Chapter Eleven
Aurelia is the oddest child I have ever lain eyes on, so quiet and reserved, yet so full of life. One could easily get lost when swimming in those deep pools of thoughts she had for eyes. I have not known her long, just a mere handful of days, but already, she reminded me of her mother, the mother she would never meet.
Abigail, even as a child, had the tendency to pay more attention to her thoughts than to her surroundings. Sometimes, I would have to repeat something up to five times to get an answer from her, which I always found quite vexing, and I would grow very weary after a few minutes of trying. Some days had been worse than others.
I've never been one to ponder much on any subject, always quite ready to jump from one subject onto another, which I believe frustrated Abigail as much as her incessant thoughtfulness provoked me. I guess that despite how much we irked one another we had been quite the pair growing up. Ha! Oh, yes, we were the interest of many of the faeries and vampires, even some other creatures, as we grew up.
She, such a powerful, astute vampire, and I such an ecstatic ball of energy and charm. While I was out flirting with boys, she sat behind her desk at home, and devoted herself to any piece of work she could . Always, she had a book, or a poem, or some other piece of literature to ooh and aah over, and never had she demonstrated much of an interest of any of the guys at school, and I do admit, I had been jealous as much as I was astounded at first in the king's obvious interest in her.
Then, after seeing them together, my silly jealousy was washed away like a stray toy on the beach shore on a day of high tide, for they had been so perfect for each other. At least, it seemed that way to me. After so long of her solitude, she had finally found someone who seemed to like her, and she liked him back. Simple as that, and nothing less than a fairy tale ending for Abigail.
Then, not long after their marriage, she started coming to me in tears, her fairy tale not going as planned. She told me horror stories, his ramblings, his sudden uncalled for violence. Bruises rose on her cheeks, blue and prominent against her pallid skin. Never have I seen Abigail so scuffed up, for she had always been so cautious and well thought out, and graceful. As a child, it was I who came in crying with bloodied knees for I had forgotten to look down at the forest floor, I who bore the bruises, not Abigail.
I remember how I searched for a dream guy; some charming lad with a sparkle in his eyes, and care in his smile. In school, I had dreamed of bad boys, but into adulthood I just wanted someone to help pay the bills, someone who was sweet and caring, and treated me like a lady. Someone to hold the doors open, someone who I found suitable for walking my future daughter down the aisle to her dream man. That's all I ever asked for, but I had yet to it. The closest thing I could to that was my Edmond, and I guess he is a fine enough guy for me.
Edmond and I had wed a few years after the disappearance of my childhood friend. She had stayed here, but not in the main house. Yes I had offered, but she stated it might be a danger to me if she were to be caught...that she should stay in the shed behind the house. I remember well how she discovered she was pregnant, and how she had cried. The tears would have been of joy for anybody else, but for her, they were drawn from a deep well of sorrow. It was all she had left to draw from.
“If he were to discover this baby...if he were ever to out...she would die. He would kill her, to punish me,” she had said, putting her hand on her lightly swollen stomach. Not far yet into the pregnancy, just a few months. Still not put on much weight.
I remember how strange, how circumstantial and nostalgic it had been seeing Aurelia sitting under that gazebo her first day here. It had caught me off guard, and beneath my glasses, tears had sprung. That had been the place Abigail had spent her evenings here, curled up with a book, or sometimes even writing. She always seemed to be writing, but I could never seem to any of her works. Perhaps she had taken them all with her when she had fled. Shame, truly, for it would be interesting to see what thoughts played beneath that guarded gaze.
