Work Text:
And sometimes Ruth wonders what the lips taste like...
A sneer. Ruth can't help it. Not when she's flipping through the pages. Exposed, the lines desecrated, her mistress's diary lies in her hands, its lock cracked open. Secrets of a spinster that no one should ever know, least of all a handmaid. Pathetic words, wistful musings, ridiculous dreams. The puppet is tangled in strings she knows nothing about.
And yet something stings Ruth's heart and something twitches in her chest. Her name is nowhere to be found in this romantic report. The secret link – excluded.
Pale lips. They barely touch the rim of the glass. The light from the oil lamp on the bedside table casts a dim glow. Just like every other night when Ruth hands her the medicine. The clock urges patience. Hours, days, weeks of torture. Cunning plans mature like wine. But for how long? How long until wine turns to vinegar?
Margaret's hair falls down in black strands as Ruth loosens the knot. Her eyes shine darkly. But the skin beneath her bodice is pale and delicate. Ruth carefully unties the ribbons on the gossamer fabric, feels Margaret's warmth on her fingertips, almost senses the soft hairs on her back, senses her nipples pressing firmly against the fabric on the other side of the bodice. And a shiver runs through her body, warm like the rain of a summer long gone, leaving damp patches behind. “May I be used,” whispers the memory. And Peter Quick laughs at her.
Loneliness. The fireplace is still smoldering when Ruth returns to the living room. But there is not a soul here. Not the lady of the house, not the other maids, not Selina. Coldness like a prison cell in winter envelops Ruth's heart, mocking the cozy warmth. Flickering shadows dance across the walls – unrestrained, reckless, untamed. In which direction do flames burn once they are lit? Do they still obey the person holding the matches? What if they scorch something unexpected? Ruth stares grimly into the flames. Her eyes glow with burning anger, her features frozen in lava.
Who is whose girl?
Every day, Ruth's beloved sends gifts to the house that are not addressed to her. Every day, Ruth showers Margaret with the attentions of a secret admirer who is not her. Flowers, chocolates, small pieces of jewelry – they all take strange paths. Paths through three hearts whose beats are intertwined, falling out of sync.
Longingly, Ruth strokes Selina's hair, which Mrs. Jelf brought her, dips her fingers into it, kisses it as if her beloved were finally, finally back in her arms – and lays it down carefully and silently, so as not to wake anyone, on the pillow in her mistress's bedroom. At dawn, another woman will rub her nose against this braid, defile it with kisses, her heart pounding, drowning in delusional illusions. Margaret's pale lips on Selina's pale hair. No room. No room for her, Ruth, in between, not even a millimeter. For a second, she wishes the braid were brown, brown like her own hair.
Breathing heavily, Ruth slams the book shut and closes her eyes. The lines of secrets, of a history without her, fall carelessly to the floor. A drop falls from the rim of the glass on the bedside table, follows them, blurring the words. Maybe medicine. Maybe vinegar. Ruth stiffly picks up the diary, skillfully closes it as if nothing had happened, and leaves the room with her collar buttoned up to her neck. She is nothing. A nobody. Not a spider weaving a web of puppet strings. Just her mistress's servant, in bed sheets and behind bars.
And sometimes Ruth wonders what the lips taste like ... when Margaret steps out of Millbanks onto the street and a hint of violets surrounds her.