The last tray of cookies cools on the counter, golden brown, but abysmally uneven. It's painfully obvious which ones I have done, and yet, I smile easily. Tiredness settles over me, but not the cold, hopeless stuff I'm now used to, but the kind that comes from a good day's work. No endless cleaning or posturing, just getting my hands dirty and my head quiet.
I sip the last of the tea, the last dregs now cool. The kitchen hums with the last remnants of laughter and heat, and I find myself even more anxious than usual about going up to my cold room, empty and silent.
The cook comes over to me, patting my arm gently. Something about her smile, her look of conviction, gives me strength. Well, that and the fact I feel her secretly slip some cookies in my apron pocket before winking at me. Filled with renewed strength, I start to clean up.
I'm finishing washing my hands of caked on flour when I hear the gentle playing of a piano. The melody is soft and sweet, filling the air and drawing me towards it.
I find myself standing by the edge of the door looking into the servants hall, being careful to be quiet. It is Aleksi that plays the soft melody at the old piano, back to the door. The melody seems so at odds with his broad shoulders and muscular arms, yet his hands glide across the keys as if it is second nature. Daily he surprises me at the detail his hands can achieve, despite their size. I close my eyes and listen, taken back to another time.
In another house, on another day, I stood listening to my lady play the piano, brown hair falling around her shoulders. Except I was not just listening, not hovering in the doorway like a ghost, I sang along with her. Together we created a tiered melody that filled the room. She had called me her songbird. Fitting considering the spring blossoms that perfumed the air, carried in on the gentle breeze that ruffled the translucent white drapes. The summer air warmed the room, making stray curls from my unruly mane of hair stick to my damp forehead. I was as bright as the afternoon sun, smiling and even dancing across the plush carpet. So free I thought I was. But I was just another bird in a gilded cage, too naive to see the bars.
These once fond memories make me ache for a different time, but they are poisoned. Haunted, just like that house would be if I ever returned. Just like I am. Sadness threatens to choke me and pain wracks my body. I feel tears slip free from my tired eyes and track their way down my ancient face. It almost makes me laugh, how old in years I feel when I am not yet 21. Sadness twists in me into something different, uglier. Anger. Such anger. I deserved better then. Now… now I'm not so sure. My lip quivers and tears continue to mar my face.
So different are the warm memories, however false they may be, from this cold reality. The skating and the cookie pushed back the darkness for a moment, but now, in this empty, dark hallway, I feel myself once again freezing over.
The pain builds and builds until I can no longer contain it. A sob bursts from me, then another. I'm gasping for breath—and it's only then I notice the music is gone.
I open my eyes into someone's chest, and have to raise my gaze to Aleksi's concerned face. His mouth is tight, and his eyes somber.
"Laura."
My name from his lips draws more tears from my eyes, and he makes a remorseful sound, raising his hand to my face but not touching it. I almost pull away. Almost. But I'm so tired of pretending I don't want to be touched. So when I see the question in his eyes, I nod. His hand cups my face, his palm rough from years of work, like mine. They are warm and gentle on my skin. He carefully brushes away a few tears and tilts my now downturned face back up to meet his eyes. I expect to find pity or mocking in his eyes, but instead I find only understanding. Open and searching. His hand slides back slightly, just barely touching my hair, holding my head more firmly, and it's so warm and sturdy I lean into it and close my eyes, sighing. I feel his exhale of breath, quick and light, before he inhales again.
"I'm here."
His words are so simple, and yet the effect on me is anything but. After so long of feeling—if not being—alone, the words are like coming up for air. I had thought I had hidden myself away so well, and yet these two words reveal just how much he has seen. How much he knows.
I bask in his heat after the chill the memories brought on. All I want to do is ask him to stay with me, to keep the dark away.
The words press their way up my throat, coming from the very pit of my being, the most raw, broken place inside me: Will you keep me safe?
We are closer now, and I am entirely in his hands. Opening my eyes once again, his breath catches. His tongue wets his bottom lip slightly and his eyes flick down.
Feet scuff down the hall and I am snapped out of my stupor. I move away instantly and leave his bubble of heat. His hand hangs in the air and surprise paints his face, he goes to open his mouth but I can't stand to hear what he will say.
I actually sprint up the stairs, and I silently thank the heavens that I know how to get to my room by muscle memory, because I no longer trust my brain. I burrow under the covers like a small child, breathing hard into the night.
The ever present critical voice in my head has no end of complaints. This is what I always do. I run away. Another part begs to go back, even for a second. But to my infinite surprise, it is neither of these that win in the end. Neither self loathing nor desperation take over. Instead I am left with a fluttery sort of embarrassment.
My hands shake, my face surely beet red. It was not long ago that I was completely void of any feeling, so the intensity of this one, taking over my whole body, seems even more all-consuming. I cover my face with my hands, my features twisted between a grimace and what I think is a smile.
What have I done? What in the world have I done?
I've surely lost my mind. What will he think?
Nothing calms the flipping and twisting in my stomach. I throw off the covers in indignation, no longer able to stand the heat. My whole body tightens remembering his face, his hands.
I know there's no possible way I'm going to sleep, so I resort to groaning my troubles into my pillow.