Iridescent

Chapter 11

Stasia

In making my way to the west wing, I had managed to lose my way in a few staircases (some of those, I took note of for future hiding places) that seemed to swirl, jerk and create an unnecessary web of misfortune and error. Behind every corner my tired feet swiveled around was a vase or statue that was doused in age and grime, probably ready to be flung off the wobbly tables in mere agony of not being admired upon.

All in all, I had spent the entire afternoon avoiding the chilling presence of fading paintings and coming across every servant known to Irklian society other than Meredith. I knew I had probably been looking for too long—the constant indication of dust and ghosts of sheets gave no pattern to what rooms I had already come across. Perhaps, out of stubbornness and the sliver of will that breathed within the confinements of a corset, I trudged on.

But, the longer I searched, the more I wanted to slump against a wall, rid myself of the dreadful heels that were not meant for search and rescue, and regain some sustenance and pride by intaking something sugary and delightful.

Much to my displeasure, such luxuries seem to be out of reach when lost and confused—and perhaps, a tad fussy.

So instead, I plopped my sorry-self onto a chair that puffed a cloud of dust at my presence. Even as I sat still, the chair creaked and wobbled in anguish and my inner-child remained in the seat just to see how long it would take for it to collapse underneath me. I scanned the room, feeling a touch of memory tug at my head, seeing the foot of the bed peek out from underneath the still of the sheet. This room, like many others, used to be a gloss of cherry wood and silks. Now, it was home for a pallet of sheets and layers of dust.

Why, out of all places, did Meredith retreat here?

Once a wing that was full of guests and life now only reminds us of what once was and the forgotten. When I was little, this place bustled and thrived with people all over the world—seemingly not wanting to just reside in the coming and going of a ball or an event. It was a place for laughter and relationship to thrive—mingling intelligence and the presence of people who didn't have to go through the motions and fake sincerity. People didn't have to suck the soul out of what made relationships real to contribute to the survival of obligations—or at least, it didn't feel that way.

That was also before the ballroom became mother's playground of matchmaking—gatherings were held for company and celebration—not desperation and agenda.

My ear itched as I heard footsteps in the hall and I nearly broke the chair in standing up too fast.

Please.

I raced out of the doorway to see Irina's delicate little feet balancing the tower of sheets that came up to her nose further down the hall. Her eyes widened when she noticed me, and she froze, mid-step, nearly losing the pile. I saw her eyes race towards the doorway, her voice too muffled to make clear of her words, and I ditched the shoes, making a run for it down the hallway.

When I came to the doorway, Irina struggled to stop me with her full hands and muffled mouth.

Meredith was starting to strip a bed of its dusted sheets and I watched for a moment as she tossed the pillows on the bench.

"Mer."

It was the only thing I could get out, fearing that she would make a run for it if another syllable slipped from my mouth. She kept her back to me and continued to smooth the sheets, but moved slower, nearly tracing the thread count. Her head hung for a moment and I saw her shoulders rise and fall with a breath.