Rosalind - Beauty and the Beast meets Dracula retelling

35-Closeness

They say thirteen is an unlucky number, but in the lord's manor all the numbers preceding and following it were just as unlucky. The following day, number sixteen, Rosalind woke before daybreak. Looking outside her window, she saw slivers of gray from an upcoming day toying with the black lining the horizon like the lining of a casket. The snow-covered ground was pristine, not a mark in sight. Trailing her gaze across the treeline, Rosalind wondered where Lord Caspian was. But when she dressed and washed her face, it was not Caspian she was out to seek.

The hem of her long, cream dress dragged behind her, sweeping along the stony floor as she made her way to the room where she had heard the violin the night before. "Someone exists behind this door," she whispered to herself. "Perhaps a living, breathing person like me, and not an abomination of God like..." her words died on her tongue. The lord's name melted away inside her mouth before she could utter it. When she swallowed, she thought she tasted blood.

The wall was smooth when she brought her palm to it. As she tried to fight the thoughts inside her head, her fingers curved and her nails scraped along the stone. "Abomination," she uttered into the silence.

Rosalind relaxed her hand and dropped it to her side. There was no music being played and she knew it was foolish of her to have even come at this dreadful time. She pressed her ear to the door to make sure, yet all was just as still. The hallway remained as silent as a soldier on his dutiful watch. There were no shadows on the wall to echo her own, no indication anyone was there but her.

All of Agnes' words of warning were left like orphaned children outside the room, pitifully forgotten and unwanted. When Rosalind took hold of the doorknob, it turned effortlessly and she entered the room uninvited.

Like a thief in the night, Rosalind slipped inside. The room was magnificent in its semi-dark glory. Against the lingering fragments of night, it stood faintly illuminated by a multitude of small flames. Wrought iron floor candelabras held ivory candles which burned bright giving the room an ethereal glow. The fireplace roared with a breathtaking warmth that Rosalind could feel the moment she stepped inside. The curtains covered the windows, allowing not even the fainted sliver of moonlight to find its way in. In the opposite side of the room stood another door, one left wide open. Steam plumed from what Rosalind assumed was a bathing chamber. She touched her fingers to the air and felt the tell-tale dampness of a hot bath.

Her leather boots made no sound as she tip-toed along the length of the room like an unwelcome guest. When she reached the open door, Rosalind peeked inside.

Steam filled the small room creating a veil, making everything look dream-like. An oval bath made of ivory marble rested among a multitude of ivory candles. The candles rested upon thin sheets of silky burgundy material as though the occupant of the room cared not if they were to catch on fire. The material lay in long ribbons, covering nearly every inch of the room. The temperature inside the bathing room was what summer must have felt like. Rosalind felt her skin prickle, sweat dotting the flesh under her dress.

Looking around, she noticed a half-empty bottle of wine and a goblet resting on the floor next to the tub. But Rosalind saw no one in the tub or anywhere else. The tub water looked white, impossible to see inside. Taking hold of her skirt, she lifted the hem to her ankles and stepped closer. The milky water rippled faintly. When the tips of fingers slipped out of the surface and grabbed onto the tub, Rosalind stumbled back in shock, nearly tripping over the candles. The flames reached for the hem of her dress as she staggered backward. Tiny fires desired her. Rosalind ran back to the bathroom's open door, dropping her hands from her skirt to catch parts of her hem scorched but thankfully not destroyed. Facing the back of the bathtub, her curiosity held her fast and made her stay.

A hand slid fully out of the water, followed by another. Long and slender, Rosalind knew they did not belong to the lord. Though pale, the hands were not unnaturally so. She watched as the top of a head emerged from the milky liquid, the person's hair was copper and curled at the nape of his neck. Shoulders, torso. Long, thin marks, like scratches, ran down the length of the bather's back. When he used his hands to push himself up, Rosalind clasped her own over her mouth to keep from crying out.

The candlelight illuminated the water dripping down the man's back, ass, and legs. Inside, Rosalind burned with a greedy heat. She could not take her eyes of him yet when he began to step out of the bath, she knew she had to flee.

Turning swiftly, she ran out of the violin room and down the hall. Her hand trailed along the smoothness of the walls as if seeking comfort. She did not stop running until she was back in her own chamber with her heart beating like a predatory creature's, and her mind racing with chastising thoughts.

Troy stood in his bathwater for longer than he intended to. He knew he was not alone. Neither Agnes nor his bastard father gave off the scent of roses. A scent both painfully female and human. When Troy heard Rosalind scurrying off, only then did he step out of the tub.

He reached for a plum robe with a raspberry trim, a robe his father had once tried to destroy. Men, in Caspian's mind, were not to wear anything pink. Black. Everything Caspian owned, more or less, was black. When Troy had grabbed the robe from his father to salvage it, he received his father's wrath in return.

Troy had been beaten senseless with a long, thin branch. One that did not easily break yet easily bent along the curve of his back as he was whipped. When Caspian, breathless, tossed the branch onto the floor, Troy smiled. Laying in a crumpled heap on the floor with the robe clutched under him, the young lord felt victorious.

Slipping the velvety robe over his shoulders, he deftly tied the belt. Drawing in a breath, Troy smelt the traces of the young woman lingering with the scent of the oils in his bath and the wax from the candles. He wanted to chase after her yet the warm steam held him back telling him it was unwise.

Troy took hold of the goblet and wine bottle and made his way into his bedroom.

His copper hair reminded Rosalind of Stefan's. It made her want to reach out to the stranger even more. She recalled how Stefan's hair felt when she used to slide her fingers in and pulled him close to feel him breathe against her.

When she sat upon her bed and clutched her covers to her chin, her mind replayed the way the stranger had risen out of the tub with the milky water trickling down his body. He was glorious, like a work of art. Rosalind lowered her face to her fists and thought she'd stop breathing.

The wine, though meant to calm him down, simply electrified him. Troy had seen Rosalind many times before as she stood by her window. She was his father's guest yet Troy had not been permitted to meet her. If Caspian knew that Troy had spoken to her once in the woods before, the lord may have whipped his son to near death.

"She is mine," he recalled Caspian threatening before the young woman came to the manor. "You are not to speak to her. Do you understand me, boy?"

Troy disobeyed his father once. Yet now he kept his distance even though he desired the company of another young person. When she had entered his room the first time, he found himself thinking more and more of her. Troy wanted companionship. He wanted closeness. He wanted to feel another near him; smiling, touching, talking. Doing things other than cursing, hitting and neglecting him.

Setting his goblet down, the young lord wrapped his arms around himself. Hot tears burned and he allowed them to fall.