Chapter Text
from the darkness before you, a pale hand emerges. the palm looks soft, as though it belongs to a nobleman, and the nails are manicured, though strangely tinged. the fingers point invitingly toward your heart, both commanding and leisurely. the hand reaches across the haze, revealing a delicate lace on a frilled cuff. you somehow know the hand offers a world beyond your own. a decadence, the hedonistic thrill of gorging on that which you should not have. the soft beckoning, the call to give in, it makes your mind swirl. you can feel the blood pulse throughout your body, can feel the pounding of your meager heart. entranced, almost bewitched, you reach for the hand offered to you.
just before you can feel the warmth of it’s skin on yours, you wake up.
♰
sunlight blinds you before you’ve properly woken. it comes shining through the window, a violent ray spearing your sleep, spread across your eyes and the pillow you lay on. the darkness of your dream evaporates, though the feeling it instilled does not.
the sound of a maid opening the rest of your curtains scrapes against your ears. waking up is always the worst part of your day.
“time to get up.” she says, voice soft. it’s mary, the youngest of your family’s servants.
you grumble out something incoherent. already, you’re miserable awake. the room is cold, and all the windows are open to flood the room with the morning light. the dream you’d been pulled from still clouded your mind, and you wanted more than anything to return to it. desperately, you attempt to cover your eyes with your arm, but mary clatters around the room as she sets down your pitcher and bowl for washing up.
whether you like it or not, you’re awake now. you untangle yourself from your bedsheets reluctantly, cursing the sun.
“thank you, mary.” you say, trying not to be bitter. you like mary, she’s a sweet girl. she comes over with your dressing robe over her arm. it’s old, the color worn, but you are grateful for the raggedy thing anyway. you stand and quickly pull it on, and mary ducks her head.
“your father wanted to know if you’d like to join him for an outing.” she asks - the messenger for another attempt by your parents to get you to leave your room.
“no, thank you. i’m not feeling well.” your tone is instantly dismissive, and she nods. you’ve been using that excuse for months, and she knows better than to try to convince you.
“alright, sir. i’ll tell him.” her voice is gentle.
she leaves the room, and you walk to slump into your armchair. it’s plush, a deep green color that matches your bedsheets. the seat is well worn where you often sit in it, a comfortable outline of your back matching. just like the days before, you have no interest in leaving your room, let alone the house. guilt waxes in your stomach, but you can’t make yourself like the business of the world outside.
your parents were busybodies, always attending some event or party - often with your younger siblings in tow. the whole thing just an excuse for everyone to show off and talk at volumes too loud for your ears. the benefit of being the oldest, now, was that you had a little more freedom over your day. with that freedom, you chose to lock yourself in your bedroom. besides, you have the dream to keep you company.
the dream has been happening for about a week now. every night, you dream of a hand - a man’s hand, you’re almost sure of it - beckoning you to take it. in the dream, you’re sure you know the person, you’re sure you trust them to whisk you away to a plane of existence the rest of the world couldn’t find. like a thick wrapping of velvet, heavy ropes of luxury offered by someone you can never see. it leaves you with an empty feeling when you inevitably wake before you can join him, whoever he is.
you fiddle with a loose thread on the hem of your robe as a door slams, and you return to the real world. unlike the hazy warmth of your dream, your room is cold, but the sunlight is harsh - it’s the wrong side of springtime, when everything is still grey and damp. your house sits on a large property, on the edge of a thick forest, and you can see the garden from your window. the hedges are sparse, and the path looks muddy and unkempt. you’re sure it will look more manicured as the season continues, but it’s been in a sorry state for weeks now. it seems the melancholy you’ve been afflicted with stretches beyond your brain, out into your room, out into the field beyond your house. if you watch for long enough, you can see things move in the woods far beyond - deer, you imagine, or foxes, or even a wolf.
you envy the animals out there. they’re free to sleep when they want, to wander between the trees, not plagued with social convention or with missing people who aren’t there.
♰
as you reach the top of stairs with a cup of tea in hand, your mother calls your name from behind you. damn, you’d almost made the trip uninterrupted. you pause, turning around, and she hands you a letter. it’s heavily perfumed, smelling of something imported, with a small wax seal holding it together - there’s a little dove on it. you sigh.
“that’s from cecelia fieldhurst.” she says, voice pleased, as if you didn’t recognize the seal. cecelia had been using that same wax seal since she was twelve, when she started writing your letters. “open it.”
you set your tea on a table near the staircase and do so, scanning the letter quickly to find it’s an invitation to a party the next night. you fight the urge to crumple it up and toss it to the floor. that sounds incredibly stressful. you never know what to do or talk about at those parties, always retreating to sit in a chair in the corner, and you don’t have the energy to pretend to want to even attend.
“what does it say?” your mother asks, and you hand her the letter.
“she’s inviting me to a party.” your tone is dour. you’ve never been a social man. you have no idea why she keeps trying.
“oh, how wonderful. you must go. you can wear that nice brocade waistcoat-”
“i’m not going. i’m not feeling well enough.” you say, tiredly.
she clicks her tongue, saying your name in a disapproving way. “that’s not polite. you ought to go. i think she fancies you.”
“well, i feel sorry for her, then, because i’m feeling ill. i’ll be staying home.”
your mother tries to argue, calling you ungrateful and cruel, but you tune her out. it’s a step up from a few years ago - she would have just forced you to go, threatening one of your books or flower bushes to get you to agree. you pick up your tea and return to your room, aiming to focus on the drawing of a narcissus flower you’re working on. she eventually lets you be.
♰
the mornings are all the same as the ones before - harsh sunlight shakes you from the intoxicating visions of your sleep. an older maid is the one who wakes you, and you stand up long enough for her to leave before you lay back down in bed. you stare at the ceiling, replaying the strange dream in your head for hours, picking apart the details of the lace and the soft shadows that covered the person’s body. you wish you could see more than just their hand. you know if you could just see their face, see the outline of their jaw, their nose, you would be more at peace. thinking about it gives your body an uneasy giddiness, a feeling you can’t find anywhere else in your life anymore.
knocks sound at your door, but you ignore them. your bedsheets suddenly feel coarse against your skin, and you abandon your bed to stare out the window in your chair. you fall into a half-doze, fixated on the rolling clouds outside, mind switching between the poor weather and the pale hand.
eventually your feet begin to hurt from the pressure of your legs, and you rise from the chair. the floor is chilly, and you quickly slide your feet into your fraying, faded slippers under the bed. it’s not as though you can’t afford new ones -they’re comfortable, and the action of going out and buying another pair just seems overwhelming. hell, the action of getting out bed nearly decimates your energy.
silently padding down the hallway, you make your way downstairs and into the kitchen. the cook looks up with a pitying glint to his face. he’s a tall, strong man, with a round face and deep-set eyes. breakfast and lunch have already been served, but it’s nowhere near dinnertime.
“here, sir.” he hands you a plate with a few rolls of bread and a cut of meat. “i kept this for you.”
“thank you, james.” you say solemnly, taking the plate to the empty dining room. the bright white of the furniture is dimmed by the grey clouds outside, and you sit down at the chair closest to the door. the only noise is the scraping of your fork on the plate. the food is good, if a little dry, but your appetite is quickly waning, and you’re unable to take another bite before you’re even halfway through. it’s not that you don’t want to eat - you simply don’t have the drive to. every task outside of lounging in your room and drawing out flowers seems to elude your motivation.
you bring james the plate, twisting your mouth when he gives you an encouraging smile. this entire household thinks you’re some sort of sick hermit, everyone but your parents treating you like an old horse that’s about to be put down. this is not a new development - you’ve always been different, always been treated like less than your siblings. you wish you could join those animals outside, shed the human skin that traps you in a world that doesn’t want you.
♰
“why don’t you come with us to the department store, son? we can get you a new robe.” your father claps his hand on your shoulder, interrupting your attempt to close a crocus between the pages of a book. you flinch at the unwelcome touch. you’ve never liked people touching you so suddenly.
“no, thank you, father. i like mine.” you say, trying not to be angry. he knows you don’t like touch, but you’ve come to expect your family grabbing at you. you readjust the crocus, making sure it will press nicely. you had found it outside the back door early this morning.
“there’s plenty of people sure to be there. i know your brothers are fond of seeing all the pretty ladies.” he tries again, and you grimace, turning to look at him.
“i don’t think i want to see anyone, father. i’m not feeling well.” your voice is soft.
his face falls into a stern look. “well, i think you’d benefit from some fresh air, at least. you can’t just stay in the house doing nothing all day.”
“i don’t. i read.” you offer up, but it clearly doesn’t have the effect you wish it would. his face just hardens more.
“if you’re that set on being lazy, i won’t make you.” he removes his grip, turning around and calling down the hall for your siblings to hurry to the buggy. you feel embarrassment creep up on your neck. why couldn’t you just want to go?
from the door, you hear a little knock. you turn to see your little sister looking at you.
“are you coming to the store?” agnes asks you, sniffing her nose. you shake your head.
“no. you girls go have fun without me.” though you feel isolated from your family, you still like your littlest siblings. no sense being rude to children.
“agnes!” your father shouts. “leave him be! let’s go!”
you roll your eyes at his harsh tone to make her laugh, and gather up the thick tome in front of you, setting it on your vanity. you lock the door with a hollow feeling and install yourself in your bed for the rest of the day.
♰
the hand curls, moving in a slow, tentative manner. you want to rush to it, to weave your fingers between those offered, but your own body feels weighed down, as if you’re under water. lace comes out from the heavy curtain of ink, then the shallow light exposes the hint of a wine red sleeve, made of fine silk, that covers the arm - the sort of clothing that comes from old, deep running money. easy and curious, the hand flexes, probing out towards you. fighting the sluggishness in your arm, you try to reach for the hand.
♰
after rousing you from your sleep, mary brings you your robe, apologetic in her next words. “your mother wants you to accompany her to mrs. fieldhurst’s for tea later.”
“oh, lord.” you huff unhappily. mrs. fieldhurst and her hellish offspring are the last people you want to see. they’re all loud and chatty, and you feel like they make fun of you when you can’t read their tone right. you want to lay in bed and bask in the dream again. “i’m not feeling well.”
mary gives you a look, concern filling her large, soft eyes. “i don’t think your mother will be happy to hear that. she’s worried about you.”
“i’m afraid she’ll have to be unhappy, then.” you say. your mother was worried about her reputation. “i’d rather stay home today.”
she seems as though she’ll argue, but mary just sighs and nods understandingly. “i shall tell her.”
♰
“you must come to tea, dear. i already promised eleanor you would be there.” your mother complains, standing in the doorway of your room. you’re in your armchair, feet tucked underneath yourself. the morning is nearly over, and you’ve hardly emerged from your bedroom. it’s truly not out of character for you to stay there until lunch is served, holed away from the rest of your family and the servants, staring out the window at the foggy field beyond your home - your mother has just decided that today, of all days, when she’ll drag you out.
“i’m not feeling well, mother.” you reply, tiredly. it’s not a lie - you’ve not felt like yourself for a long time.
“oh, please. you cannot spend the rest of your life moping because annabella left.” she chides, stepping over the threshold and heading to your armoire. you bite your lip, furrowing your brow. unbothered by the sting of her words, your mother opens the lacquered doors, looking through your clothes. she always invades like this, moves through your things and berates you for feeling so down. “you know, eleanor said her daughter was asking about you.”
“i’m sure she was.” you sigh, resting your chin on your hand. she’s had a plaguing fondness for you since you both turned sixteen. you search for a polite way to phrase your opinion. “i don’t find her company very stimulating, mother.”
“you don’t find anyone stimulating.” your mother says. “i wonder what we did to raise such a pretentious child.”
she’s one to talk. you’re honest about your dislike for social events, and about your dislike for most people. “she’s boring. all she ever wants to do is show me her house. oh, this couch was hand painted in italy, isn’t it lovely?” you mock her breathy tone, before grumbling. “is that the sort of woman you want me to spend my time with?”
“yes, it is. i’d love for you to spend your time with any woman. at least then the neighbors wouldn’t talk.” your mother says harshly.
hurt filled your body. of course, she wasn’t worried about you, but what the neighbors thought. you’d never understand the mind of your mother. “they’d talk anyway,” you try to defend yourself.
“look, you’re joining us, and that’s it. make yourself look presentable, please.” she shuts your armoire harshly, voice dripping with annoyance. “we leave in an hour.”
♰
following your mother’s brisk steps into the fieldhurst house, you’re immediately accosted by cecelia fieldhurst. she is a short, sharply angled girl, her face thin but expressive. a wide smile is affixed on her pale face as she wraps her small hand around your elbow. you try not to flinch at the touch.
“oh,” she breathes out your name, ecstatic at your presence, “you’re here! how wonderful. we haven’t seen you in ages - since you didn’t come to my party.” she pouts playfully.
“i’ve been ill.” you tell her stiffly. you feel so awkward around her, her loud words, her direct eyes.
her face drops, a stitch forming between her brows. “aw, poor thing. i’m glad you’re well enough to visit. we had our cook make special tea cakes, with rose water. isn’t that such a romantic notion? tea cakes made with such a nice flower?”
she is not one for intellectual observations.
“yes, i guess so.” you let her lead you into the tea room, where her mother, eleanor fieldhurst, was sitting already. your mother was adjusting her skirt as she sat down on a chair. the room is warm, just under unbearable, and the chairs are sure to be stiff on your back. a brightly painted, ornate tea set was already out, with plates of soft looking tea cakes and sandwiches littering the table. the room smells thickly of sugar and flowers.
“here, sit by me.” cecelia whispers, smiling at you as she practically pushes you down into an empty seat. she sits down beside you in a flurry, unsubtly moving her chair closer to yours. “mother, i was just telling him about those rose water tea cakes.”
“it’s a recipe from france.” eleanor says with a grandiose wave of her hand. “cecelia finds them delicious.”
“they sound wonderful.” you say tightly. the entire fieldhurst family is unbearable to you. eleanor is far too concerned with herself, always convinced she’s the most interesting person in the room, and her son, theodore, unfortunately takes after her. they have the habit of speaking with big, grand tones, and of cutting off anything they deem less interesting. cecelia, on the other hand, is really a very sweet girl, if a little dim. she chatters, and loudly so, but she isn’t malicious - you think you’d like her more if your families weren’t pushing you to court her. she was everything you should want; beautiful, wealthy, and wholly enamored with you.
“oh, they are. i can’t wait for you to try them. we’re having an earl grey with flowers in it, as well.” she tittered. clearly, she had been hearing the town talk about your affinity for flowers.
“i sense a theme.” your mother says, casting you a glance, and eleanor laughs a little.
“yes, we’ve just gotten this gorgeous tea set, with a floral design - every cup and saucer is a different flower.” eleanor says, gesturing to the set on the table. indeed, you noticed that your cup had peonies on it, while cecelia’s had roses. subtle, you thought - peonies and roses symbolized romance. eleanor looks at you, saying your name with a coy tone, “cecelia was insistent we get it - she just adores flowers, you know. quite the little gardener.”
“i’m sure.” you force a smile at her, then cecelia, wishing more than anything you could leave the entire goddamn house and run home to the safety of your own room.
“he used to love spending afternoons in our garden,” your mother cuts in. “we’d find him out there for hours, a book on flowers in hand.”
“oh, when the weather clears up, you’ll have to come visit mine. i have the most beautiful gardenias…” cecelia’s face is flushed as she talks to you. she’s fidgeting with her cuff under the table. “maybe we can have a picnic, sometime. i’ll show you all the blooms. they look very pretty.”
you wish you could slam your head into the stupid teacup. there’s no way you can turn her down here - the table is watching you with bated breath, and your throat nearly mangles the next words out of your mouth.
“that sounds nice, cecelia. when the sun comes back i’m sure it can be arranged.” you pray nobody else can sense the strain to your voice.
“oh, wonderful!” she lights up. “you know, i-“
“let’s pour the tea, hm?” eleanor stops her daughter from saying anything more. “i’m sure our guests would love to try it.”
“oh, yes, mother.” cecelia says, blushing again. god, this cannot end fast enough.
♰
the unfortunate truth was that, no matter how the people you knew pushed it, you would never want to marry cecelia. though your reluctance baffled your parents, you had known what the root of it was since you had first joined the preacher’s son in prayer when you were twelve. your grandmother had fallen ill, and their family had come over to bring a soft cake and healing prayer.
he was a year older than you, tall, tan, handsome in a gangly, unknowing way. they were newer to town then, and you’d almost lost your composure when he had taken your hand, his warm, soft skin on yours. it had sent bright sparks up and down your arm. it wasn’t right, but you’d known in that instant that something was far more different about you than anyone thought. women were just of no interest to you, your heart longing for something different every time cecelia brushed her hand against yours.
♰
on the way home, you sit in silence. eventually your mother speaks.
“you’re going to marry that girl.” her voice is conversational, as if she hadn’t just told you she wanted you to change your life entirely.
“mother,” you groan, attempting to argue, but she cuts you off.
“you are. she’s very much waiting for you to propose, and i’ll never forgive myself if i let an opportunity like joining the fieldhurst family pass by.”
“mother, you’re already their friend.” your hands flex in frustration against your leg. marrying a woman, having to leave your life behind to go pretend to be a doting husband, eventually a father, made your stomach turn. “i don’t want to marry her.”
“that doesn’t matter, anymore. you don’t want to do anything.” her tone becomes concerned, though it feels surface level. you know her way of guilting you into things. “you sit in your room all day. you don’t even do anything, you just sit there. you’ve become a shell of yourself since annabella left, and i can’t let it continue this way any more.”
“marrying cecelia won’t change my mood at all. i’ll still be miserable.”
“i’d rather you be miserable and married than miserable and single.” she says, turning away from you. “you’re marrying her. i’m telling eleanor tomorrow you intend to propose.”
you don’t say anything to that, but your body chills even further at the words. your mother has never been very worried about your wants, even if they’ve been relatively simple.
when you were younger, she let you spend hours reading books on flowers, both local and exotic, or sketching the plants in the garden, but as you grew older she started to disapprove of a ‘feminine’ interest. soon enough your mother was trying to command every aspect of your life - your hobbies, your friends, your impending engagement. it was more than stifling. you felt like you’d been transplanted into your family, since everyone else was more than happy to do what they were told was the right thing to do. your little brothers were already chasing girls around, already hunting with your father. you often found yourself wishing you were a wolf, or a flower in a bush - part of an aligned pack, inhuman, free. wolves don’t need to marry girls they don’t love. flowers don’t need to feel guilt on the back of their heads when they see a handsome man.
looking out the window at the world outside, you crossed your arms petulantly as you held back the sting of tears.
♰
after giving up so much of your time to the fieldhursts, your mother relented and left you unbothered for a few days in your room. you spent the time sleeping, then staring out the window. the weather was clearing up only slightly, a malignant and stubborn mist still coating the bottom of the field outside. you sort of liked it that way. the longer the weather stayed bad, the longer you could put off courting cecelia.
♰
your mother was, unfortunately, right about one thing - you hadn’t been happy since your sister had gone to america.
annabella had been your closest friend, and you had been hers. she took after your mother, wispy curls and big bright eyes, a spot of selfless sunshine among your uptight family. contrasting your awkward demeanor and trouble with people, annabella was a very charming, charismatic girl. people tolerated you better when she was around, it always seemed.
at parties, you were always at her side. during dinner, you would sit beside each other, and when the texture of your food rubbed you wrong, she’d take it onto her plate. she would always go into the garden with you, providing company and a cover in case your mother wanted to scold you. the bond between you was stronger than that of your other siblings - you and annabella had less than a year age difference between you, and she, too, felt out of place in the family. she struggled to remember things, or had trouble focusing on the things your mother was always asking her to do - you’d take her embroidery when your mother wasn’t in the room, and you’d finish the delicate threadwork. you would write out meticulous reminders and leave them under her door. annabella was the only one of your family who never mocked or belittled you for your interests, the only one who would let you sit in silence for hours drawing flowers in the margins of your books. she never pushed you to talk, or to act more like a man, or to look her in the eyes - annabella let you be yourself.
around two years ago she had met an american businessman, however, and she quickly fell in love with him. you were happy to see your sister so thrilled, but when she told you he had proposed, and she was moving to america with him, your joy quickly drained. you wanted annabella to be with the man she loved, god knows she deserved to be happy - but that meant she would be leaving the country. you weren’t sure if you’d ever see her again, since her husband-to-be moved around so much - you’d written her letters, but received no response in the year she had been gone.
as soon as annabella had left, you had fallen into a state of melancholy unlike any before. you felt left behind, like a petal that had fallen off a rose onto the dirt. the rest of your siblings were loud, and imposing, and you wish more than anything that you could join annabella in america, could be somewhere other than your suffocating home.
sometimes you daydreamed about running away, about hopping on a boat to america or russia or india, melting into a new country. you dreamed you’d meet someone, meet a man, who wouldn’t disown you for the way you looked at him. marriage to a girl you barely liked would do nothing but create a new set of problems to work around. cecelia didn’t deserve a husband who didn’t love her, and you didn’t want to be forced to play pretend until you died. you wished, for the millionth time, that you were anyone but yourself.
♰
“oh, i’m so glad you could come over for tea again.” cecelia squeals across the little table. “it’s nice, having tea with just us two.”
“yes, i suppose it is.” you nod, neck hurting from sleeping wrong last night. coming to spend an afternoon with cecelia was not your idea at all - your parents had strongarmed you into it, threatening to toss out your book on western flowers if you didn’t go.
“my mother said she thought you might want to spend more time with me. i hope that isn’t too bold.” she titters. you smile at her, though it feels unnatural on your face.
“it’s not.” it is. “you’re very charming company.” you’re so bored. “i was happy you wanted to spend this time with me.” you were only being so nice to save your book from becoming trash.
she sips her tea delicately, smacking her lips once in a rather funny looking way. she looks out the window, then to you. “would you like to keep a garden, once you’ve gotten your own home?”
you can’t help it - you light up at the chance to talk about your interest. “yes, i would. i’d like to have a greenhouse, too, and i’d love to have plenty of plants in the house.”
she grins at you. “my favorite flowers are roses. i think they’re so pretty.”
“roses have lots of traditional use in medicine and food.” you set your teacup down. “it’s not a bad favorite flower to have.”
“oh, food, like the rose tea cakes!” cecelia says perkily. she really isn’t that bad, if a little boring - your heart sinks knowing you would have probably liked her enough to marry her in another life. in this one, you just want to be home.
“yes,” you say, a sort of sad smile tugging at your mouth, “like the rose tea cakes.”
“would you love to have lots of flowers at your wedding?” cecelia bats her eyes at you, and you wish you could disappear. the thrill of talking about your favorite thing evaporates. you don’t like this, you don’t like pretending you’re normal, pretending you want anything to do with her. the inside of your stomach shrivels into a hard, gnawing feeling.
“i think so.” your voice is strained. she does not notice.
♰
the coldness of your bedsheets comforts your hot skin. you’ve been sobbing since yesterday’s tea, locked in your room, trying to calm down to no avail - you feel hopeless. you feel weak. you hope your mother will relent, that she’ll let you stay unmarried, that she’ll see reason.
you know she won’t, though, and a fresh flood of tears comes. you’re the problem here, and you know it. something is sewn wrong in your soul, something that makes your heart yearn for the only thing you can never ask for. you wish you were normal. you wish annabella was here. she would understand, you know she would, and she’d tell you it was all okay, and would protect you from your mother’s scheme. you miss her more than anything in that moment. your shoulders shake in the golden evening light, exhaustion racking your body as you cry into your pillows.
♰
this time, you can see the hand stretch out for you, too, instead of the easy beckoning from before. it’s almost as if the hand fears you won’t reach forward this time, won’t try to hold on and let it steal you away. you’re sick of waking up and having to return to yourself. you’re tired of waiting for the day to end so you can sleep, waiting to catch a glimpse of another life. across the dark, you see a glimmer of light catch on something. straining, you can almost see grey eyes, staring back at you. they must be beautiful.
♰
you’re woken by a crack of lightning. it’s loud, and harsh, seeming like it shakes the house.
your eyes jolt open, startled by the sound. sitting up, feeling like there’s fog covering your being, you blearily look around the room. another sharp white bolt comes across the window, and something in your spine presses you to go look outside.
there’s heavy rain, smacking against the walls of the house. standing in a hurry, half-unconscious, you trip over and press yourself against the glass. your breath catches in your throat.
far down, in the meager moonlight, you think you can see- yes, you can see something. someone.
the man from the dream, you think in a flurry, and you almost collapse. oh, your heart is racing thinking about him. the world seems like a razor’s edge, suddenly - you feel like you’re still dreaming, almost climbing back into bed, but a sharp jab in your chest keeps you from doing so. if this were a dream, you wouldn’t feel so sharp, you tell yourself. things are too clear, too cold. everything is fuzzy and spiky, a knife hidden under the silk. a claw in your skin.
suddenly filled with a panicked conviction, you spin around to find your robe. your mind races. god, what if he’s out there?
the possibility spills like dark red wine over every part of you. oh, of he’s out there, if he’s here, you can’t let him go. you have to join him in his endless dream.
pulling open your door and rushing down the stairs, feet bare, your heart pounds with a growing certainty that the man is there, and that you need to join him. it’s something you know, deep in your soul, like a string pulling you from yourself - something you know in the same way you know the hand beckons you to join it in a flurry of sin.
the dreams are so real, yet so odd, like watching through frosted glass - you feel the same way now, awake, as you do when you’re trying to touch the pale, inviting skin. rich, warm, yet at the same time sparse and cold. everything becomes strange and unfamiliar as you flit around the house, desperate to remember where the rooms lead.
finally, you find the exit from the large, imposing walls. panting from your rush, you burst out of the back door, the rain now so heavy and thick that you can already feel it dropping like crystals into your nightshirt. you have to hurry, before he’s gone, before the night ends and you have to face the sunlight. your teeth ache with conviction. there’s a strong mist rolling over the ground, the deep, inviting darkness seeming to call you in. your mind loses the distinction between sky and earth.
you feel a drop of rain land under your eye. you can see his figure, there, tall and inviting. god, you can nearly make out his inviting gesture.
captivated, you stumble across the glittering grass. you’re numb to the water weighing you down, concerned with finding him, with reaching him, finally touching the hand that’s haunted you for weeks. your heart pounds as you finally catch sight of a figure just outside of the woods.
your throat won’t make a sound, but you try to yell out. he’s there. you know if you can reach him, if you can grasp his hand, he’ll save you from the tragedy of your reality. you run, slipping but never falling, desperate to get there, to be free. the rain falls harder, the mist grows stronger, but you don’t stop. the woods fast approach, and you can see the moonlight gleam off of two grey eyes.
suddenly, a loud, worried voice screeches out from behind you. ignoring it, you keep going, but in minutes there’s something tackling you down. you try to wriggle out of their grasp, to turn around and call out to the man by the woods.
“stop it!” you hear someone shout, as large arms hold you fast. panic shoots through you. a harsh, sharp bleating rides under the current noise, and you are aware in some way it’s coming from you, a mangled attempt to beg the man to come and save you. words escape your tongue, but you push anyway, gnashing your teeth and bleating as you desperately reach for him.
there’s a cacophony of voices, from all directions, sounding far away - like your ears are stuffed with cotton. you scratch and kick to get out of the pin before it’s too late, tearing into the earth and flesh, yowling like a wounded cat. you feel something wet under your nails.
“stop, stop struggling!” the arms tighten around you.
“oh, my lord in heaven, what are you doing?” your mother’s loud voice joins the din. “what is going on?” she sounds like she’s seen a ghost, and she rushes to block the view of the woods. the disconnect from your goal breaks the trance you were in.
you lose all your energy in an instant, fatigue flooding your veins as you let out a low, pitiful noise. you slump down, unable to keep your fighting up, hands buzzing and head reeling.
as your mother babbles out worriedly, you’re suddenly aware of your freezing skin, of your soaked nightshirt, of the cuts on your feet and hands, of your hair weighed down by water and grass. the cook, james, is the one holding you. the wetness on your nails is mud and your own blood, drawn from crescents you’d dug into your hand without realizing. you stare at the red trailing down your palm, breath coming harsh and strangled. your father says your name in a shaky, harsh tone.
“what the devil were you doing?” your father grabs your arm and yanks you up. he sounds afraid. your shoulder hurts terribly. “explain yourself.”
“i- i…” your words tremble. “he was out here.”
“what? who?” your father’s brow furrows, and your mother lets out a wail.
“oh, lord,” her voice rings like a bell over your head. she clasps her hands before her chest. “oh, no… oh, father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
“... i don’t know.” you say softly. your father’s face hardens, and he casts a look to james before he drags you back inside.
♰
your parents’ voices rumble under the door as you scrub yourself clean with lukewarm water. it stings the soles of your feet and the palms of your hands. apparently, james heard you clatter out of the house, and ran to get your parents awake when you didn’t respond to his call. you silently curse him, but at the same time, you thank him for getting you.
what the hell was that? you were so sure he was there, but you didn’t even know who he was. the man from your dream, sure, a man whose face you’d never seen and who you were positive wasn’t even real. what if there had been animals waiting to attack you, once you’d gotten out there? or what if you had slipped and hit your head, bleeding out on the grass with nobody to find you until the morning?
your hands barely hold still long enough to hold the cloth. you want to go back to bed.
♰
after the ordeal, you slept for another two days, only waking to be fed buttered toast and cups of lemony tea. your hands and feet are bandaged, as well, smooth strips of cotton decorating your skin. your little sisters come in to see you, but you’re too tired to do much but lay there. your mother came in to check on you once or twice, but she seemed reserved, almost scared to touch you. faintly, you can remember her praying over your exhausted form. you don't dream the whole time.
your head feels like it’s imploding once you’re done languishing in your messy bed. you barely manage to drag yourself out of it, sick to your stomach, curling up on the floor beside your mattress instead. you lay there for hours with the coolness of the air comforting your flushed, sore body. you must have caught something when you ran out into the rain, you conclude.
a letter from the fieldhursts arrives amid your stupor. it’s a short, clearly quickly written note, in cecelia’s flourishing hand. she expresses panic at your poor health lately, and wishes you quick healing. you fear if you don’t get better soon, she’ll come over and bother you with inane talk and feeding you fruit. lord, the fact that she thinks you're to be married almost makes you sicker.
♰
thankfully, you’re back to your old self again soon after - that is, you sit in your chair and stare out the window all day. one afternoon, you occupy yourself with trying to draw what you know of the man, foolish though you feel. he still plagues you, even if you made a fool of yourself over some feverish notion that he was outside - you still wish you’d see him again, even if only in your dreams.
as you’re sketching out the lace of the cuff, your door bangs open. you wince. your brother, anton, slides into the room. he’s three years younger than you, and rather prickish when he decides to actually talk to you.
“so, you’re marrying cecelia fieldhurst, huh?” he starts, reaching for your book on flowers native to china. you groan.
“oh, lord. mother’s told you that, i assume?”
“you’re so lucky. i wish i could marry her.” he grins at you. “her mother’s a bitch, though.”
“i’m not- anton, i don’t want to marry cecelia. i’m not going to marry cecelia.”
“why not? she’s beautiful.”
“so? she’s pretty. alright.” you say blandly. your headache gets worse as he invades further into your room, picking up your things and moving them idly. normally, your bedroom is your haven, a place where nobody bothers you. “i have no interest in marrying her.”
he remains silent for a while, staring at a pressed flower under glass, before he comes to stand over you. “you know, mother told me if you don’t marry cecelia, you’re going to an asylum.” his voice is solemn.
“that’s ridiculous.” you glare at him.
“it’s true. she said she thinks you’re possessed by a demon.”
“she doesn’t believe that, you twat.”
“ask her, then.” he shrugs, going over to your desk. “she’ll tell you. after that night, she’s convinced you need an exorcism.”
“get out of my room.” you say, tired of the conversation. you don't want to think about marriage or asylums. a fear prickles at the back of your neck, but you dismiss it. there’s no chance they’d really think to send you away.
“can i borrow this?” he holds up a novel on flower language. “there’s this girl at school-“
“no. get out.” you stand up, stomping over to snatch the book out of his hands. he’s just asking to bother you. he scoffs.
“why not?” anton says petulantly.
“because you’ll lose it, is why. leave.” you wave at the door, and anton concedes, shutting it harshly behind him. you huff, and go to fix your books the way you had them.
♰
you went downstairs for a snack, slipping an apple in your robe pocket as you brought the other to your teeth. silently making your way through the drawing room, you stopped to see what your sisters were sewing. the youngest looks up at you, her cheeks still round with baby fat as she lifts up a small, inexpertly sewn dress.
“it’s for my doll.” maria tells you, and you nod.
“very nice. i’m sure she’ll love it.”
your mother comes in, and her eyes widen when she sees you. you know you’ve looked ill since your frantic night in the rain, but you don’t look like a ghost.
“you’re not in your room.” she sounds upset. that’s unusual for her. any other day, she’d be taking the chance to drag you over to the fieldhursts’, or to the grocer’s.
“i’d think you’d be happy.” you say, raising an eyebrow. she averts her eyes.
“you were sick recently. best not to be too close to the little ones.”
hesitantly, you nod - you were planning to steal away to your room again anyway, but being told to do so hurt a little. as you ascend the stairs, your heart grows worried with the notion that maybe anton was right.
♰
you lie awake the next night, staring up at the ceiling.
you had been in your room since your mother had dismissed you, choosing to just sleep through that day and most of this one. the fear that they would really get rid of you fills your body. you turn, trying to think about something else, but nothing else comes. just anton’s words repeating, circling your head - dousing you with a thick dread.
feeling foolish, muttering mentally that he was just trying to scare you the whole time, you sneak out of your bedroom and down to the door of your parent’s shared room. pressing your ear to the wood, careful not to make a sound, you listen for a conversation. after a moment, you can make out words.
“fred, i don’t know what to do.” you can hear your mother fret. “ it must be the devil, something must be afflicting him. if he won’t marry her… i’ll feel awful, putting him in an asylum, with all those awful people… but he can’t stay here.”
“i’m afraid we have to, alice. you saw him that night. you’ve seen how he’s been since bella left.” your father sounds mournful, like he’s already sent you away. “is it even right to have him marry that poor girl? she doesn’t deserve a husband with these… problems.”
“i think we should give him the choice… i think he could be happy, if he’d just try. maybe a priest could help him…” your mother sounds as if she’s crying. “oh, fred. where did we go wrong?”
you’ve heard enough. pulling away from the door with tears pricking your eyes, your head spins. they truly think you’re crazy. your mother really thinks you’re possessed. they’re going to make you marry a girl you’re sure you’d come to despise, or lock you in an insane asylum. they’re going to doom you either way.
you stand in the hallway for only a minute before you feel yourself make a choice. you aren’t going to marry that dimwit, and you aren’t going to get stuffed into an asylum, either. you’re going to run away.
♰
you return to your room in a hasty manner. your mind races, though at the same time, you feel sure of yourself for the first time in months. this is what you want - no, need to do.
you quickly change into your warmest blue wool pants and white shirt, along with the matching overcoat. pulling out your old school bag from your armoire, you stuff some clothes inside, shirts, pants, undergarments, your robe, along with your most prized possessions - your favorite flower books, your slippers, your sketchbook, and the handkerchief annabella gave you, embroidered with your favorite flower. you pause as you hold the handkerchief, a sullen feeling overtaking you. lord, you’ll really never see her again - you don’t know where you’re going to go, but you know you’re giving up all ties to your family as soon as you escape out of the front door.
so be it, you think, resolve resurging. you need to do this. you need to leave, to save yourself. you’ve been rotting on the inside since annabella’s ship left, and you won’t let yourself languish in a locked room - whether it’s a bedroom or a padded cell, it makes no difference to you. the only way to keep from inevitably losing your mind is to run away from the only world you’ve ever known.
as you close your bedroom door for the last time, leaving behind your sanctuary, you find yourself almost glad to go. whispering a goodbye to your family as you steal away, a weight lifts from your chest. for the first time in a long time, you feel free.
♰
the night is cold and deathly silent as you make your way down the cobbled path. you pull your coat tighter around your torso - there’s no rain, but there is a distinct dampness to the air. not even the faint whisper of wind or far away howls of wolves interrupted your solitary exodus. it was eerie. the moon was faint, and the world before your feet was almost pitch black. the confidence that had overtaken you before waned as the night went on, but you weren’t going back. when you found yourself afraid, you just remembered what was at stake. that propels you forward. away from your mother, away from cecelia, away from the stupid gossiping town.
thank god you had sturdy boots, for the path faded out as the dawn came. packed down dirt led the way in the shallow morning light. your legs grow tired, and you feel deeply hungry, cursing yourself for forgetting to grab any food.
somehow, the air grew colder as the sun rose. you need another layer to stop yourself from freezing. stopping to take out your robe, you hurriedly slip it on under your coat. tucking your hand into your robe’s plush lined pocket, you touch something smooth and round. the apple you’d tucked into your robe, you realize with a smile.
♰
by slowly taking bites, you’d managed to make the apple last most of the early morning. as you sink your canines into it’s skin, you’re thankful from the salvation from your stomach’s rumble. as the sky goes from purple to orange, you ate right down to the core, savoring every drop of the juice and every bite of the dark red fruit. as the sky begins to turn a grey blue, you finally had to toss it out by the side of the road. you were reluctant to do so, licking the sticky reside from your fingertips as you continued on.
the rolling fields were pretty, and the apple had been delicious, but they did nothing to fix the ache in your muscles from your continuous walking. the day passed unbearably slowly, the sun inching across the sky. it did nothing to warm the air, unfortunately.
as you trekked, you tried to plan your journey. you weren’t sure of your destination, but you knew there was a town a few days’ trip from yours. if you were lucky, you could make it there before you passed out from hunger. from there, you were going to try to find a way to america. even if you couldn’t find annabella, you could at least be free of any possibility your family would find you. it hurt that it had come to this. you thought about your sisters - you would miss them, surely, but maybe things would be better if you weren’t there. maybe they would have grown up to find you weird and unappealing, just like the rest of your household.
eventually the night came again. as the sun sets, your path leads you into a large forest, with trees far above your head. the stars speckle the sky, twinkling between tree leaves, providing more light than the previous night had given you - though that wasn’t saying much. it’s a very pretty forest, and you walk longer than you realize looking around at the gnarled trees and the moon-blue grass. eventually the trees grow too shadowed to see anything but a few bright stars. the change in lighting causes an uneasy feeling to creep up your back - you suddenly feel as though you oughtn’t be here, or as if you’re being watched by something just behind you.
the night grows colder. you could swear your veins begins to freeze. you don’t want to sleep, for fear that something will find you, but you aren’t immune to exhaustion. your body was used to sleeping for part of the day and all of the night. you sedentary lifestyle prior to this didn’t do you much good. finally, reluctantly, you stop beside a shorter tree with low branches. it could theoretically hide you from potential predators.
“hopefully i don’t get eaten alive.” you mumble to yourself, trying to be funny. it would be truly awful if you were devoured by a predator just after finally escaping your home, but you haven’t seen anything hunting you in here so far - a small comfort. there’s no dampness on the ground, but you can’t imagine the grass will feel very good on your skin. you lay your bag down as a makeshift pillow, and take off your coat to lay your robe over the bag and the thick, dry grass under the tree’s branches. curling up on the soft velvet of your robe, you cover yourself with your coat, quickly falling asleep despite your precarious environment.
♰
instead of a floating hand and a comforting abyss, you are faced with a cold, icy nothingness. fear begins to float through your skin - you don’t know this place. you don’t recognize anything about it, the freezing blue tinge around you so isolating and disorienting you feel as though you’ve lost yourself to it. a thin, wavering shock goes up your spine, and your legs shudder to life as you are suddenly propelled forward, searching for something you’ve already forgotten. as you try to walk you keep bumping into things you cannot see - harsh, sturdy, like trees shrouded in shadow. it hurts in a dull, suspended way. your body lurches through anyway, unable to comprehend the pain.
you try to call out, and hear your voice echo back at you in an overwhelming manner. “hello?” you say, and the words bounce back around like bullets. it stings your ears.
hello? hello? hello? hello?
♰
“hello?” someone shakes you from your slumber, and you screech. panicked, you thrash back, sliding further under the tree once you see the figure hovering over the ground. fear shoots through your skin. you’re not a very strong man, and you don’t know who’s there, or what he intends to do.
“oh, wait!” his hands raise, and he steps back. “i’m not trying to scare you.” his voice sounds earnest, and you can see a horse and buggy parked on the path behind him.
“then what are you doing?” you slowly ask, voice thick with sleep. the light is dim, but as you come out from under the tree, you see a man offering you a kind, worried smile. he has longish brown hair that frames his face - he doesn’t look like a nobleman, but his clothes seem nicer than a usual servant’s.
“i was going to ask you the same thing. this is my employer’s land,” the man says, an apologetic tinge to his words, “and i wanted to know what you were doing on it.”