Kingdom of Mirrors and Roses

by A. W. Cross

  We often wondered if others like us lived in the world. There had to be more, but how would we ever find out, and would we want to? The creature who had stolen my life on that cold night in the forest oozed with hatred and fear. He slithered like a reptile, the reek of him dank and putrid. Was that what it was like for some of us or all of us? We shuddered to find out.

  Not knowing where to begin, we purchased every occult book we found around the city of Charleston. Money was no object as my parents’ deaths left me well-off. The looks we received leaving a store with our arms piled high with strange looking tomes would have stopped any human dead in their tracks. Alain smiled and moved on, Swann and I giggling behind him. We didn’t find much beyond the current myths and tales of our time, and of times long past. In the end we gave up.

  The grotesque creatures we read about, the strigoi of Romania and the revenants of England, didn’t resemble us at all. Were we singular and alone in this life? We seemed unique. Perhaps this man who watched me now might have secrets to share.

  When someone knocked on the little door of the box, I knew trouble stood outside. I allowed him entry, anyway. He was subtly handsome. His eyeglasses obscured green eyes flecked with patches of brown. Hair, a little too long for my taste, fell about his face in a foppish way. His features were angular, reminding me of the face of a crow.

  “May I join you until your friends return?” His quiet voice spoke in an unassuming manner. I suspected if I turned him away, he would have thought nothing of my words, exiting the way he’d come. This man seemed in every way a loner. I could relate.

  Despite his unassuming, almost shy manner, something drew me to him. Perhaps, I would have scampered toward anyone, lonely as I was, the perennial third wheel. The thought of turning my own romantic partner crossed my mind. “Please, do. My name is Annabelle Gray.”

  I held out my hand, which the interesting stranger took up as if he might break it. He brushed a light kiss across my fingers, sending a foreign chill down my back.

  “Edward Rose.”

  9

  Do not be afraid; our fate

  Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.

  Dante Alighieri, Inferno

  Hawthorne

  As we walked up to the front door, I remembered the electrical charge that had come from beyond the library window. Was this another strange thing about this house or was there a real explanation? Annabelle’s comment about lightning strikes made little sense. Lightning didn’t strike out of nowhere. There was no storm passing overhead, or anything else that seemed to go on in the atmosphere tonight.

  Rather than go back inside, I broke off from Annabelle to investigate on my own. I may be capable of unraveling the mystery where they could not. These strange housemates seemed a little stuck in the past, especially Annabelle. Instead of seeing something near the window that would help me make sense of the rogue electricity, what I saw astounded me even further. A rose bush sat there. I called it a bush, but what it was, was a vine. A single vine with a single rose. The vine was thick, jutting up through a crack in the porch's board. It stood at about the same height I did.

  The most curious part wasn’t any of this, it was the single rose in full bloom, so red, it was almost black. I squinted my eyes to make sure of what I was seeing. All the petals were the same deep color of merlot, except one. Half of this petal was like snow. Only, it didn’t appear to be remaining lily white for long. The deep red was bleeding with painstaking slowness into the creaminess of the pure petal. Veins of red-black were invading the white like the gray swirls on a marble floor.

  My hand reached out impulsively to touch this phenomenon. As my hand stretched toward the flower, Annabelle screamed behind me. An unseen explosion rocked me backward. One second, the impact knocked the wind out of me, the next everything went black.

  We spun in circles around the library. Books flew by in a blur, the varied colors of the bindings blending into one long rainbow. Annabelle was in my arms, her wine-colored dress fluttering behind her as we danced.

  I held her; my hand pressed into her firm back. She was beautiful. Her dark, chestnut hair tumbled around her smooth shoulders, bouncing with our movements. Eyes, clear and bright, gazed into mine.

  I pulled up short, stopping us in mid-step. Her hand was released, but not her waist. I ran my index finger along her cheek. The skin was creamy, smooth. She looked every bit of eighteen and not a day older.

  “What happened to you?” I whispered, afraid to break the spell by speaking too loudly.

  “You happened.” Her breath against my lips was sugar and honey.

  I moved my hand into her hair. Annabelle reached up, pulling my face even closer. When our mouths touched, the room spun, even though we were standing still.

  The next thing I knew, I was drifting on a cloud. My eyes fluttered open, and I realized I wasn’t floating in the heavens, but lying on a feather bed in a dark room. My head pounded with fierce drum beats inside my skull. I pressed my eyes shut against the sharp stabs of pain. It was a dream. The dancing, the kiss, was nothing but a dream. Disappointment surged through me. I tried to quiet the ache in my head, to focus on where I was and what had happened.

  The last thing I remembered was moving out to touch that blood red rose with the white petal. The more I recalled it, the more I remembered flying through the air right before I blacked out. I must have hit my head. I steadied my breathing, which I realized had become a little erratic. Was I in danger here? They put me to bed in a guest room. Normal people would have called an ambulance. These people hadn’t called for help, of this I was sure. They didn’t have the means. Maybe stumbling down the road in the blackness would be safer than remaining in this house. Wraiths haunted this place. I’d bet money on it.

  A sick feeling swept through my stomach. I was being irrational. A thought came to mind I couldn’t shake. There was something off about these three friends, something that had to do with more than Annabelle’s illness. A crazy thought occurred. Could it be they were the ghosts? There was precedence in fiction for humans being tricked into believing the people they were interacting with, were in fact ghouls. They acted like my grandparents, although Annabelle claimed to be a teenager, she looked as old as my grandma while her friends looked to be younger than thirty.

  I laughed at myself, chuckling over my crazy ideas. I had touched Annabelle. She was as real as I was. They were just old-fashioned, stuck out here away from civilization. Annabelle’s illness would have a strange effect on those around her. This would make a great story.

  My eyelids fluttered open, and I took in the space without moving. I knew the second I sat up the throbbing in my head would become a relentless pounding. The place was too dark to make out many details. What I saw from the stars outside, was a lot of large, heavy furniture. The grandparents strike, again. My gaze moved around the space until it landed on a figure sitting on the ground near the door.

  Annabelle sat, hunched against the wall. I wasn’t surprised or startled to see her there. In fact, something broke inside me at the sight of her. I didn’t like her sitting on the hard ground, uncomfortable as it must be. She should have been in a chair or on that lounge thing by the window. She was too weak to be on the floor.

  10

  He shall never know I love him: and that,

  not because he’s handsome, but because he’s more myself than I am.

  Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

  Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

  Annabelle

  Hawthorne sat up, drawing my attention to the bed. I remained, slumped against the wall, watching him in the room's darkness. His eyes were still closed. With one hand, he explored the back of his head, wincing as he touched a tender spot.

  He would think I was crazy. What sort of person sits on the floor in the dark watching a man while he sleeps? Better to make my presence known sooner rather than later. “How does it feel?”

  Hawthorne jumped, opening his ey
es and moving his head to see where he was. “Annabelle. I almost forgot you were down there.”

  “Excuse me for frightening you, but Alain thought you may have a head injury, so I thought it was best to sit with you.” I rose from my seat, my legs shuffled closer to the side of the bed. I longed to reach out, intertwining his fingers with my own.

  “It’ll be fine—whacked my head, is all. What happened out there? The last thing I remember is reaching out to touch that strange rose. It was so weird. Time slowed down as if in a dream. The petal’s bleeding must have been an illusion.”

  I needed to tell him everything. He should know he hasn’t dreaming, that everything he had seen had been real. What good would it do? He already thought we were eccentric and a little crazy, living as we did. How could he not? Tired hands gripped the bed post. “What happened remains unclear. I was behind you and didn’t see. You must have tripped.”

  Hawthorne shook his head. “That wasn’t it. The flower electrocuted me. That sounds crazy. Wasn’t that the library window where we heard the loud bang? If you had electricity here, I’d say you had some faulty wiring. Whatever it is, have someone from the city come and look, just to be safe. I’d hate to see this place burn or anyone get hurt.”

  “We’ll do that,” I conceded. “You should lie back down and sleep.” I was about to tell Hawthorne what to do when he woke, which was not to worry about us and leave. There were other houses within a few miles where he might find help, but he interrupted me.

  “I’m awake now. I’d love more fresh air. Maybe another walk?”

  “Do you feel well enough?” I asked.

  Hawthorne nodded. “I think so.”

  Another walk around the same path would bore him. Instead, I would take him to another sanctuary Alain had built for me. To step beyond the perimeter of the house wasn’t an option, but there was no curse placed on the height of the home. No one but me ever climbed up there. To be alone with Hawthorne seemed clandestine, somehow. Sharp teeth cut into my bottom lip, excitement surging through me.

  I pulled back the blankets, helping Hawthorne out of bed. “There’s somewhere else we can go, come with me.”

  A small candle sat on the bureau across from the bed. I pulled a book of matches out of the top drawer, striking it and touching the flame to the wick. Sulfur and smoke invaded my nostrils. With this small light, Hawthorne and I left the second floor to go not down, but up. The hallway was empty. I suspected Swann and Alain were there, somewhere in the shadows, observing the two of us as we left the guest room.

  To keep my nerves at bay, I would have to ignore this. Hawthorne didn’t want to be alone with me, he only wanted air. I led the way, the single candle flame threatening to blow out with every movement of my body.

  The staircase that led to the third floor was smaller, less grand than the winding steps leading to the second floor. These were less used, as they led to what was once servants’ quarters. They were uncarpeted, the old wood boards creaking under Hawthorne’s masculine weight.

  After a narrow, steep inclination, the stairs brought us to a long, narrow hallway. There were three rooms on each side of the hall. The cobwebbed, unused spaces sat forgotten behind closed doors. I marched by these rooms of servants past until I came to a rope hanging down from the center of the ceiling. I tugged. The hatch in the roof opened, a set of folding steps falling before our faces.

  “After you.” I gestured to the ceiling, starlight now illuminating our way better than the candle in my hand. I blew this out, setting it on the floor.

  Hawthorne took one tentative look up, before ascending the unfolded steps. I joined him on the flat roof. “Almost there,” I said. I moved ahead of Hawthorne to climb the ladder, then pulled myself up onto the topmost structure of our dwelling. My strength depleted itself from the effort, but I tried my best not to show it. The joy of this moment was all I cared for.

  Hawthorne’s presence made me stronger than I had been in decades. If only I feasted on this euphoria and not his blood, everything would be wonderful. My ability to restrain myself around this man was another wonder. That I wasn’t tearing him from limb to limb to suck out every drop of blood was surprising.

  Hawthorne followed me, pulling himself onto the platform without even a sigh. “This is incredible,” he breathed.

  “It gets better.” I took the book of matches from the guest room out of my pocket, then lit the four lanterns placed at every corner. The whitewashed platform lit up in the night in a way that never failed to tingle with magic.

  “This is incredible, Annabelle. Do you spend a lot of time up here?” Hawthorne looked all around him. There were colorful cushions scattered around the floor for lounging. He kneeled next to one, fluffing it with his hands, before turning to sit.

  “I do. Alain built this for me. I can light the lamps and read, or I can blow them out and stargaze. He calls this a widow’s walk.”

  “It’s cool. What’s this?” He pulled my embroidery from beneath the pillow. “It’s beautiful, very detailed.”

  I removed the piece from his hand. It was a single, creamy camelia in full bloom. “Needlepoint relaxes me.” I was positive this made me look even more old-fashioned in his eyes.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” he said, his voice soft and kind. Hawthorne fluffed the cushion next to him. “Here, sit.”

  My heart fluttered inside my chest. My hand flew to my head, tucking a stray hair behind my ear as my nerves took over. I looked at the seat, wondering how I would look to him as I attempted to sit on the pillow. I imagined an old woman, bent with age and arthritis, would sit with more ease than I. Hawthorne seemed to read the uneasiness in my face.

  He jumped to his feet. “Allow me.” He held out both hands which I happily took, lowering myself with as much grace as I could. Swann said gentlemen were a dying breed in this era. Hawthorne seemed to contradict this.

  We settled onto our cushions. I appreciated the moment. I enjoyed Hawthorne’s company. In fact, how much surprised me. Even in my ravaged condition, he put me at my ease. I would have expected any young man to gawk and stare, asking endless questions about my disease. But, Hawthorne himself didn’t make me uncomfortable. The only discomfort was from my mind, my vanity. He looked on me with kindness. Yes, there was pity in his eyes, but this was only human.

  “Swann and Alain take excellent care of you. I’m glad you have them.” Hawthorne was looking around the widow’s walk. “This platform is as solid as it gets.”

  “They are the best of people. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”

  Hawthorne looked toward me, his gaze penetrating mine. “Can you tell me more about your illness, Annabelle? Is there any hope you’ll get better?”

  My breath caught in my lungs. This was the perfect introduction I needed. “There is little hope for me, I’m afraid. Someone can cure me of this horrible… disease, but it would require a great sacrifice. Too much for any one person to give.”

  Hawthorne swallowed. “That’s a strange word to use. What sort of sacrifice?”

  “Well, the individual would have to volunteer a great deal of blood. So much blood, in fact, the donor may never recover. And it can’t be just anyone, the donor has to be special.”

  Hawthorne’s eyes widened. “Never recover? That’s… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  I did my best to smile, the emotion never making it to my eyes. “Don’t be. It’s my fault.”

  “What do you mean your fault? You can’t help that you’re sick.”

  “It’s difficult to explain.” I looked down, unsure where to go from here. Who in their right mind would ever volunteer for such a thing?

  “Try me.” Hawthorne placed his strong, warm hand on mine, tiny in comparison.

  I was so stunned by his action; all I could do was stare at our hands. His was young, the skin smooth, perfect. Mine in direct contrast looked mottled and loose.

  This was it, the moment I had waited over two hundred years
for. I closed my eyes, taking a second to gather my thoughts. His palm, pressing against the back of my hand, distracted me. It was easy to lose myself in the sensation. The pressure was delicious and distracted me into ideas I shouldn’t be entertaining. Why did I feel so much for him in so short a time? Was it my loneliness, my impending demise? Would I have fallen under the spell of any man who walked through our door tonight?

  Not even Edward Rose had excited me this much. Yes, I had grown to love Edward. I even entertained thoughts of making him a vampire, to spend eternity with me as Swann and Alain had each other, but those feelings were slower to grow than this. Almost six months of being in one another’s company passed before that fateful night.

  I opened my mouth to speak, ready to gush forth every word of my story. Before I uttered the first syllable, the tear of tires crunching gravel interrupted us. Hawthorne’s attention snapped to the side as he scrambled to his feet. He gripped the banister of the platform, peering down the long drive that wound from the house to the road.

  My heart pounded in my chest, rooting me to my spot. It was difficult enough to explain the odd appearance of the home to one person, let alone more. What if they parked that contraption and ambled into the perimeter of the spell? These were not my only worries. I was on the cusp of something here with Hawthorne. I believed that maybe he could free me. Really, free me. This interruption proved disastrous in more respects than one.

  “I wonder who that is.” Hawthorne spoke out loud, but the thought was a rhetorical one. He didn’t have to explain to me what he was thinking, I was certain I knew. He was hoping for some salvation, someone to deliver him away from this odd place, someone to send him home.

  I took hold of the railing and dragged myself to my feet. Hawthorne gazed down, transfixed by the scene below, his helping hand no longer held out. Rather than watch the car, I watched Hawthorne. His face held an emotion I was familiar with; hope.