eat your meal and thought we may as well get started.” Of course she
watched. Were there cameras in the room, or did she choose the more traditional
way of spying through holes in the room, carved through the eyes of portraits
perhaps? “You know my husband is just salivating to spread his seed all over
you,” she said casually as if speaking of the weather. I didn’t flinch. I
didn’t give her the satisfaction.
I watched as she lifted off the lid of
the hatbox to expose the garland. The scent of fresh flowers of the moiraine herb hit me before she even lifted it out. The smell always made me slightly
queasy. Where the leaves of the herb blocked the visions, its flowers were said
to enhance them. Perhaps though, that
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