She stuck her toes out, grazing the first step, and craned her neck to peer upwards. She could see nothing beyond the curving stone wall. The stairway was so narrow she could touch both walls without extending her arms at all, and she let her fingers trace the rough lines in the stone as she ascended, curiosity pulling her forward. Small clouds of dust erupted under her feet as she climbed. It was obvious this part of the castle was not intended to be seen by visitors. No sconces lit the way, no decorations were hung. The only light came from the few small windows along the outside wall.
After a surprising number of steps, Sophie finally came to a small, dust-lined landing. Cobwebs hung across the doorway opposite the stairs. She hesitated at first, but crossed the small space and pushed open the weathered wooden door. A loud creak betrayed her presence as it swung inward, sending clouds of dust billowing through the air, and causing her to sneeze. Her nose and eyes were itchy and red from all the debris.
Rubbing tears from her eyelashes, she took a moment to absorb what lay inside. It was a small room, not unlike the rooms in the main area of the castle. The walls were smooth stone, the windows shuttered. If it weren't for the overflowing amount of clutter, Sophie would have thought the room to be quaint, but apprehension crept over her as she tiptoed around a towering pile of books. Furniture lay in masses while open chests, overflowing with yellowed parchment and torn books, were shoved up against the piles. Sheets draped over heaps of clutter and the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the shutters cast an eerie glow over the entire scene. She took another step forward and then stopped, turning on the spot, trying to avoid toppling the piles around her. Being unable to see much further than the nearest towering mounds, she began to walk a careful round, brushing her fingers gently along the edges of their peaks.
As she stepped over yet another stack of old books, her toes brushed the corner of the topmost one, sending the pile toppling with a soft thud. Her body froze, her foot still held aloft as she waited for a response.
“There's no one here,” she reminded herself quietly, ashamed at her unfounded anxiousness.
Bending, she began re-stacking the books, turning each one over in her hand before placing it back on the pile. A few caught her attention because of their obvious age but she could not recognize any of the titles. Straightening her legs, she inhaled deeply, the scent of mold filling her nostrils and making her grimace as she brushed the dust from her knees. A chest, lying just underneath one of the three windows, caught her eye. It was solid wood, stained a dark red, with elaborate carvings along each of the four outer corners. The carvings, however, were not what caught her attention. The wood was brilliantly shined, reflecting the tiny streams of light filtering into the room. It seemed out of place amongst the surrounding dusty artifacts.
With hesitant steps, Sophie neared it, her curiosity peaking.
A large, sweeping “A” gleamed up at her from the center of the lid. She traced the line of it with her fingertip, feeling the thin groove under her skin. Not a speck of dust rested on any surface. Even the tiny spaces along the braided carvings were sparkling clean. The contrast to the rest of the room was startling. The hinges twisted without strain as she carefully lifted the lid, and she was immediately embraced by soft floral scents. Dainty lace lay in small piles, telling her the owner must have been female. A pang of guilt struck her as she lifted the articles from their resting place. These were not her memories.
Despite her conscience, something urged her to dig deeper, so she pushed the guilt aside and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the chest. Reaching inside, she felt a thick length of ribbon run through her fingers and seized a mass of soft fabric. She recognized it as a bonnet, the same style worn by the women in the paintings Aunt Marilyn collected. Fighting the urge to place it on her head, Sophie dropped it into the chest and poked carefully at the other items.
Underneath the layer of silk and lace were piles of papers. Some were so worn that they crumbled under her gentle touch. As they did, she felt another wave of guilt. She shifted her weight, leaning forward on her knees in order to prod more carefully. When the tips of her fingers met the familiar feel of soft leather, she wrapped a hand around the length of what felt like a book and gently pulled it free.
Passing the brown leather from one hand to the other, she was surprised to find it filled with well-worn pages, a length of string holding it shut. Pulling gently on the knot, the guilt continued to grow until it became an ever-present thump in her ears. She cracked open the leather cover, amazed by how smooth it felt under her fingers, and saw thin, feminine handwriting covering the first of many yellowed pages.
Though she did not understand the language, she recognized it to be German. As she flipped carefully through each page, she noticed that a date was written on every top right hand corner.
The first read 1.4.1860.
Scanning the delicate handwriting, she paused at certain words, almost recognizing them. She tried to piece familiar words together, but soon gave up. Each page was filled with the same sweeping longhand and she let her eyes float over the unknown phrases. The changing dates at the top of each page were the only indication that time was passing for the writer. It was not until she reached the final eight or ten pages that Sophie noticed a growing change. While the first pages were elegantly written, every inch covered with the elaborate scrawl, the last few were increasingly sporadic and choppy. The handwriting was almost unrecognizable, swerving and dipping chaotically, as though the writer had scrawled the words with great haste.
A few areas on each page had been blotted by drops of water.
Or tears, thought Sophie, pressing the tip of her finger against one of the many spots.
Through her search for familiar words, she caught sight of a name repeated ever increasingly in the final pages of the journal. Up until the very last page, where the words were scrawled so furiously that even if they had been written in English she would not have been able to read them, the name was evident in every other sentence and scribbled into the margins.
“Lukas,” Sophie whispered.
A second later, she leapt to her feet, the journal tumbling from her startled hands and landing with a soft rustle on the silk in the chest. She whirled on the spot, prepared to see someone standing behind her, the source of the breath on the back of her neck and the shivers down her spine. Her eyes moved in fearful spurts around the room, seeing nothing but the various piles of discarded furniture. With a deep breath, she shook her trembling hands in front of her, trying to dispel the adrenaline that had been released into her bloodstream a moment before.
A small breath of wind blew through one of the windows and she moved toward it, running her finger carefully along the jagged glass. She had not noticed the hole when she arrived.
“Just the wind,” she whispered.
Stepping back to the chest, a painting caught her eye. It was leaning against the far wall, blocked from view by a sheet-draped mound. Something about the face looking out from behind a curtain of thick black hair drew Sophie closer, as though the dark eyes called her name. She knelt in front of it, pushing a small pile of tarnished silver cutlery to the side, and studied the features of the woman on the canvas.
Black hair flowed in sharp contrast with the pale, white face. Full lips, painted a bloody red, pressed together in a smug grimace and glossy eyes mirrored the arrogance written all over the woman's expression. Looking closely, Sophie could see a faint signature on the bottom left hand side, just under the pale white elbow jutting from a black sleeve. Leaning forward, she reached out to turn the painting over, hoping to find an inscription or more legible signature on the back. As her hands made contact with the thick, wooden frame, a deafening crash shook her to her bones and she tumbled forward, colliding with the covered pile. It was solid as a wall, presumably a cabinet of sorts, and stars flashed in front of her eyes as she clasped a hand to her head. It took a moment to shake off the dizziness, sitting on the floor with her back to t
he painting. When her head stopped spinning, she could hear her pulse thudding in her ears.
Without stopping to discover what had fallen, she jumped from the floor and hastened to the exit. Something in her screamed danger, but she could not understand why. Her heart did not slow as she navigated a path through the rubble. The closer she got to the opening that led to the stairway and freedom, the stronger the response to her fear became. It was as though she could feel a presence behind her, urging her forward, reaching out and pressing its gnarled fingers against her back to force her away.
She could not help but spin around once she reached the landing. Her hands flew up in frightened surrender. The room gaped back at her, empty despite its overflowing contents. A sharp wheezing reached her ears and she jumped in shock only to realize moments later that it was coming from her own mouth. Her breath came in gasps and her heart rushed, pumping blood through her veins at lightning speed.
Taking a deep breath and lowering her shaking hands, Sophie waited until her body calmed before turning back to the stairs. When she did, she let out a scream, falling backwards and colliding with the doorframe. She clutched at her chest with both hands.
“Are you alright?”
The old man she had met in the ballroom stood inches from her, an empty silver serving tray in his hands and a look of surprised concern on his face. “I did not intend to startle you.”
“No,” Sophie gasped, still clutching her chest. “No, it's alright. I was just,” she paused, unsure of how to explain.
Seeing her hesitation, a smile appeared on the man's face. He seemed breathless, exuberant, and his smile did not falter as he looked her over.
“No need to explain,” he said, raising a hand. “There are many mysteries in this castle, though I have never met another quite as susceptible to them as you.”
Sophie looked at her feet, a flush rising in her cheeks.
“I'm,” she began, but a soft chuckle made her look up. The man was holding a wrinkled hand to his mouth, his eyes crinkled and sparkling with amusement. She could not help but crack a sheepish smile in response.
“Do not apologize,” he said, waving a hand. “You must understand, I am not angry. Far from it. Your presence here has given me hope.”
“Hope?” Sophie repeated. “Why?”
“There are many things that give an old man hope,” he said, his eyes glancing over Sophie's shoulder. His face went hard. Sophie looked behind her. The room was as empty as it had been before.
“Curiosity is a blessing,” he said, “and a curse. This room contains many things, not all of them welcoming. May I show you the way out?”
With that, the man turned and headed back down the narrow stairs, taking them at such a pace that she struggled to keep up. Despite his obvious age, he was fluid and agile. The crisp air in the conservatory was like clean water, washing the thick dust from Sophie’s lungs as they stepped through the opening in the wall.
“Miss Iris,” the man said, turning to her and bowing slightly. “A pleasure.”
“Wait,” Sophie said as he turned to leave. “Please, I really am sorry. I'm going to try my best to stifle my curiosity.”
“No need,” said the man. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before extending his hand. Sophie took it, and she felt it tremble as he tightened his grip, an astonished smile on his face. “I am Rausch. Please, be at home here. If there is anything you need-”
“Thank you,” Sophie said quickly. She could hear the familiar tap of her mother's high heels on the stone floor outside of the conservatory. “I'm sorry. My mother is coming, would you like to meet her?”
“I would, but I cannot,” he answered, his smile vanishing. He exited the room with such speed that Sophie was left with her hand still outstretched. “Good day, my dear.”
“Here you are,” Carol rounded the corner and seized her daughter's arm. “Why is it that you are always missing when I need you?”
When she climbed out of bed the next morning, Sophie clutched her pounding head and staggered to the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror – her dark-circled eyes and tangled mess of hair – she heaved a ragged sigh and bent to splash water over her face.
“Too much wine,” she muttered, peeling off her pajamas and tossing them into the corner.
When the shower was running hot, she stepped carefully over the edge of the claw-footed tub and into the stream of steaming water. Her ears were pounding with the pressure of her hangover and she ran through the past night's events as she allowed the heat to loosen the knots in her shoulders and neck.
Her mother had seized her from the conservatory and dragged her, somewhat reluctantly, to Katie's room on the third floor. The moment she entered her sister's suite, Sophie felt the tension settle on her like lead, pulling her mind away from the cluttered room and placing it back on the discomfort surrounding her family's presence.
Carol perched, legs crossed, in the center of Katie's bed looking more like a senior in high school than a middle-aged mother of two with her blonde hair sweeping across her forehead and her fitted shirt clinging to her sculpted body. In an instant of insecurity, Sophie tugged at the hem of her own t-shirt.
Katie sat shuffling through a pile of notes on the coffee table, muttering to herself as she pulled out papers and set them to the side. After a few moments, she pranced across the room, papers in hand, and settled on the bed beside her mother. Sophie perched on the edge of an upholstered chair and folded her hands on her knees in expectation.
“Where were we?” Carol said, seizing the papers from her daughter's hands. She had obviously claimed control of the situation as Katie made no protest but merely beamed as her mother shuffled through the pages. “Oh, good. This hall will work perfectly, except for the statues. We'll have them moved.”
“What are they?” Sophie asked, trying to thrust herself into the conversation.
“What are what?” Carol asked, without removing her gaze from the papers.
“The statues.”
“What do you mean? They're people.”
“Oh.”
Carol looked up long enough to give her oldest daughter a withering look before turning to Katie. The two of them began to discuss details with great enthusiasm. Sophie sighed and resolved to keep her mouth shut. It was a practice she had become quite good at when in the presence of her mother.
Through the windows across the room, Sophie could see the courtyard they had eaten brunch in that morning. The sun was not streaming in from overhead any longer but instead casting long shadows across the grass. She could see the corner of the patio where the table sat, and directly across was a tiered flowerbed. The break in the trees beyond was familiar and she looked at it again, wondering if whatever it was that had seized her attention that morning was still lurking beyond the border of shadows.
As she wondered, she squinted through the window at the trees trying to spot a black mass of shadows, when Katie's voice broke through her thoughts.
“Sophie?”
“Sorry,” she said, turning her head toward her sister but keeping her eyes locked on the window. “I didn't hear you.”
“It might help to pay attention,” her mother added. At that, Sophie tore her gaze away from the courtyard and looked Katie in the eye.
“What did you say?” she asked politely.
“I said, were you planning on doing a toast?”
“I,” she hesitated. The tone in her sister's voice did not suggest that it was mandatory. “No?”
“Oh, good,” Katie sighed. “That will free up some much needed time for Mom.”
With a nod, Sophie turned back to the window, resisting the urge to stand up and dance. A weight she hadn’t paid much attention to lifted from her shoulders. It was soon after that the bottle of wine had been ordered, followed by a second and third.
A sudden shiver ran down her spine and Sophie realized that she was in a stream of freezing water, and she felt her legs quiver with cold. Hugging herself w
ith dripping arms, she used her foot to turn the shower handle off and pulled the curtain open. Warmth spread through her almost immediately after she wrapped her body in a freshly cleaned towel and she padded from the bathroom, avoiding her reflection on the way out.
Her headache had faded with the heat of the water, but returned quickly upon getting dressed. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and skulked down the hall, squinting away the bright sunlight that burned her eyes. Just as she raised her hand to knock on Aunt Marilyn's door, a voice called out beside her.
“I'm here, dear.” Aunt Marilyn came huffing toward Sophie, one hand pressed to her chest.
“Good morning,” Sophie said, her voice hoarse. She tried coughing quietly, but Aunt Marilyn chuckled.
“How are you feeling? You were quite tame for having finished off three bottles of wine.”
“I didn't drink them alone,” Sophie replied, indignant. “Mom and Katie had some, too.”
“Yes,” Aunt Marilyn patted Sophie's shoulder. “That's true.”
Without another word, she seized her niece's elbow, steering her down the hall toward the breakfast room. It was a small space, with floor to ceiling windows and thick, draping curtains. A huge table filled the space. Rich, dark wood and heavy high-backed chairs complimented the blood-red tapestries along the walls. Behind the table, on the far end of the room, sat an elaborate serving table covered with silver trays of fresh fruit, pastries and champagne glasses filled with various beverages.
Aunt Marilyn made her way to the food, seized a stoneware plate and began piling items onto it. Sophie stood behind, looking around her. She had not eaten in the breakfast room before and the striking decor intrigued her.
It wasn't until Aunt Marilyn turned around and strode past that the scent of fresh pastries and cream wafted through the air, causing Sophie's mouth to water. She filled her own plate, joined her aunt at the table and dug in without a word.
Ashes of Iris Page 5
