by Amy Cross
It's a shame, really, that dear Abigail has to go; she seems rather nice in some ways, and I think perhaps we could be friends under other circumstances. But she's standing in my way, and I have to get rid of her. Never mind. Sending her out into the garden was just one idea. When night falls, I'll take her to the room upstairs and I'll make her go inside. No-one ever comes out of that room. As I imagine her disappearing forever, I start to smile. I'll get what I want eventually. Patrick will see that he's made a terrible mistake, and I'll force him to reconsider. This can all still be put right before he dies. Finally, after years of misery, my chance has arrived!
Patrick
My body is dying. One by one, the cells are breaking down. Whether it takes days, or weeks, or even months, the process is irreversible: soon my life will be over, and the worries of the mortal world will be far left behind. So many centuries of life, snuffed out by eternal darkness. For now, I'm wracked with pain and I can barely think straight, but this is how it was always going to be. I was destined to die this way.
I should never have brought Abigail to Gothos, but I had no choice. Her body was breaking down. I had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that she would undergo the change without any undue effects. When I found her outside Callerton, however, it was clear that something was going wrong. Just like Twomoney, Abigail had begun to suffer terrible pains; unlike Twomoney, however, she still seems to have some potential. I worried that she might be dying, and I believe she would have died if I had not brought her immediately to this place. Gothos is little more than a set of ruins, a shadow of its former self, but it retains a certain atmosphere. Abigail seems to be recovering, and I'm quite certain that soon she'll be able to return to the human world and take her rightful place.
Unfortunately, bringing her to Gothos means bringing her into contact with some individuals I would rather forget. Diana has tried to keep Gwendoline in check, even going so far as to chain her in the basement for many years. Following the departure of Astley, however, Diana chose to bring Gwendoline back up; she put a dress on the girl, fixed her hair, and taught her to be a lady. It was an imperfect process, and one of which I do not entirely approve. Gwendoline was a failed experiment, and she should have died long ago. I worry about her effect on Abigail, but at least I know that Abigail is strong. If Gwendoline's jealousy gets the better of her, she'll undoubtedly lash out at Abigail, but I'm sure that Abigail will be strong enough to resist; if she's not, all of this will have been in vain.
Within a day, she and I will have left this place forever. My remaining life, now, is measured in days rather than years. Soon I'll be dead, and the moment cannot come soon enough.
Gwendoline
"This will be the absolute most perfect dress for Abigail!" I say, holding up my latest discovery. I've spent the past couple of hours sorting through the closet in one of the spare rooms, and I've finally come up with a beautiful, full-length gown with a light golden color. "I almost want it for myself," I add, holding it closer and running my hand across the fabric, "but I mustn't be selfish, must I? I chose this for Abigail, and - after all - she's the guest." For a moment, I imagine myself wearing such a beautiful item. It's so much nicer than my tatty old dress. Why should Abigail get all the best things?
"If I didn't know better," says Diana, watching from over by the doorway, "I'd almost think you want Abigail to look nice tonight. That's quite a turnaround, considering your behavior this morning."
"What behavior?" I ask, trying to sound innocent.
"You let her go out into the garden," Diana continues. "Tell me, are you trying to get her killed?"
"Of course not," I reply, pretending to be appalled. "Whatever gives you that idea?"
"It's just that I feel I know how your mind works," she says. "I'm worried you might try to do something stupid."
"Abigail has certain qualities," I say, still examining the dress to make sure there are no holes. The moths here at Gothos can be quite monstrous at times. "I hold no ill will toward her. It's just that... well, you know. We want the same thing and ultimately only one of us can have it." I turn to the mirror and hold the dress against myself; again, I'm momentarily consumed by dreams of what might have been. "It wasn't my idea for her to go outside. It was her idea."
"But you didn't stop her, did you?"
I smile, looking down at the dress. "I look beautiful, don't I?"
Diana nods politely.
"It's been a long time since I looked beautiful," I say, feeling a touch of regret.
"You always look beautiful," Diana replies. "It's easy for you. You're young, and all young things possess a certain type of beauty." She pauses for a moment. "Dinner starts in half an hour. Are you sure you'll be ready?"
"Of course," I say, transfixed by my own reflection in the full-length mirror. Perhaps Diana is right; perhaps I am beautiful after all. How could I not have noticed before? I suppose one of the curses of true beauty is that sometimes one can't recognize one's own qualities. Peering closer at the mirror, I realize it's true: I have a quite beautiful face, so innocent and sweet.
"If you want Abigail to wear that dress," Diana continues, "you must take it to her immediately. She will need time to get ready."
"If I hadn't had to spend hours in the pantry," I point out, "I'd have been well ahead of time." I look down at my fingers, worn thin from scrubbing pots and peeling potatoes. "You're too harsh to me sometimes," I add. "It's as if you want to wear out my beauty by putting me to work."
"Someone has to teach you right from wrong," she replies.
"Where is Abigail, anyway?" I ask, deciding that now is not the time to argue.
"I believe she's still resting in her room. You quite tired her out with all your antics earlier."
I step closer to the mirror, staring into my own reflection: I have such big, beautiful brown eyes, and a very ladylike face. "Is she with Patrick?"
"No," Diana says. "Patrick is resting. He needs to conserve his strength. They say he has only a few months left to live, but in my opinion he will be gone from us much sooner. I'm not even certain he'll last the night."
I turn to her. "Is he so sick?" I ask, starting to panic.
"He's dying," she replies. "It's hard to predict how death will take any man, especially Patrick."
"Are you sad?" I ask.
"Why would you ask such a thing?"
I smile. "He's your friend, and he's going to die. Doesn't it hurt you to see him in agony?"
"Patrick has always been in agony," she says, "in one form or another. In death, he might find some relief."
"Maybe," I say. Carefully arranging the dress over my arm, I walk to the door. One day, I should like to sit down with Diana and really find out what makes her tick; one day, I should like to really pick her brain. "There's not much time," I say. "I shall go to Abigail, and..." I pause for a moment. "Do you think I have any chance?" I ask, suddenly filled with self-doubt. "Do you think I'm fooling myself, or do I have a chance of persuading Patrick? He must listen to me, mustn't he? He must at least give me the courtesy. Especially now that I look so beautiful. Have you seen my skin lately? I've worked so hard..."
Diana smiles, but it's a sad, wistful smile. "You must do your best," she says. "Now off you go. Time is ticking."
I hurry from the room, racing along the corridor and bounding up the stairs two at a time. Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only person in Gothos who ever really makes a noise. How typical that after so many centuries of waiting, I now find myself in such a desperate hurry. I have imagined this night over and over again, wondering what I might do when Patrick and Abigail finally arrive together. All this time, I have worked so hard to remain beautiful, even though the passing centuries can really take their toll on a girl's appearance. Fortunately, I have been able to maintain my appearance, and I find it hard to believe that Patrick could ever turn me down. He must surely see that I am the best candidate. He must choose me. Abigail is nothing compared to me.
"Knock knock!"
I call out, laughing, as I bang on the door to the guest room. Without waiting for a reply, I open the door and rush in, finding Abigail sitting on the floor over by the window, reading one of the large books from the library downstairs. "What are you doing down there?" I ask.
"Reading," she replies, closing the book. "Trying to, anyway. I don't understand the language."
"I suppose you don't," I say, hurrying to the bed and laying the dress out. "Come and take a look at this. Tell me what you think, and be honest. I can accept criticism, so if you don't like it, you must say so. There's still plenty of time to find an alternative, although in truth I don't think there's anything so lovely in the whole land."
She gets to her feet and walks over to the other side of the bed. I quickly turn the dress around to give her a better view.
"It's nice," she says, not sounding particularly impressed.
"Nice?" I reply. "That's such a sour word. It's beautiful, isn't it? Really beautiful. In fact, it's almost as beautiful as... Well, it's beautiful. Surely you must agree."
She nods. "I guess."
"Say it," I continue. "Say it's beautiful."
"It is," she says.
"Say it!" I demand firmly, my hands almost shaking as I continue to arrange the dress on the bed.
She frowns. "It's beautiful."
"Excellent!" I say, grinning as I regain my composure. "Then it's settled. You'll wear it!"
"Me?" She looks shocked. "I thought you meant you were going to wear it. I don't know if it'd suit me. I'm not really into dresses much..."
"But you said it's beautiful," I remind her, starting to feel a little uneasy. Why does she resist my efforts? Doesn't she want to be beautiful when she dies? There's a stubborn streak to her, and that's another reason why Patrick must reject her. "If it's beautiful, you must want to wear it," I continue. "Surely you want to look beautiful? Everyone will see you at dinner. Usually, I'm the most beautiful person there, but tonight I think you really might give me a run for my money." I wait for her to say something, but she seems a little shocked. "You must wear it," I say finally. "You must look beautiful. And anyway, it's the same dress your mother wore when she was here."
She stares at me. "My mother was here?"
"Once," I say. "A long time ago. Or maybe it was quite recent; it's hard to keep track of such things. But yes, she was here, and she wore this very dress to a great dinner. You and she look so similar, but I think you'll carry the dress off with even greater poise. It really is almost as if it had been made especially for you."
She reaches out and touches the dress, feeling the fabric. "I don't know if I'm in the mood for dinner," she says, seeming a little sad. "I might just stay up here. Do you know where Patrick is? I need to talk to him."
I hurry around the bed and put a hand on her shoulder. "You must come down to dinner," I tell her, "and you must be wearing this dress when you do. Everyone will be so keen to see you, and if you want to see Patrick, well... he'll be there." I wait, convinced she'll change her mind and agree to come with me, but she seems preoccupied. "What's wrong, Abigail?" I ask. "I feel as if you have a great burden in your soul."
She takes a deep breath. "Have you ever... Have you ever killed anyone?"
"Yes!" I say, laughing. "Thousands!" I pause, realizing that perhaps I've said too much. "Of course not, no, I've never... Why? Have you?"
She nods. "I can't stop thinking about her," she says. "It was kind of an accident in the end, even though I planned to do it all along. I spent the whole night trying to get up the courage to finish her off. And then she fell and..." She seems totally lost in her thoughts. "I keep replaying it over and over again. Not just the sight of her falling, but the sound of the crunch as she landed on her head. And then she died in my arms."
"Still," I say, trying to cheer her up, "this is a beautiful dress, isn't it?" I take the dress off the bed and hold it up for her to get a better view. "Look at how the fabric hangs! Chin up, Abigail. Sometimes I think you don't care about looking beautiful. You know, I was like you once. I was happy to be an ugly little thing, curled up in the corner. Everyone ignored me. They used to walk past me and sneer; some of them even used to spit. I wasn't fit to be seen in polite company. I was rejected and all alone, but do you know what I did? I hauled myself up and I made myself beautiful, and eventually they all came around and saw my worth. You must do the same."
"That's... sad," she replies. "You speak very fast, Gwendoline. Has anyone ever told you that?"
I nod. "Lots of people."
She sighs. "I wish I could forget what I've done."
"But you like the dress," I say. Why must she mope so much, forever focusing on the past? "You must like it. Don't you?"
She smiles, taking the dress and holding it up to get a better look. "You really want me to wear this, don't you?" she asks, sounding rather doubtful. I feel, however, that I'm starting to make progress.
"More than you can possibly imagine," I say, feeling slightly frustrated that I have to explain even the simplest of things to her. "I want you to look beautiful for dinner. Everyone will be -" Suddenly I hear the dinner bell ringing downstairs. "That's the signal!" I say, filled with a tremendous sense of redoubled energy. "You simply must get changed. There's no time to go looking for another dress. I promise, you'll look beautiful in this. You trust me, don't you?"
"Yeah," she replies, still looking a little doubtful. "I mean... yeah, sure..." She looks at the dress. "I guess I'll wear it," she says finally. "It'll feel a bit weird, but I might as well give it a try. I've never worn anything like it before." She smiles. "Why don't you go and get ready for dinner and I'll put this dress on. I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes, okay?"
I pause. I'd hoped to help her get ready, but perhaps I should be wary of pushing her too much. I've already achieved a great deal. "Okay," I say. "I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight, Abigail. We've all been waiting so long for you to come, and we want to welcome you properly. You're part of our family here." I lean across and surprise her with a kiss on the cheek. "You have no idea what you mean to all of us," I add. "Now get a move on. No dawdling, no dilly-dallying. Get dressed up and come downstairs for a most wonderful evening!" I hurry over to the door.
"Hey!" Abigail calls out. I stop and turn back to her. "Your name's Gwendoline, right?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, grinning at her.
"Don't take this the wrong way," she continues, "but... who are you? I mean, we were never properly introduced."
I pause for a moment. "No-one, really," I say. "Now hurry. You mustn't be late." With that, I slip out into the corridor and pull the door shut. Sighing, I lean against the wall for a moment. Abigail is certainly a curious and very tiring creature, and she has a seemingly never-ending list of questions. She has the potential to be quite beautiful if she makes an effort. Not as beautiful as me, but still... She shouldn't let that stop her. Anyway, if there's one time when a girl should try her best to look beautiful, it's the evening of her death. I so dearly want Abigail to look pretty as she dies.
Remembering how little time there is before dinner, I run as fast as I can through to the west wing of the house, arriving breathless at the door to the study. I had wanted this to be a momentous and very grave visit, and I had imagined myself making a grand entrance, but I suppose I shall have to hurry things along a little. I spent far too much time persuading Abigail to wear the dress, thanks to her stubborn streak. Pausing to make sure I look even more beautiful than usual, I knock briefly before entering the room.
"Hello?" I call out. The curtains are drawn, and the whole room is unlit. Shutting the door, I have to wait a moment before my eyes adjust to the gloom, but eventually I see a figure resting on the bed. I step quietly toward him, worried that perhaps he's asleep. As I get closer, though, I see that his eyes are open and he's staring straight up at the ceiling. I'm briefly concerned that he might be dead, but finally I get close enough to sense his heartbeat. He's alive, and he's come back to me after
all these years.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask. "Water, perhaps?"
He doesn't reply. How silly of me to ask; he never replies, not these days. I hurry around to the other side of the bed and see that he has plenty of water.
"Forgive me for not coming to see you sooner," I say, kneeling beside the bed. I'm shocked for a moment as I see just how tired Patrick looks now. In the few decades since he was last here, he seems to have grown weary. It's almost too painful to look upon him, but I know that I can't possibly run from the room. I must be brave and accept that not everyone can look beautiful as they approach death. "Diana says you're not long for this world," I tell him. "The word is, you've chosen the moment of your death. Is that true?"
Slowly, he turns to look at me. I wish I could read his mind, but he remains stubbornly impenetrable. It's as if he wants to keep a barrier between us, to prevent me from truly understanding what he wants. Instead, I'm forced to constantly second-guess him. From the way he's staring at me right now, it's almost as if he despises me, yet I know that can't be the case. After all I've done for him, he simply must love me. Perhaps he's focused on Abigail right now, but soon he'll have no choice but to embrace me. When Abigail is gone, I'll be the only one left for him.
"I'm so sorry," I say, with tears welling up in my eyes. "I'm so sorry it's come to this. I should have been by your side all day, but I had to spend time with my new half-sister." I pause; that word 'sister' sounds so strange, coming from my lips. "I've always wanted a sister, and she's so much fun. We get on like a house on fire." Reaching over, I take one of his hands in mine and I squeeze him tight. "Please, Daddy. Don't die yet. Just hold on a little longer, so I can show you how beautiful I am."
Patrick
If I had the strength, I would kill Gwendoline here and now. There's something deeply pathetic about her weak and sickly appearance and her non-stop prattling. Her voice grates like iron in my soul and her appearance displeases me greatly. I should have slaughtered her when I had the chance, but something held me back. I was sentimental, and I thought perhaps she could live an inconsequential life in the shadows. Diana told me to show some pity, and I acquiesced. It's a mistake I will never make again.
