A/N: this all started because "bonkaiqueen" tempted me with a lovely title for a fic meme on tumblr, and I got this idea that wouldn't leave me alone afterwards (I saw a couple of you were also open to it?) So, whether or not you wanted a Victorian AU where Kai is an impish spirit that haunts and obsesses over Bonnie, this is what you got! I already have some plot bunnies for later chapters so maybe this'll turn out good? Lemme know!

1: unholy

Dearest Caroline,

You will be glad to know I have arrived safely at Parker Hall and the journey was uneventful, except for one occasion where our stagecoach got stuck in the mud for a few hours. I was ready to get down and push it out with the rest of the passengers, but luckily, we were aided by a travelling wagon which was equipped with a fierce bull. The bull and the horses provided enough force to pull us out of the muck. But here I am, going on about the stagecoach, when I'm sure that you have much more interesting things on your mind. Do write to me when you can and tell me how the engagement is coming along. Is Mr. Salvatore everything you hoped for? I know your mother does not approve of "mustachioed foreigners", but surely she must see that the times are changing.

As for me, I am perfectly content so far. That is the phrase one usually employs. The house is quite large, but it's not so drafty as most country homes. You know I like warmth. They light up the fireplaces in every disposable room, which I think is very sensible. It's true that the nearest establishment is twenty miles away and this distance may not be easy, but it is bearable. The scenery is like something out of John Constable, the clouds being very fat, the trees being very angry and poor Mother Nature standing quietly in between. It is lovely to look at in the morning when the arbors are not so very cross and the sky is as pink as a ribbon. All right, all right, I can hear you gritting your teeth, enough about the scenery! Tell me of the master and the children!

Very well then. The twins are lovely creatures with jet black hair and very fair complexions. I think I shall call them Snow-Whites. They are very quiet, but I am told it's only their shyness towards strangers. Though they said little to me, their eyes have such a startling, open quality that I can almost read into their minds. I tried to break the ice by telling them about the stagecoach and the bull and you can imagine they found it as uninspired as you will. They don't consider me their enemy, however, and that's good enough for me. Mr. Saltzman - I was impressed to note - is still in his mourning gear, though more than a year has passed since the death of his wife. He seemed to love her very much, for his gaze becomes very disconsolate whenever he's forced to mention her. The trouble is, the house was hers – Parker Hall belonged to her family, so it is a constant reminder to him that he lives in his wife's shadow. That is the reason why he prefers to keep busy in London. He told me he only comes to Parker Hall once every blue moon to see his daughters.

I don't know if I find this manner of fathering sensible, but it's not my place to judge. He was very polite and cordial to me, all things considered. The housekeeper, on the other hand, was very impressed with my accent. She thought I'd come directly from the West Indies via steamboat. I had to explain to her that I'd been born in this cynical country – cynical because no one will take me at my word. She let me know I was their last resort, that they would not have hired a creole if the other young ladies hadn't all packed their bags and left. She managed to say this in a restrained manner, but I was insulted enough. I didn't let it show, though. You would have been proud of me the way I comported myself. I asked why the other ladies had left – alarmed, you see, that perhaps this post is really bad. But Mrs. Gilbert assured me that it was just a matter of disposition and temperament. Not everyone is suited for this remote corner of the country. I'm not sure if I believe her, but I suppose I can always leave if the place doesn't suit me.

So far, I am perfectly content. Ha! You will say: "that's the second time you've scribbled that detestable phrase. There must be something wrong." I assure you all's well enough. I've only been here a fortnight and I can't complain yet.

I suppose there is one thing or two, but every house is different. For instance, I find it strange that the staff consists of me, the housekeeper, the cook, the cook's help, a chamber maid and a stable boy. Mrs. Gilbert – the housekeeper – explained that they always hire extra hands from the village if there is a special occasion. But one gets the sense that this does not happen often. I managed to exchange a few words with the maid and she told me she is advertising. That is, she is already looking for a new post, though she has only been here for two months. I politely asked her if she had been unfairly treated, but she shook her head and said it was just her feeble constitution. She looked strong enough to me…but perhaps she cannot manage alone in this house – I believe a second maid would greatly improve her spirits. So you see, the main problem is the lack of people. Perhaps my addition will be welcome?

Here Bonnie paused, setting down her pen. Her fingers were cramped from writing and the candle was threatening to go out. She had to light a new one, but it would be her last one for the night. She drew her shawl around her shoulders, tucking her feet into her long nightgown. She reread the letter and winced. Caroline would surely be able to tell it was too jolly and cheerful to be genuine. But Bonnie always liked to put on a brave face for her audience. And it wasn't really a lie. As a rule, she was a very practical sort of girl and did not like to mope or brood or sink into despair. She had no reason to take life's blows to heart. She couldn't or else she'd never get up in the morning. Besides, there was not a whiff of despair here.

The house was warm, she was well-fed, the children were sweet and the other servants left her to her own devices. It was better than most posts.

She stared over her shoulder at her shut door. The key glinted faintly in the lock. That was another very good thing. In some households, the master or mistress didn't always provide a key, claiming that the governess should keep no secrets from them. Only later did she come to understand that only girls like her were asked to remain "open".

She turned back to her letter, blotting the ink with a small piece of paper. She would finish it tomorrow, for she had no energy left to add another happy thought at the end for her friend. Caroline would soon be a married woman and letter writing between them would become more infrequent. She'd be whisked off to Italy for half the year, confined to a pretty villa in Genoa. Bonnie didn't know if she envied or pitied her. She would have liked for someone to cherish and take care of her, but the price to pay was steep. You had to relinquish some freedom of movement and in her world, this was a priceless thing.

Bonnie shivered slightly under the shawl. A cold current of exhaustion came over her. She slipped the letter inside a drawer and pulled away from the writing table, dragging her feet to bed. She knelt down by its side and brought her hands together in prayer.

She closed her eyes and cleared her mind of distractions. It was not an easy thing to do. The house was not only large but old: the furniture sometimes creaked, the hinges groaned and the walls whined with dampness. The sounds were increased at night, when one's ears were pricked.

Often when she prayed, she heard her own voice in her head, saying the words calmly, but because of the small noise around the house, it almost seemed like a second, garbled voice was muttering the litany with her. A prayer of creaks, she chuckled to herself.

Yet, it sometimes made her want to open her eyes.

Of course, she remembered her door was locked and there was nothing to fear. No one in this house presented a threat. The only 'man' on the premise was a boy who slept in separate quarters by the stables.

She reached the end of her prayer.

In the Name of the Father… (The creaks seemed to whisper along with her) the Son and the …Unholy Spirit…Amen.

Bonnie flinched slightly. She opened her eyes. The room was just the same. But goodness, had she said "unholy"?

No, no, she was just being silly. It was only her fatigue.

After she was done praying, her habit was to go have one last look out the window. Usually, it was pitch black, no light or commotion disturbing the darkness. Her room was set in the North wing and by daylight it afforded her a view of handsome rolling hills and the thick canopy of a nearby forest. Now, she only saw her reflection in the windowpane.

As she stared at her unrefined features, Bonnie thought she saw the frayed end of her shawl move slightly behind her, as if stirred by a soft breeze. She shook her head, knowing she was simply feeding her own imagination. She turned around slowly to find a perfectly empty room. She smiled to herself. Parker Hall was old and ordinary and she would not leave her post too soon. There was nothing to worry about.

She slipped into the cold sheets, shuddering at the mortification of her skin. She drew the covers to her chin and blew out the candle.

The smoke curled upwards towards the ceiling.

Bonnie lay her head down and watched it slowly fade away.

The bed issued little creaks and groans, almost like saying good night. Bonnie wriggled between the sheets. She whispered a soft "good night" in reply.

The key rattled gently in the lock but did not turn. It was merely being tickled.

The door gave a loud sigh as something slithered underneath it. The small papers on her writing table were lifted by a caressing wind.

A cold impish laugh echoed in the room, though it could have been another creak. Old houses have so much personality.

Bonnie turned on her side and sank her nose in the pillow with a contended sigh.

She felt her grandmother's soothing fingers on her brow.

"Mm…one more minute, Grand-Mere…" she mumbled in her dream. She knew it was a dream, for her beloved Grand-Mere was dead.

But the fingers felt real enough, though they were cold as ice. They were not very gentle. In fact, they were starting to hurt. It's as if they wanted to pierce through flesh. They seemed to slip under her eyelids, into her nostrils and mouth and throat, into every orifice –

Bonnie gasped awake, standing up in bed. She coughed slightly, as if to expel the fingers. But it was only dust. Yes, probably from the carpets which had not been aired in years. She'd have to talk to the maid about it. She wouldn't mind helping.

She eyed her solid, compact door. The key was still safely in the lock, as she could see by moonlight.

But hang on – that was strange. She'd been quite sure she'd stashed the letter in the desk drawer. Yet there it stood, abandoned carelessly on top of her other papers. Quite unlike her.

Oh well, she must have left it there by accident. She was loath to get out of bed and brace the cold of the night. She had not lied to Caroline; Parker Hall did not spare logs for its comforts and the drawing rooms and children's study were always warm, but her room had no fireplace.

Bonnie turned her back to the letter and buried herself deeper under the covers. Come morning, everything that happened in the night would be forgotten.