Shattered (Watty Awards 2011!)

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I had taken Mr Dinsmoore his supper an hour and a half ago, and now I walked the third floor hallway to collect his tray and finish up for the night. It had been a long and somewhat strange day, and I looked forward to flopping into a chair in my new room.

There were many doors lining the hallway. I wanted to open them all, just to see what they held. Maybe one day I would. Right now, I was far too tired and much too unadventurous. I reached the door finally, tapping on the door once again until I was called in.

It was strange how nervous I felt. Perhaps the sheer awkwardness of it was what it was, or maybe even Peter's powerful yet quiet presence in the room. Whatever it may have been, it kept me on edge. I found myself trying to bury my nerves every time I entered the room, and it wasn't working.

He was at his desk again, looking through those silver-rimmed spectacles at his book again. I lightly cleared my throat, clasping my hands in front of my gray dress. He looked up suddenly.

"Oh hello, Miss Butler. Beg your pardon." He folded up his spectacles and placed them on the desk. "You've come to collect the tray?"

"Yes, Mr Dinsmoore." I carefully picked up the silver tray, bobbing down to pick up his glass from the desk. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do before I retire for the night?"

"I think I'm quite fine, thank you."

"Alright then. Have a good night."

"You too, Emma."

I glanced up in surprise at his use of my name. His painfully formal mannerisms surely did not allow for this kind of familiarity. He seemed to notice my surprise, and looked back up at me for a moment, his gaze holding mine for just a second longer than normal. That's when I noticed his eyes. They were deep, dark brown - so dark they were almost black with just a faint glow.

"Have a good night, Miss Butler." He broke his gaze, turning in his chair slightly back to his book stand.

I felt myself sigh inwardly. So much for that. "Good night, then, Mr Dinsmoore."

"Night."

I nearly reached the door when something popped into my head. "Mr Dinsmoore..."

"Yes miss?"

"How did I- I mean, did I do alright today?"

He looked up at me again. Slowly he nodded. "I think you did very well."

I smiled at him, quite pleased. "Thank you."

He simply raised his eyebrows in response.

~

Later that night, I finished my unpacking in my room, turned back the covers on my bed, and pulled my snow white nightgown over my head. I found my hairbrush, the only one I'd owned since I was twelve, and slowly combed through my tangled hair until it hung over my shoulders, curling up in all directions at the ends.

A few minutes later, I was finally in bed. I had piled every blanket in the room onto my bed because of the winter chill, but even then I felt cold. Finally I got warm, curled into a ball with my knees pulled up. And then I cried.

Cried because I wanted my parents, who I never knew. Cried because I wished my aunt never died, because my sister didn't care what happened to me or herself. Cried because nothing here was familiar or normal - two aspects of life I had learned to cherish.

And a tiny little part of me said I was crying because of Mr Dinsmoore too, because it was wrong and strange that he had to stay inside in a chair and be helped around and have hardly any freedom, and by the looks of it, hardly anyone to talk to.

I cried because life is cold.