The Knight of Slaughtaverty

Chapter 3 - Waking Up

The morning light is dappled and grey, leaving my room in trembling shadow, even when I reach for the nightstand to take my glasses and put them on.

There isn't a part of my body that is not aching, and when the wind, in a sudden burst of energy, screams through the slats of the open shutters outside the windows, my mind reacts to it with a jolt of memories of a baby's pitiful cries. My hands fly to my neck, searching the skin for wounds, while I force myself into an upright position, suddenly fully alert.

My neck is fine. It is the one part of my body that is not in pain, and I flinch at a slight burning discomfort in the crook of my right arm, discovering a somewhat raised mosquito bite when I inspect the skin. I resist the urge to scratch it while I scan the room for traces of frightening girls with white hair and black eyes and babies... dead or alive.

There is no sign that there has ever been anybody in this room with me while I was asleep. I occasionally suffer from sleep paralysis that goes hand-in-hand with vivid dreams, but never quite as bad as the one I had last night.

It seemed so real!

I could smell her, feel her breath against my skin... and the baby... It could've been a doll. I wasn't wearing my glasses; it was dark and stormy, and I was half-asleep. It could've been anybody, anything or nothing at all.

Still, my skin breaks out in goosebumps at the thought of the girl's cold tongue on my neck and the mattress flexing with her every move. The hazy memory is frightening enough to catapult me from the bed, and standing next to it, staring at the mattress I come from, I shove my fist into my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

The sheet I've been sleeping on is covered in red streaks and smears, and memories of a girl with blood-soaked fingers disappear from my mind when I finally realise where the blood covering the bed came from. Me! I confirm that by running my hands over my pyjama bottoms to find it stiff in patches with dried blood.

I was reaching the end of my period, and I'd taken enough precautions before I went to bed to prevent exactly this outcome. I don't understand it. The bleeding doesn't usually flare up again when it's almost over; there should barely be anything this morning. What a horrible time to choose to do new tricks.

I've already been informed that I'm not welcome here as long as I reside inside a female body, and now that body is rubbing its femaleness in everybody's faces. How on Earth am I supposed to ask any of the men I met last night for assistance with this big, fat mess I've made of the bed? I can imagine Leopold's tight-lipped, haughty response to this. His face will probably remain expressionless, but that eyebrow will say it all.

This is mortifying.

Well, first things first, I need to get out of these disgusting pyjamas. I hurry to where my suitcases had been last night, shocked to discover only empty floor space covered in a lovely floral rug. The table at the window has also been cleared of the remnants of my dinner. So much for not seeing any signs of somebody being in my room while I was asleep.

Surely, the girl with the baby didn't come in here last night to do some housekeeping! Feeling agitated and confused that I could've missed this much activity while asleep (I'm generally a light sleeper), I yank open the closet doors, one after another and discover all my possessions stored inside. My clothes are neatly sorted into drawers and hanging from the rail depending on their storage requirements. Whoever unpacked my bags did not get the memo that I was fired even before I started.

Taking deep breaths to steady my building nerves, I choose a grey V-neck, blouse and a long black skirt, thinking that these items are so austere in colour that they should distract from the fact that a woman with feminine curves is hiding inside them. Perhaps if he doesn't have to see stark reminders of why he doesn't want me here, Alaric will be easier to persuade to let me stay.