Rosalind: Book One

62- Secrets

Rosalind pushed the attic door open and crawled inside, dirtying the knees of her dress as she did. Standing up, the roof nearly touched the top of her head. Bringing a hand to a beam, she observed a little spider scurrying away from her. She watched momentarily as it rushed to a darkened corner and stared at her from a small crevice in a crack of wood.

Years of childhood rested in the abundance of boxes. An old rocking horse stared blankly ahead with one eye. Its once luxurious coat now matted with years of use and sticky childish fingers. Once an ivory white, it now looked as gray as the days surrounding the Borgo.

Rosalind wove around trunks and attire hanging from hooks on the ceiling, the clothing was wrapped safely in garment bags, the items belonging all to her mother. A bottle of perfume stood on a cherry-wood trunk in the back of the room. Moving towards it and picking it up, Rosalind saw there was no more than a few drops staining the bottle. The liquid had changed hue with age and was now a sickly orange sticking to the glass. Bringing it to her nose, Rosalind inhaled her mother's signature scent, a sweet blend of flowers that made her think that would be what summer smelled like.

Kneeling by the trunk, Rosalind wiped a layer of dust off the surface before setting the perfume down. There was no lock, so the lid opened effortlessly. Inside the case were Heather's old books. Each crimson bound and stamped with golden words. When Rosalind opened one, she heard the spine give an age-old cracking sound. Inside that particular book were poems, ones a lover might send his beloved were he drunk or, Rosalind thought, High. Though the poetry resembled nothing of what she had read in the lord's own library, they were not books a lady would easily pick as fine reading material. Rosalind smiled. Skimming over a couple more poems, she then discarding the book and picked up the next one. The tale of star-crossed lovers spoke in eloquent words. She read a few pages before tragedy befell the lovers. With a gasp, Rosalind set the book next to her, on top of the poetry. We never know people, do we? My mother liked a bit of the dark word it seems. Book after book rested in the trunk, each tome layered by a protective handkerchief embroidered with different sorts of flowers. Touching the one with the purple posies to her cheek, Rosalind gazed at the small pile of books next to her, when she counted, there were nearly thirty in total. She brought the handkerchief in front of her. The posies reminded her so much of the purple flower she had pinned upon Caspian's lapel that she heard herself involuntarily shudder and cry out. "If I do not see you ever again, I would rather die," she uttered as she carefully folded and placed the handkerchief in her pocket. Erasing him, she realized, was impossible, no matter what she did short of carving out her own heart.

Returning to the trunk with a sigh, she witnessed the belly of it was lined in a silvery velvet paper with think golden swirls prettying it. As she tilted her head, a ray of light caught something metallic at the bottom of the trunk.

Rosalind leaned into the case and ran her hand along the bottom. There was indeed a small bit of curved metal sticking out. Rosalind hooked her index underneath and tugged, a secret lid lifted slightly, though when she tugged, it refused to budge any further. The lid appeared locked in place. Rosalind felt around thinking there may be a latch keeping it from opening. Hidden under the velvet was a little button. Pressing it, the lid gave a faint hiss and Rosalind was able to open it.

A secret compartment lay under all the books. In that compartment was a simple wooden box. Rosalind lifted it onto her lap and saw a name carved upon its cover: Lilly Van Voreen.