Chapter Text
Prologue I: The Tower
In the dimly-lit living room of the cabin, the girl sat wrapped in her favorite sunflower blanket, humming along to the cheerful tune that was playing on TV.
In the kitchen, a woman was weeping - the sound all hollow and broken. It echoed through the walls, and up the stairs, outside the windows, and on the roof. It kept her company during the day, and up at night. It was her lullaby and her morning call. She’d grown so accustomed to the woman’s crying that the brief moments of quiet had become unnatural to her. Yet it still surprised her that the woman had any tears left to shed. They should have all been gone by now.
She was sitting on the old, patched-up couch that the man who ran the post office had gifted to them when they first got here. The springs were not as tight as they used to be, but the woman said they could pretend it was filled with water and they were sailors off at sea. The girl liked the idea, so the couch became their pirate ship and they would bounce on it whenever they played together. They never really did that. It was mostly just her and Grey.
Something rustled in the kitchen, then the crying got louder. In the living room, the old grandfather clock struck twelve. But it didn’t matter because time did not exist there. But they kept it because it was a gift too. They received many such gifts when they moved here. The woman said it was because people were compassionate, but the girl heard one of the ladies at the supermarket say it was because they wanted to look good. They quickly hushed themselves when they saw her peeking from behind the aisle, big eyes staring straight at them.
Looking at the clock, the girl wondered when they had come here. It must have been at least two weeks. Maybe more? Or maybe less? She couldn’t tell anymore. Time seemed to have wrapped and twisted itself beyond any recognition, leaving behind only wisps. But she knew it must have been a while at the very least because the cereal she liked had run out a few days ago, and the woman said they’ll go buy some at the store later. She always said that when they ran out of things. Which was a lot. For the past three days, she’d eaten only bread and drank only water, though she really wanted a slice of marmalade on bread.
She asked the woman if she could have that, but she only shook her head.
The pantry was empty again so for a while she only drank water.
••●••
When the woman was in a good mood, they would sometimes go outside. Only to the store, because being anywhere but in the house made her sick. The girl was happy regardless. The house they lived in, with its green window sills and dark wooden walls, was very small and very boring. She’d explored every nook and cranny it had to offer, every mouse hole that she could find, and knew how many steps it took to cross every room of the house.
58 for the living room.
68 for the bedroom.
54 for the kitchen.
44 for the bathroom.
She’d done the measuring at least twenty times since they moved here, and by the fourth time, she realized it wasn’t that fun. But there was little else to do, so she stuck to it.
What she really wanted was to find other places to measure. Like the Outside. Whenever she looked out the window she would be amazed by its vastness, and eager to thread it in her little red boots that the woman bought for her birthday. They were cute and padded with a soft material and fuzzy on the top, and she’d only wear them whenever they had to go somewhere.
Today, as usual, she picked them for their drive to the supermarket.
“And I can get cereal? The one with honey? And the little ships?”
“Yes, the one you like best. You know I love you.”
“And marmalade?”
“That too. Whatever you want.”
The woman was in a good mood today, as she was humming while brushing her long, long hair. The girl stood still as she made sure that every knot was undone, and every hair straightened out before she started putting it into pigtails. They had to look nice after all. The girl wasn’t sure why, but the woman said it was important and she believed her. The woman would never lie to her after all. She helped the girl don her red coat and white mittens, get her favorite red boots on, and covered her head with a woolen hat. Then she stood her in front of the mirror and smiled. It was a pretty smile, but then again she was a pretty woman. The prettiest the girl had ever seen, though she did not see many. Long-limbed and with brown eyes, she moved with the grace of a fairy, feet barely touching the ground. It was because she used to take ballet, that was what the woman said, but the girl was certain she had in fact come alive from a tale of magic. How else would she explain the dainty lips that she painted in red or pink to look like Cupid’s arrows? Or the way her eyes shone brighter when she coated her eyelids in copper?
The woman laughed when she told her this. Her nose crinkled and her dimples showed.
“It’s makeup, baby. It’s all pretend. Here. Come watch.”
Then she let her sit on the chair next to the boudoir and opened her bag full of all different kinds of small little trinkets that the girl had never seen before. The woman took them out one by one and showed her how inside none had the same shape, or texture, or colour. She watched her take a small, thin stick and drag the tip across her lips until they turned red. Then she pulled out a small brush and dipped it in something like dust - but it wasn’t really that because it was colourful - and suddenly her eyelids were a nice brownish-red colour. She used many other of the same instruments, and the girl watched in bewilderment how swiftly and carefully her hands moved, until the woman she knew was no more, but someone similar stood in her place instead. She wanted to see her do more of this - it was nice and beautiful and it made her happy. And the girl liked seeing the woman happy.
“Not now, baby. We have to leave. Remember?”
She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated caricature of a sad expression, but it made her laugh nevertheless. The woman promised she’ll show her more later, when they came back, and as a means of consoling her painted her small lips in a pale pink that was barely visible. It made the girl pout again.
“But you can barely see it!”
“You’re not meant to see it.”
“But you can see yours!”
“That’s because I’m older.”
That made no sense to her, but the prospect of going outside with pink painted lips - even if it was barely visible - exhilarated her too much to argue further. So they put on their clothes - the nice thick ones the girl knew they should only wear outside - and went out the door.
Later, when they came back, the woman locked herself in the bedroom. She never got to show her all the other nice things she promised to. And in a few days forgot about it altogether.