Rosalind: Book One

68 - Not Even Death

Days began to blur. Rosalind felt as lost as she had the first few days at the manor, like she was a prisoner, thrust into the maw of the home like some wounded animal to be devoured by a ferocious beast.

Her meals were left outside, and as they came to her room they returned to the kitchen, cold and untouched. There was no amount of cajoling from Clairie's that could get Rosalind to eat and nothing the maid could say to pry her out of her room. When the blissful forgiveness of night came and the house-staff finally slept, Rosalind followed the invisible trail she had created that went from her room to the wine rack where, like a thief in the night, she swiped a bottle by its neck and darted to her room.

On an empty stomach, the wine raged like brutal waves. Intoxication came to her vile and violating, not soothing and soft as Caspian's drugs had. With every sip, she longed for the sweet inebriation she had felt both with his powders and with him.

Midnight inched to her window and crawled inside, an uninvited guest demanding her attention. Darkness slithered over Rosalind as she sat on the chilly floor and tried to claw its way under her skin. She felt her flesh tear and she welcomed the pain. Soon, every bit of night had found a nest inside her skeleton and made its home there.

Her room breathed around her getting louder and needier with each passing moment until it sounded like the way she and Caspian had that night in her bed. Outside, the world exploded in colour. Blue, green and yellow came over like a splash of sunlight, blinding her. The light lasted merely a moment and then all was dark again. Rising to the window unsteadily, Rosalind opened the glass and leaned into the iciness. For a blissful second, Transylvania lay before her as it always had. Then, in a beat of her heart, what she saw surrendered to a terrifying sight.

The crooked trees before her stood upright, uprooting themselves from the ground as if they had grown arms and legs. In their clutches, the townspeople were caught, like flies in a spider's web. Cries of terror came to her like a cacophony. Limbs were torn and bellies splayed open. The white snow turned vermillion. Above, the clamor of bat wings filled the sky. When Rosalind looked towards the hills, she saw a vision of herself dressed in the black gown hanging in her closet back at the manor. The bodice clung to her like a second skin, the skirt plumed from her hips and the ruffles vanished into the darkness. The icy crown Caspian had gifted her rested on her head. Her eyes bore little emotion save that of resentment. From a veil of shadows, Caspian came to her doppelganger and took her hand. Dressed in silver, the lord balanced between beautiful and grotesque. Around him, silver butterflies flew, some hovered around the pair, a few landed on the other Rosalind's shoulder, their little wings opening and closing like a heartbeat.

At her window, Rosalind watched herself and Caspian, unsure if she was dreaming or if the wine was conjuring hallucinations. When the lord leaned into the black-clad version of herself and whispered, Rosalind heard it all. "You and I are eternal."

Looking from the lord's face, she was distracted by a flash of silver coming from her doppelganger's hand, the vorpal blade began to sing. Before Rosalind could scream for her other self to stop, the doppelganger lifted her hand and rammed the knife into Caspian's heart.

As the lord fell upon the pristine snow, she saw him vanish into the powder. Rosalind staggered, nearly falling as she pushed herself from the window, breathless from what she had witnessed.

As she stumbled to the floor and lay her head upon the stone, Rosalind began to weep.

"Do not cry, beloved," came a familiar voice from the distance. When a ghostly hand rested on her head and began to caress her hair she heard the voice clearer. The lord spoke, "Not even death can part us. Remember that."

"Caspian!" Bolting up to greet her lover, Rosalind saw she was all alone. In the cruel solitude of her room, she realized she was going mad and no one could save her. She understood that both she and Caspian were doomed.

Worried about her mistress, Clairie could not sleep. Midnight came and brought horrid thoughts to the maid. Rosalind appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown, the fact that she had not eaten in two days lay heavy upon the maid. Harlan Hershel was away, as were the sons and Clairie knew she had no one but herself to see Rosalind through her anguish.

Rising from the warmth of her covers, Clairie draped a thick shawl around her shoulder and wandered upstairs. Nearing her mistress's room, she over-heard Rosalind crying. Her mistress's sorrow came to her like a bitter taste when she stopped at the bedroom door. Wondering if she should knock, the maid lifted her hand yet stopped midair before her knuckles touched the wood.

It was a simple word that froze Clairie to her spot, the utterance of the beast's name escaping Rosalind's room.

"Caspian!" Rosalind wept.

It was a call of need not one of torment. Clairie stood there aghast, then backed away from the door and ran back downstairs to her own room.