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[cadavre-et-le-coeur-doux]

nightwalk

When he had left her, the last traces of snow had been melting away; his boots had squelched in the mud as he walked out into the moonlight, and she had felt a warm breeze on her cheeks as she watched his back slowly shrink and disappear into the distance. She could not count the tears that had fallen on those cheeks since then.

She could, however, be reasonably sure of the number of weeks that had passed, for as she stared out the window and prayed for the castle's servants to leave her to her loneliness, she saw the first flakes of the new winter's snow begin to float slowly down. And all it did was bring more tears; more tears to wipe on the sleeves of the nightgown she had not changed in days, more tears to redden those already rosy cheeks, more tears that she would not count, because it pained her all too much.

Her hair, messy and tangled for want of care, fell about her face as she turned herself over to despair. The sadness had become a company of its own, and at times she began to feel guilty if she had gone too long without mourning his absence. She had once made herself laugh hysterically at the thought of presenting Le Seigneur with all of the tears she had cried for him when he finally returned. 

She hid her face in her folded arms and wailed as loudly as she could, and then wailed again at the thought of the servants hearing her cries and tutting to each other with pity. How dare they pity her? Their lady, their mistress? Their Madamoiselle la Princesse? When their master returned, she would have him to behead them all, and they would eat well that night, indeed. But the thought of him returning turned all her anger to sadness again, and fresh sobs racked her chest as she shot up out of her seat by the window and ran to her bed, throwing herself into the pile of silks and cotton that had absorbed her lamentations so many times before.

If he were here with her, she thought, indulging in her sadness, she would have run to him, and pointed out the new-falling snow. He would wonder at it with her, and promise to go out riding with her the next night, or else command the servants to build a great, roaring fire, where they could sit and pretend to warm their cold bodies.

She had ceased her heaving, heavy sobs, but tears continued to run down her face as she rolled over to gaze up at the canopy of violet silk above her bed. She thought of the hours they had spent reading books of poetry to one another, picking out their favourite verses, and seeing if the other knew how to end lines they began. Though he never said, she had noticed which stories were his favourites: stories of usurpation, revenge, and plots of murder delighted him. She was not so innocent as to believe him perfect, or as gentle in all things as he was with her. Raphael Sorel was a violent, cruel, vengeful man, tortured by betrayal and rotted away by malfestation; but to her he was sweet, kind, and most of all, faithful, and so she loved him as dearly and as fiercely as she had ever loved a person. 

She had barely left her room since he had left, but she rose, gossamer in her white gown, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Cold, stockinged feet made muffled patting noises on the flagstones as she floated down the spiral staircase that lead to her tower. Reaching the bottom, she lowered a candle from a sconce, and made her way through the castle, careful to remain undetected. The problem, she thought, with having all one's servants this terrified of their master, was that they were, indeed, too terrified to make idle chatter among themselves, so it was hard to tell if one was near you or not. It was this thought that preoccupied her as she rushed around a corner and slammed full-force into Carmen, one of the many servingmaids she had exiled from her chambers.

As Amy fell backwards, her backside landing hard on the stone floor and her candle sputtering out, the servant gave a cry of surprise, and then a gasp of horror.

"Mademoiselle! Oh, no, let me- are you-"

"Don't touch me," Amy hissed, throwing off the helping hand Carmen had placed on her shoulder. Wincing, she dusted off her nightgown and lifted herself and her candlestick from the floor. 

"I'm so very sorry, maîtresse, um... I did not expect to see you outside your chambers, or so late, is there something-"

"Nothing," she said, trying to hide her red, splotchy face from the girl. 

"Nothing? I- we haven't seen you in days, are you hungry? There's food in the kitchens I c-can get you, or I can wash your sheets, I'm sure they need them-"

By this time, Amy had resumed her walking, and Carmen was following, chattering all the way. 

Amy had long learned how to tune out the chatter, but was forced to listen when she felt a presumptive hand on her shoulder.

"Or, Mademoiselle, is it... that?"

When Carmen neither continued speaking not clarified, Amy stopped, turning to the girl. "What are you talking about?"

"Well mademoiselle, if you need to-..." Carmen began wringing her hands, looking anywhere but at her mistress. "That is, if you're, um... thirsty," she said, seeming to whisper the word, "I can go down to the village a-and bring someone up, I know there's a rather old woman, n-not long for this world, I'm sure no one would notice..."

Realizing what she meant, Amy gave the girl an innocent smile. It had been so long since she'd had any fun- if the situation presented itself, who could blame her for a little indulgence? And Carmen squirmed so peasantly.

"Oh, Carmen, of course, but why on earth would a trip to the village be necessary?" She said it as sweetly as possible, and tried to flash her elongated fangs as much as she could. "Why, my dear, you're right here!"

At these words, all the colour seemed to drain from the servingmaid's face. Her voice raised an octave as she spoke. "M-M-Mademoiselle, it's r-really no trouble, I could b-be back so quick, you- you wouldn't even know I'd left!" She let out a nervous giggle.

"My dear, sweet Carmen!" Amy took a step closer to the girl, who backed up into a wall. Amy had never been as good at this as her father was. She had tried to imitate his masterful technique, but she supposed she was simply not as physically intimidating. Working from memory, she extended her arms and wrapped them around the maid's neck. "Who would want some shriveled-up old hag when you're right here? So sweet, so young..." Amy leaned into the crook of Carmen's neck, and took a long, luxurious sniff. "So fresh."

Carmen, who had not breathed since Amy had laid hands on her, took a shivering gasp. "P-please, mademoiselle, I've been g-good, I've done a good job, I'm s-so sorry for b-b-bothering you, I'll j-just go back to my chambers-"

"Ah, non, non, non, ma cherie!" As Carmen made a move to withdraw, Amy took the girl's chin in a forceful grip, tilting it up and away; she sighed on the exposed length of the girl's neck, eliciting a small sob. "N'aie pas peur! It doesn't hurt that terribly, I assure you! Well, that's not entirely true, but..." Amy began stroking her neck with a single finger. "I'm sure you'll be strong, won't you?"

"Mademoiselle, p-please don't, please! I’ll be good, I swear, I promise!" Carmen was crying now; a stream of tears had flowed down into the path of Amy's finger. "Oh, Istenem kérlek, please, miss, I beg you, please d-don't-"

"Don't what?" Amy whispered against the girl's neck. "What are you so scared of?"

"Don't-... please, I don't want to be a-" She realized what was happening, all too late. "Don't make me a..."

"Make you a what?" Amy's grip tightened. This had started as a bit of fun; she hadn't expected it to strike a nerve. "What do you think you'll be?"

The girl was too terrified to speak; the silence of the empty hallway was palpable. Around the gentle sound of Carmen's sobs as she mouthed a silent prayer, Amy could almost hear the moonlight.

Far too calm, for just hot her cold blood boiled.

"Say it," Amy whispered, her lips almost touching Carmen's ear. When the girl remained silent, Amy dug her nails into her neck, making her wince. "Say it."

"A m-... m-monster-"

The moment the final syllable of the word had left her mouth, Carmen was slammed does to the stone floor. She moved to crawl away, but Amy stepped over her, reaching down and grabbing a handful of Carmen's mousy blonde hair. With a screech and a sob, the girl reached up to attempt to extricate herself. It was a futile gesture.

"Is that what you think of me?" Amy was screaming now, her little pale face covered in sweat.

 "Is that what you think of him?" Carmen still struggled to free herself, but was too terrified to make her legs support her weight. Amy’s mouth was right next to Carmen's ear, and the girl continued to sob in terror. Flecks of saliva flew onto her cheeks. 

"Is that what you think of us?" Amy shook the girl by her hair, and she cried out; surely the other servants could hear the commotion, but they knew better than to involve themselves.

"You insufferable little idiot, how dare you insult your master in his own halls!" She jerked Carmen around by her hair and held her so that they were face-to-face. “He has generosity enough to allow you to keep your wretched, insipid little life, and this is how you repay him?!”

Carmen could not even speak now; the wet, terrified babble flowing from her mouth only further displeased her little mistress. With a shriek of malice, she threw the hysterical servingmaid to the floor, at first intending to leave her lay there; but the sound of her apopleptic sobs seemed to bounce around inside Amy’s head, so loud, so maddening that she squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t realized, but she was screaming, too.

With the gentle sound of bare flesh on stone, Amy threw herself to the ground, right on top of Carmen. The terrified girl raised her arms to protect her face as a flurry of frantic, disorganized strikes descended on her. Sharp, untrimmed nails drew tiny cuts on Carmen’s defending arms, like a kitten learning to hunt.

Amy was beside herself. As she threw slap after pound after scratch, she found herself overwhelmed by her many grievances. She hated that she hadn’t ridden her horse all summer. She hated how the servants looked on her with pity. She hated how they lit fires in every hearth, every day, as if there weren’t only one tired, sad little girl to tend to. She hated how her fingers slipped when she tied her hair ribbons. She hated him, for leaving her. She hated how her pillow was too stuffed on one side. She hated how her nightgown tangled up her arms. She hated that wretched girl with the birds, and the nice man with the scar. She hated how she’d tripped and fallen during their last fencing lesson. She hated how the laces on her riding boots weren’t the right colour to match her favorite saddle.She hated being sad, and she hated being lonely, and she hated being so very, very tired.

Oh, she was so very, very, very tired.

Suddenly, it seemed her arms were as heavy as the castle beneath her, and she let them fall to the ground. She realized she couldn’t see anything but clouds of floating, flashing colour, and in an instant the sweat covering her seemed to turn as cold as ice. When her vision began to clear, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her nightgown; remembering vaguely what she had been doing, her eyes drifted lazily down to the girl before her.

Carmen’s eye was blue, and swollen shut. A bit of her right ear hung on by a few scant sinews. Her tears made streaks in the blood covering her face, and a gurgling sort of sobbing was coming from her mouth, which was missing several teeth, and full of blood. Wondering idly where the indentation on her temple had come from, Amy looked down and saw that she was still holding her silver candlestick. As she set it down, she felt sticky, dried blood between her fingers.

She did not feel any better.

She slowly dismounted the girl, her knees wobbly as she stood, and turned from the pitiful creature splayed on the floor. It took her a few moments to remember where she was, and where she had been going.

As she opened the door, she first noticed the snowflakes slowly drifting down outside through an open window. Huge and wet, they had been blown inside and left a cold puddle on the floor.

Absently, she crossed the room to close the window, and threw some extra linen from the chest at the end of the bed on the puddle. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she crouched and stared at the cloth as it absorbed the water; when she was startled awake by losing her balance, she rose again and made her way to the huge, cold bed.

From where she lay, she stared directly at the empty place of honor above the mantle. Lined in plush red velvet and embroidered with golden thread in the shapes of rearing horses, for the Sorel coat of arms, the mount was fit only for a distinguished and battle-tested blade.  But Flambert was far, far away from here.

She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. Before her, in the dark, she saw the mount for her own Albion; all purple velvet, with silver hooks made to look like rose vines.

Just as she fell asleep, she decided: come nightfall the next day, Albion’s place would be empty as well.

[cadavre-et-le-coeur-doux]

un entracte

How long had she been here? Without warmth, without company, without comfort? In stone walls so cold she was sure a blizzard had been raging outside them? Drinking water that was little more than filth, and watching her hair, which she thought had once been beautiful, become tangled, matted, and gray?

Years, perhaps. Months, hopefully. Her clothes, once luxurious and plush, had become little more than once-expensive rags. Stained with blood and more disgusting things, they clung to her so fiercely that she thought they might take skin if she tried to remove them. But it was so intensely, numbingly, piercingly cold she would have to be mad to try to take them off.

Then again, perhaps madness was not too far away.

It was as though, as it moved past her limbs, the cold was numbing her mind as well; only dimly could she remember how silk sheets felt against bare skin after riding in the rain, or the way he had held her hand as he taught her how to properly hold a sword. Even the memory of his voice, cursing and shouting and begging, growing dimmer and hoarser and farther away, seemed to be fading, replaced by the rustle of feathers and the feel of steel held to her throat.

Her mouth was dry, and when she meant to sob, she only croaked; when she meant to shed tears, her dry eyes only stung. She did not want to know what would happen if she tried to dream.

[cadavre-et-le-coeur-doux]

preview

“Fifteen.”

It was barely more than a whisper; a whisper directed mostly towards her plate, but he noticed it all the same.

“What’s that, darling?” Amy heard her father sit up to look at her from the other side of the long table. Both sides were lined with a multitude of chairs that, as far as she knew, had never been occupied.

“There were fifteen ravens outside of my window last night.” Again, she said this to her dinner. “And there were thirteen the night before that. They sit on the pine tree outside my window.”

He chuckled as his silverware clattered against his plate. “They must be coming to sing you to sleep,” he mused. She looked up to see him smiling at her, flashing his glimmering white teeth, oddly long and sharp. “Even the birds are not immune to your beauty.”

“They aren’t singing, father. They never sing.” She went back to contemplating the bloody meat before her. “They just sit there. There were more last night than-”

“May I ask,” he interjected, “why my beloved has nothing better to do than count birds outside her windowsill?”

Amy sat in silence. She couldn’t say why she’d taken to counting the ravens. She couldn’t even remember when she started doing it. It must have been at least a week, and she knew there were only four when she first noticed that they were congregating on a tangle of branches that hung a few feet from the window where she liked to sit and read before she went to sleep. She had thought it was odd that they weren’t flying anywhere, and they didn’t seem to be sleeping. They just sat there and watched her, softly quorking to each other.

“There are countless books in the library,” continued her father, as he picked up his wine glass and began absentmindedly swirling the deep red liquid in circles. “You are free to roam the grounds of the castle whenever you wish, provided you bring one of the servants or myself along to protect you.”

“I know, father.” She tangled her fingers together in her lap.

Raphael stood with a sigh. “Oh, my darling,” he crooned, as he walked toward her along the side of the table. “I know that a mere castle can never be large enough to take the place of a world, but it is where we must remain, for now.” He came to a stop just beside her, and reached out to take her chin in his hand. She gazed into his eyes, reddened with wrath and malfestation.

“One day, soon, there will be a world for us beyond these walls and barricades,” he whispered, his eyes searching her face hungrily. He pushed away a lock of red hair from her face and gently stroked her cheek.

Amy knew that his blood was cold, as cold as hers was; and yet the hand upon her cheek felt as warm as any living man’s.