touch, to see, to smell. The scent of candles burning filled my lungs as I leapt from the pier.
Where moments before I might have plunged into the midnight waters, now my feet hovered above them by her command. A silver mist rose about our feet to conceal the air on which we stood, extending out into the wider river as she led me farther from the safety of the pier. I took her other arm and set it to my shoulder, familiar with the dance from the dark moments we had shared before. She smiled, but did not speak, her full lips parted a touch, and her heart-shaped face titled as she glanced over my shoulder up at the Big House, exhaling a sigh. I followed her gaze to the brightly lit mansion, our cheeks brushing together as I led her forward in the waltz.
A history book from the Town Hall had provided the answers I sought. She was what the locals called Gray Lady Grey, a slave-girl turned countess, married to the owner of the Big House back in 1818. He had fallen in love with her against every restriction, elevated her from her humble roots to a life she was never meant to lead. At first, the girl had thought herself lucky, but the reality of being caught between two worlds was quick to set in. No longer accepted by her own kind, nor by the new acquaintance of her besotted beau, Lady Grey ran from her home in the midnight hour, along the rushes to find her way home. Now, a century later, her spirit wandered the waters of the bayou, where she had fallen in and drowned.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t already seen it to be true. When we danced on the moonlit mist I felt her breathing against my neck, the sweet, warm vapour dampening my skin. The scent of deep red wine followed us and mixed with the candle smoke as I spun her in my arms and pulled her close. Her hands came to rest about my neck, toying with the back of my bright white tie as she smiled once more.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I asked.
She put a dark finger to my lips, shaking her curls to and fro. The mist grew higher, hiding our bodies up to the hip as she pulled me back into another rotation of our dance. The old histories spoke of her dancing as the stuff of legend, painting her as a lonely ballerina spotted by drunkards and madmen out on the water. I was fairly certain that I was neither of those things, and she didn’t look all that lonely in my arms. Aside from those glances she sometimes gave the grand house that overlooked our rendezvous, her lips were curled in joy, rounded and full. Tempting too.
The first time she had claimed me for dancing, I was too astounded to do much else, captivated by her perfect, ethereal sway. The second time, I had studied her face, memorising every detail, and rushed to the Town Hall to investigate her source. This time, I knew who she was, knew that she could not be here, and could not be causing the chill in my body as her lithe torso brushed against my chest, her curving hips mere inches from my own.
“Say something,” I pleaded. “At least give me your name.”
She shook her head, the silver wisps of fabric that clung to her shoulders slipped lower, revealing yet more of her russet skin. We pivoted out in an arc that took our feet into the centre of the flowing river, all the while her deep eyes locked with mine.
“I know who you are,” I whispered over the babbling waters. “I know that you want to go home.”
The dark beauty gazed from the Big House down the river’s path: the reedy swamp that led to the clearings where the slaves of a hundred years ago had made their dwellings. She put her head down on my shoulder, clasping me until a pin could hardly pass between our bodies and a tiny sob escaped her lips. If she could speak, then she chose not to; her cry was enough for me to understand her. I held her tightly, our feet still keeping step with the ghost of a melody. I let one hand rise out of place to stroke her obsidian ringlets, soft and so very real beneath my
Where moments before I might have plunged into the midnight waters, now my feet hovered above them by her command. A silver mist rose about our feet to conceal the air on which we stood, extending out into the wider river as she led me farther from the safety of the pier. I took her other arm and set it to my shoulder, familiar with the dance from the dark moments we had shared before. She smiled, but did not speak, her full lips parted a touch, and her heart-shaped face titled as she glanced over my shoulder up at the Big House, exhaling a sigh. I followed her gaze to the brightly lit mansion, our cheeks brushing together as I led her forward in the waltz.
A history book from the Town Hall had provided the answers I sought. She was what the locals called Gray Lady Grey, a slave-girl turned countess, married to the owner of the Big House back in 1818. He had fallen in love with her against every restriction, elevated her from her humble roots to a life she was never meant to lead. At first, the girl had thought herself lucky, but the reality of being caught between two worlds was quick to set in. No longer accepted by her own kind, nor by the new acquaintance of her besotted beau, Lady Grey ran from her home in the midnight hour, along the rushes to find her way home. Now, a century later, her spirit wandered the waters of the bayou, where she had fallen in and drowned.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t already seen it to be true. When we danced on the moonlit mist I felt her breathing against my neck, the sweet, warm vapour dampening my skin. The scent of deep red wine followed us and mixed with the candle smoke as I spun her in my arms and pulled her close. Her hands came to rest about my neck, toying with the back of my bright white tie as she smiled once more.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I asked.
She put a dark finger to my lips, shaking her curls to and fro. The mist grew higher, hiding our bodies up to the hip as she pulled me back into another rotation of our dance. The old histories spoke of her dancing as the stuff of legend, painting her as a lonely ballerina spotted by drunkards and madmen out on the water. I was fairly certain that I was neither of those things, and she didn’t look all that lonely in my arms. Aside from those glances she sometimes gave the grand house that overlooked our rendezvous, her lips were curled in joy, rounded and full. Tempting too.
The first time she had claimed me for dancing, I was too astounded to do much else, captivated by her perfect, ethereal sway. The second time, I had studied her face, memorising every detail, and rushed to the Town Hall to investigate her source. This time, I knew who she was, knew that she could not be here, and could not be causing the chill in my body as her lithe torso brushed against my chest, her curving hips mere inches from my own.
“Say something,” I pleaded. “At least give me your name.”
She shook her head, the silver wisps of fabric that clung to her shoulders slipped lower, revealing yet more of her russet skin. We pivoted out in an arc that took our feet into the centre of the flowing river, all the while her deep eyes locked with mine.
“I know who you are,” I whispered over the babbling waters. “I know that you want to go home.”
The dark beauty gazed from the Big House down the river’s path: the reedy swamp that led to the clearings where the slaves of a hundred years ago had made their dwellings. She put her head down on my shoulder, clasping me until a pin could hardly pass between our bodies and a tiny sob escaped her lips. If she could speak, then she chose not to; her cry was enough for me to understand her. I held her tightly, our feet still keeping step with the ghost of a melody. I let one hand rise out of place to stroke her obsidian ringlets, soft and so very real beneath my
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