Josephine, my beloved grandmother, would always tell me that lines were never clear. It was a saying she lived by. No matter how many times I turned it around in my mind, I could not grasp its meaning.
I was fifteen when it all began. When my world turned upside down. Or maybe it was right side up. Who are we to know?
When I was fifteen, Josephine sat me down in her rooms, one gloomy night when the windows were painted with images of grey snow.
"Lines are never clear." she started. I nodded mechanically. She put a hand on my leg and looked me point blank in the face. Her voice was smooth and sure. "Lines are never clear between good and evil."
"No!" I declared indignantly. "Good and evil are opposites. You can't be both. You can't!" But I was hiding from the truth. I bit my lip until it hurt.
Josephine just smiled. She squeezed my hand, and I tasted blood on my lip, salty and metallic. "We all have evil inside us. But good, too. It is mixed. To make grey, we have to add a little black to the white. It is a choice. To nurse the evil, feed it, let it feed off us. Or stave it, and fight it off, to let the good in us triumph."
Josephine had that way about her, to make me feel childish. I nodded. I was just running blindly from the truth, that I had evil in me. But I would never let them get me. "Yes, Josephine, of course. I understand now." But I was crying.
Josephine put a hand to my cheek, stroking my face. She fingered the small scar under my eye that marked me like the pox. My tears ran over her hand, soaking it.
"There, there." she whispered. "You are so wise. I was like you once. But you can be better." She wiped my tears. "Lines are never clear... between dreams, and nightmares." I knew what she spoke of: The Land of Dreams. A place of dreams, where you can live your fantasies. Josephine oft visited there, I had never been there. And I also knew the other part of what she spoke of. Nightmares.
The demons. The monsters who haunted me often when I closed my eyes. They stole a piece of me, every time they came to call. That's why I was afraid of the evil in me. That I was one of them.
She never woke up that morning. The demons took her, I know it.
Sitting early in the morning by her bedside, I wiped the dried blood from my chin. I thought myself a child no longer.
Chapter 2
The coach rattled away from London, the bright city I knew only occasionally. I yanked aside the curtain, pushing my face out the tiny window, to feel the wind play at my done up hair. I could just see the brand-new gaslights on the streets fade away, small puffs of light, like fairies. Then they disappeared over a hill, as if they were never there.
And over the next hill rose Larson Academy for Girls: a large two story series of brick cottages around a central courtyard. With the death of Josephine, I was sent to finishing school by my parents. They had never been able to convince Josephine that it was good for me.
Josephine always believed there was a life beyond making a good match. That it didn't matter if you spoke impeccable French, or if you could make a still life of fruit seem real. No matter how I looked at it, fruit could not move.
I entered, carrying a carpet bag. Girls whizzed by in a flurry of giggles and lace. I wanted a part of it, no matter how superficial it was. I brushed the caramel colored hair out of my face and waited for the headmistress, Gayle Larson, to see me. Two elder girls, my age, caught my eye. One was on the short side, with nice features, black eyes, and unruly black hair cropped short, in a small bun low on her head. The other was a beauty with her makeup, a blonde with fat ringlets done up fancifully and well-kempt porcelain skin. They were surrounded by worshipers, obviously the popular girls. The brunette told a joke secretly to the blonde, and she laughed out loud. They watched the other girls stare, begging to be told the secret. I knew the game, it was a shallow one. Then the brunette saw me, and they stopped. No one had stopped to say hello to me yet. I was nervous.
"Hi. I'm Anne. Are you the new girl? What's your name?" She asked with a smile. She seemed friendly.
"Hi," I said nervously. "I'm Charlotte. I'm enrolled here. How do you like it?" I tried my best to sound nonchalant, but I was stumbling in my speech, so eager to please these girls.
"Well, it's as well as a finishing school goes." She said with a wry grin. I gave a forgiving half-laugh. "Hey, Cece!" She called, voice clear. "Come meet the new girl!"
The blonde emerged from the crowd of girls, carrying an air of confidence. She wasn't too tall, like me, but just the right size. Her sapphire eyes were clear as crystals, and they shone with triumph and satisfaction. "I'm Cece. What's your name?" She asked politely. Her voice was sweet, but filled with hardness. She carried the air of a person that knew she was admired.
"Charlotte." I stated simply, wondering what these girls thought of me. I tried a demure smile.
"Oh my gosh, Anne! Look at her eyes! They're purple!" Cece exclaimed. She nudged the girl with her elbow, communicating with her friend without saying anything. In response, Anne nodded back furtively.
I blushed. My eyes always brought up speculation. "Thanks."
Cece leaned in close to me, so I could feel the hairs of her face caress my cheek. "We want you to join our club. You could be us." Her whisper was seductive, convincing. Her touch made me shiver.
Cece may have been shallow, but there was nothing I wanted more, to be noticed, respected. I tried to match her boldness, her passion. "I would want nothing more."
A twelve-year old pushed her way in the circle. Her eyes were bright with hope, and when she saw me, she stopped, stared. I tried to be nice by smiling, giving a little wave. She was bouncing out of her elegant slippers. "Anne! Anne! Did you see me today, in painting, did you see the picture I made!" She held it up like a masterpiece, angling it to get the best light from the window. Her tiny fingers barely touched the edges, as it was still wet. She was obviously trying to impress the popular girl. The painting was not really something to show off.
"Well, Briggite, the perspective and lighting are all off. It doesn't look much like an apple." Anne was being tart with the poor little girl. It was the truth, but it was not that nice. I wondered what I got myself into.
I expected the girl's eyes to well up with tears, but she stood defiant. "It is so good! Miss Temple says I was best in class. And it is not an apple, it is a pear. Stupid." She stuck her tongue out at the elder girl.
Anne looked as if she regretted her words, if only for a moment. Her mouth was open, but Cece reacted first. "How dare you speak to your betters that way!" She screeched. Her rouged cheeks were reddening, but she calmed. "Why don't you show Miss Larson. I bet she would be pleased. After all, you are only twelve." She tried a kind smile, but I saw it as a smirk. The girl clutched her painting, and took off to where Miss Larson's office must be. She had to cross paths with Cece to get there, and as the girl passed, Cece stuck out a leg, causing the girl to go sprawling. She fell hard, her dress flying up above her knees. Her painting was flung from her hands, landing face down on the Persian carpet. The oils had smeared: it was ruined.
Everyone laughed. Cece grinned maliciously, while Anne hid her smile behind a well manicured hand. It was Briggite's time to cry. Her face in her hands, she cried silently.
Cece and Anne just moved on, and I followed. If I was ever to be under these girls good graces, I would do it, or suffer. Anne pulled me into the middle of the pair. I was one of them. When we passed Briggite, they just stepped over her. They were pulling me away, their arms around my shoulders. I had no choice but to step over the crushed child. As we walked away, I looked back at her. Her tear-stained face was watching us walk away. I managed a smile as Cece once again turned my face to her ear.
"Welcome to the club."
Chapter 2
Miss Larson had me settled soon. I had to part with my new friends. While we walked down the hall, she explained the merits of her school. I wasn't really listening. I was again wondering what I have gotten myself into. There was, obviously, no turning back.
We exited the main house into the courtyard. Surrounding were five other houses. She pointed out each one. 'One for classes: French, poetry, painting, sewing, dancing, as well as some other less formal classes; one with a dining room and sitting room: one for the young girls, one for the intermediate girls, and one for the elder girls.' I belonged in the intermediate house, with Cece and Anne. We each had our own small rooms. Girls from two classes were here. The fourteen and fifteen year olds.
I was showed into a small room with neat, painstakingly bare whitewashed walls. The light came in from the window, reflecting off the walls, causing an annoying bright light. A small bed lay under the window, with a worn desk on the west wall and a small dresser on the south. It was bare, but I like it. I plopped my carpet bag on the bed, and a maid carried in my trunk. I pulled out my dresses, ready to put them in my dresser, but it was already filled with lacy blouses and plain long pinafores in greys, whites, and blacks.
"This is the uniform, one you wear every day." Miss Larson's face seemed amused.
I blushed, feeling stupid. All the girls were wearing the same thing. "Of course. I'll change now." I put the simple dress back in my trunk.
"Come down for dinner in five minutes. Six thirty every day." Miss Larson said, smiling.
I struggled for something clever to say, hoping she wouldn't regret accepting such a stupid girl. "Well, thanks. I am glad to be here." Of course I botched it all up. I was so bad at speaking to others.
She left with a smile. I changed into a white blouse and a grey pinafore. Still pondering Anne and Cece, I walked to dinner. In the hallway, the light from the white rooms shone garishly into the bleak hallway, like watchful eyes.
> > > > > > > > > >
It was time for poetry and plays. I personally did not like this class. I would rather be painting. I preferred histories, but they were not considered "feminine".
I had been at Larson's for a month. I was still the third member of the club, and I hated to say I enjoyed it. That first night I had not slept, tossing and turning. But now, I was important. People stopped in the hall to talk to me, try to gain my favor. Also, I could see a good side to my new friends. Anne was thoughtful, smart, a dreamer, and outspoken. I admired her ability to communicate with people. She could keep a teacher entertained with her advanced ideals. But when Miss Larson caught her talking with the poetry teacher, Mister Finn, about the merits of a certain Greek Philosophy, she would say, "Now, Anne. Would a future husband appreciate such unfeminine attributes?" She would smile sweetly. Anne would scowl, and Mister Finn would just look down at his feet, not sticking up for Anne, not saying anything.
Cece, through her evil, was a good friend. She was a big dreamer, morbidly humorous, making us all laugh, viciously piquant, pretty, and maliciously witty. And she always had something up her sleeve. She was a dramatic, and the star of Larson's. Teachers and students alike fawned over her. She was a big flirt, but for her, it was all in good fun. She was happy about everything, until the word 'husband' was mentioned. Then, she grew dark.
Today in poetry, Mister Finn announced we would start declaiming poetry. I was too nervous to voluntarily embarrass myself. I expected Anne's hand to raise first. Instead, Anne just looked at Cece, and nodded. Cece's hand shot up in the air. It was the only one. They had this little plan. Another one I did not know.
Mister Finn was ignoring her. "Anyone want to go, Anyone?" He sighed. The whole class shifted, heads down, hoping they would not be called upon. Anne and Cece just stared at Mister Finn. I tried to copy their audacity. Cece switched arms. Mister Finn just grumbled.
"Oh, Mister Finn, just let Cece go. We all want to see her declaim!" Anne's eyes were fierce, but she smiled demurely.
"The whole class joined in. "Yes, Mister Finn!" Let's see her declaim!" "Cece is the best."
I thought fast, hoping to sound clever. I cleared my throat, and everyone silenced. I was one of them now. "Mister Finn, if Cece declaims, maybe it will act as inspiration to the rest of us." I wanted to pull my head down, but I forced myself to stare at him. I just smiled.
He grumbled. "Good idea, Charlotte. Cece, come on up."
I reveled in the cheers of the class. Anne patted me on the back, and Cece hugged me. I wanted my chance to see Cece, too. Mister Finn selected a Shakespeare sonnet. Cece grabbed the paper with the poem on it, and read it silently to herself. Then she began:
"No more be grieved at which thou hast done
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing my trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For thy sensual fault I bring in sense–
Thy adverse party is thy advocate–
And 'gainst myself with a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me."
It was beautiful. It made me want to take up Shakespeare, to declaim myself. She brought silence to a crowd of superficial girls. This was who Cece was. If she wasn't a lady, she could be the toast of England, acting like that. But we cannot help who we are, unfortunately. Wether we be rich, poor, beauteous, ugly, smart, dull, man, woman. She brought awe. Her words, her voice, her tone, her body movements were all the magic of the story. And I found meaning in the poem. We were all quiet after she bowed. And then our hand found its partner, and the room was filled with cheers. Mister Finn even looked on with admiration, clapping. Cece bowed dramatically, beaming. She loved to declaim more than anything. And it was denied to her. Josephine would love her. Everyone loves Cece, if for different reasons. You could always forgive Cece, no matter how she acted.
Then Anne went, followed by Janice, a girl who agreed with what everyone else said; and then me. I read another Shakespeare sonnet, and I did not do so well. But after hearing Cece, one could never call themselves good. The one thing I excelled in was painting. Miss Temple praised me, as I painted bowl after bowl of fruit, and infinite vases of flowers. But I wanted to paint something more. When Miss Temple helped the struggling Anne to see the bunch of grapes correctly, I painted as quick as I could, pretending to mimic the grapes. But instead I did what I always wanted: painted a dream. Miss Temple had never thought to tell us to paint something that was not in front of us. I used a good dream, one I had over and over. I was on a cliff, legs dangling, skirt improperly around my knees, letting the wind caress my legs that hung over the world. It was sunset, and shadows were cast all over, and down below was a jungle, ending in a vast ocean. This place always made me feel happy. I started with the cliff, easy. When it was done, I knew I could not just finish it quickly: I would make this my masterpiece. But I needed somewhere to hide it.
By the time Miss Temple was near me, I had part of the sky done, and the painting was successfully hidden. So I made up a mess version of the grapes, to make up for lost time. Miss Temple just walked on. I finished the grapes, making them light, dull, blurry. Then, I completed the background in precise detail. We had never been encouraged to paint a background, but I was feeling rebellious. At the end of class, I brandished my painting to the class. Although the grapes were the center, they were no longer the focus. Behind it was the class, concentrating hard behind stark canvases. Miss Temple disrupted the continuos pattern of it all, aiding a student at the left, adding to its reality.
Everyone gasped. Miss Temple just stared. "Well, Miss Charlotte, it seems you show skill beyond still lives. But remember, this is not ladylike work. Keep it feminine." Her voice was taught, clipped. But all the same, she hung it up behind her desk, a place of honor. The class departed, but I lingered, sensing that Miss Temple had something more to say. I too, had something to ask of her. "Very good work, Charlotte." She was arranging paintings on a wall.
I scuffed my foot on the floor. "Sorry it did not meet the requirements. I was wondering. Could I work on something else privately?" My voice shook with hope.
"Of course. After all, our lives are not still, no matter how much others try to silence us, still us." Her voice was softer, now that the class wasn't looking on. I nodded blandly, pondering her words, and tuned to leave.
When I turned back to look at her, she winked.
Chapter 3
One night, about two weeks later, we called a secret night meeting. It was Cece's idea. They all came to my room, at midnight. Our chaperone, Miss Jones, the music teacher, always was a heavy sleeper. We wanted to talk freely, to listen to Cece's morbid jokes and laugh out loud, like ladies weren't supposed to. We wanted a chance to be ourselves. We wanted to live for as long as possible, before our lives were shut away in marriage. A few minutes later, Anne brandished a book.
It was a book she filled with writings. Beautiful poems, funny stories, tales of woe and heartache. Stories that would not be proper for us girls to express. Stories of thought, of opinion. Which was thought females didn't poses. Anne was as always, brilliant. These stories should have been published. And it was the one thing Anne was shy about.
"You should get these published." I breathed, voicing my opinion.
Anne just looked down. "I am a lady," was all she said. Her eyes shone with sadness, not the haughtiness that was usually found there. This was the real Anne we knew. She hid her brilliance behind veils of tartness and superiority. This was the Anne she wanted to be.
To be what we could not. It was everyone's dream.
> > > > > > > > > >
The secret meeting continued once a week thereafter. We always gathered in my room, as it was filled with my paintings. Now the lights shone only half so brightly. These meetings bonded us together. We shared everything about each other. Anne would read a new story, or Cece would declaim it fantastically. Or we would just talk. Even if they seemed cruel during the day, Anne and Cece both had reasons for their actions. They were deperate, afraid. They showed it more than the other girls did, a want to be someone. We just showed it because the need was greater in all of us. We didn't want to spend a life as a lady, blending prettily into the background. We wanted to stand out, be the subject, the focus of all attention, like a painting of a god. No one saw the chariot, the mortal, the flower behind him.
That's how they expressed their distaste at the lack of choice, the lack of personality we were supposed to feel. We were told to keep it all inside.
I was still dreaming of demons. I hated them as much as ever. I wanted them to keep away from me. I was naive, to think they would go away. The first time I snapped at a little girl cruelly, I blamed it on the demons. They are making me evil. But how could I be sure? It is how Cece and Anne act. Is it just an excuse? Am I still a child?
I had found Josephine's book before I came here, taken it with me. It was inside her pillowcase. I had looked for it forever the night after she died, pretending to want to mourn alone. It took me three hours before I found it: a book on how to reach the Land of Dreams.
I had been too much of a coward to look at it before. But I knew I had to share this with my "sisters" for they were a part of me and deserved to know what took up my life. But I would not burden them with the demons. I would just show them the happiness. At the next midnight meeting.
Chapter 4
I removed the book from my trunk, bound in maroon silk, stained with years.
"What is that, Charlotte?" Cece asked, blue eyes curious.
I spoke softly, so they gathered close. "Have you ever had a dream? A dream so good you wanted to visit it again and again?" they nodded, sensing my somber tone. "Well, what if I told you that it could be true? That it is possible, to visit a land where dreams are kept. And with this book, we could go now." My eyes downcast, I opened the book. I had read it through a few nights before, so I knew the page. They each took a turn in reading the passage, eyes glassy. When the book was sent back to me, I snapped it shut.
"It is all true. Although I have never been there, my grandmother visited. So do you want to go?" They nodded. As in one of Anne's poems: Anything to get away from here / where no one will follow / me be myself / what I cannot.
I put their hands on my shoulders, and we formed a circle of arms. We all chanted the phrase in the book:
"Take me away, quiet as lamb
Away from the unhappy place I already am
Not where dreams come true
Where dreams are all I view
I want to see, feel, for the first time,
Take me where you created this rhyme"
We were in a tornado. Whirled around, up into the sky, away from everything. Then, we were in a blank field, miles of only flat grass, and endless sky, no sun, but light, no clouds. This was the place, the lobby. Where everything began.
We were all too excited to speak. Then, Cece broke the silence, like always. She cried in delight, grabbed my hands, and danced. We danced in nightgowns too small, hair loose and flying, ankles exposed, feet bare. Anne joined in, and it was the time of our lives. To be three girls, not ladies without insides, wants, feelings. We collapsed on the grass.
"I have a good dream. Let's go there." I breathed. A large sigh expelled what I held back in my old life. The one not here. They all agreed.
I called the dream from my mind. My dream. The air on my legs, the smell of salt air, the colors of a sunset. And then, I could feel it. It was realer then any dream I had ever had. It was the way the dream was meant to be, like I was dreaming it for the first time. Just like the poem. It was beautiful, I led Cece and Anne to the cliff's edge, where I pulled my skirt around my knees and sat. It was better then I expected. The air rushed through me, made me feel something better than I could. It would give the dying reason to live, the dead a chance to live again. But it was not what life was about. It was the essence of it, extracting hardship. But then, it is not really life at all. But if the dying are given a shred of hope, the essence of happiness, then maybe we can stand another day, another hour, another broken heart.
We sat there for who knows how long, not talking, in companionable silence, except for a few delighted gasps when a new gust of wind danced around our legs. It was fantastic, too much. But then the wind stilled around my legs, my nightgown settled still. The air gained a heavy, metallic quality, and it tasted like coppery fluid. The sky grew dark, and a figure formed out of the shadows.
It was something darkness would fear, because that was what it was, simply. Built on layers and layers of shadows, the light was sucked in. It made arms out of its shadowy form, and they extended toward us. I could not speak, because I knew how real this was. It only whispered, but I could feel it loudly in my bones.
"I have been searching for you, but instead you come to me. I will have you."
My worst fear. The one thing that kept me up nights, slowly destroyed me, piece by piece. A demon.
> > > > > > > > > >
I could not let it take me. It began its taunt, its rant. I fought off the evil that was growing inside me. No. Don't take me. You can't have me. I won't let myself come to you. Leave me and my friends alone.
"Come to me," the demon said, voice passionless, dark. But so convincing. "You want to be something other than what others want of you? I can give that to you. You can have what no one will give a woman: power, influence, choice. With me, you could rule England." It was what I wanted so badly, choice. It was what all three of us wanted. We were not content with who we were born as. Its what bound us together.
I grabbed Anne and Cece in my arms, trying to protect us all. Anne was crying, Cece still and alert.
"We can help each other. Help my fellows, and we can make you our Queen." It wanted me, but I wouldn't let it take me. They took Josephine, my beloved grandmother. I would never be tricked by a daemon. This might be the Land of Dreams, but lines are unclear. For us, now, it was the Land of nightmares.
I felt a sharpness sink into my arm, then pain. I felt the hot stickiness of blood warm my skin. And Cece was out, away. She had bit me, to get out. No. The evil inside her bit me. The demon was taking Cece. Her want for power was too much. Her sapphire eyes were now a bottomless black, her mouth forming words that made no sense. I could not save her. She could no longer save herself.
The demon had her. And he wanted more. Anne's usual healthy pallor was now ashy and pale. She was shaking, crying. If it had taken Cece, why was Anne still here? Her want for equality, choice, was great. She wanted to hold a conversation with an intelligent person without being scolded. She wanted the world to read her writing.
But she could fight it. Anne had two sides. The haughty, superior side that was like Cece, but the other Anne side was bottled up. The Cece side made her popular, charming, outspoken. The Anne side let her write, let her be kind and thoughtful, let the good in her triumph.
It was getting closer. It was taking me, stealing me. Anne was slipping. She tossed and turned in my arms, crying silently now. And Cece was there, but it wasn't the Cece I knew. All of a sudden, I was alone, no way out. Panicking. And all I knew was that I had to get out. Save Anne. Save myself.
I imagined the lobby, tried to make myself think peace, grass, sky. The feeling of the grass under our feet as we danced. And when Anne and I were flying up in a tornado, all I could see was Cece's face, blank expressionless. The demon had made her exactly what we fought not to be. A shell of a person, without opinion, without power. Without control. An accessory to the demon. That I an accessory needs must be... The demon had stolen her with his sweet nothings, syrupy falsehoods. To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me...
And suddenly, Anne and I were in the "lobby", of the Land of Dreams. Bu what is it? Is everything what it seems, or is nothing? What do we know?
The warmth welcomed us, a dull breeze picking up strands of my hair. I am panting hard, like I have run a long ways, and poor Anne is whimpering. I hug her, smooth her hair. I have to go back. Save Cece.
"Anne. I have to go get Cece. I won't let you come." I whisper softly, as if the grass would overhear, betray me.
She jumps up, straightens her rumpled dirty nightgown. "I will come to. I wont let you save Cece alone, and get all the glory." She declares, attempting to be jovial. She is trying to look composed, but she looks dreadful. Her cheeks are red, blotchy and tear stained. She holds her head up, trying to still a quivering chin. She clutches her hand in my own, steadfast and sure. A brave Ann. But I can't go back to my dream. It will have left by now. I have to go where it lives, as it said; it would bring their new shell of a Queen to his fellows. I had to go somewhere no one had ever been, no one knows exists. But there are two sides to every line, no matter how blurry. I had seen it many a time, it had called on me. The Land of Nightmares.
I imagined myself in a place all shadows, every space taken up by daemons, just like when they haunted me. It might not work. Cece could be gone. Lost forever, just a shell of a grand lady, eyes now black with nothingness.
But then my body was shoved in transport, and before I opened my eyes, I could feel it. The air was dense, everything was cold. There was no smell, strangely, and everything was dark. I could not even see demons. It was so cold, the air ripped through my nightgown. Anne's hand on mine and her body near me only registered as a warmth, something else that once lived.
We walked forward, in no direction but away from where we came. And then I sensed it. A warmth, growing cold and distant. Cece. I ran, pulling Anne behind me.
And there she was. Body still, kneeling, head down. I grabbed a shoulder, shook her.
"Cece! Do you hear me?" I asked, my nails boring into her slim shoulder. "Where is my Cece?"I screeched beseechingly. There was nothing. "Cece! Fight it! Cece, hear me!" My voice was frantic, my face a finger's breadth from her own. "You have the good in you, use it." I whispered passionately, my lips just brushing a cheek, as she had once done. I was crying now, making a terrible mess of things. The evil was closing in on me suddenly, everywhere.
"Charlotte..." Anne warned, her voice shaky again.
I stood, trying to pull Cece with me. And then they were here, all around me. It was my nightmare, only now it was all too real, the poem still true to itself. They were boring down on me.
"Still you come to us. You want to join. You chase us." They all screeched hoarsely.
"No!" I yelled, merely trying to drown out my own fears, my own doubt. "I have only come for my friend, for Cece. Give her back!"
Anne was now sitting on the ground hugging her knees, gritting her teeth, eyes clenched shut so not even a knife could pry them open. "You can't have me. I am my own. Leave me to be myself!" She chanted. It was another selection from one of her poems.
The demons were closing in on me. Their nonexistent faces were close enough to touch. I was building a wall around myself, one of goodness, vying to fight my way out. I whisked out a tendril to the shell of Cece.
I didn't think she took it. I was sweating, trying to work out this wall. I could stave them off for now. But I wouldn't let myself leave without Cece. Although flighty, Cece could be fiercely loyal if she tried. She would do the same for me.
And then, I heard a cry of agony. It was Cece. Had she taken my bait, or had she simply taken awhile to sort out the turmoil in herself? I would never know. And then we were running to her, me and Anne. Our Cece was back, and all I could think was to get them out of here. I clutched both their hands, happy to feel the difference between the two. Anne's warm palm, short fingers, the callus on one finger from writing. Cece's cool hand with elegant fingers, milky smooth from meticulous tending. And I skipped the lobby, thinking only of my room at Larson's. And before I left, Cece slashed out at the demons, with one last slap of her old defiance.
And then, I was flung back onto our world. We were all crying, most of all Cece. Anne and I fawned over her, feeling her face to see if it was really her. She laughed shakily and gave her famous disarming smile, one that would get her anything she so desired. She was real. Cece's eyes were still black, but they began to grey, hinting at the old blue. We were too scared to go back to our rooms. Instead, we stayed on the floor, using each other's backs as comfort to the cruel world. It was how we slept that night, bodies wracked with the most real type of fear, begging not to dream.
Chapter 5
I woke when I heard steps coming to the door. They were worried steps. My whole body was stiff, from sleeping on the floor. I had not dreamed that night, thankfully. I didn't bother to get up, only turned my head to make sure Cece was still there. I was so tired.
I had just enough time to close my eyes before the stout Miss Jones burst in the door. "What is going on here?" She shrieked. Unfortunately, Miss Larson wasn't far behind.
There were only few precious moments to think. But sweet, clever Cece was alert in a flash. Her eyes were now only a shadowy darker version of her old blue, almost unnoticeable. "Oh, Miss Larson, I am so, so sorry." She put her declaiming skills to work, and she was fabulous, a real actress. "Oh, I was so scared, so scared..." She prattled, as if overcome. For a second, I was scared she would divulge my secret, betray me. But not Cece.
"What is the matter, child?" Miss Larson tried to act the nurturing protector.
"Oh, Miss, I had the most horrible nightmare." She divulged. She emphasized the word nightmare. "I dreamed I, oh, I dreamed I would never, ever marry." She buried her face in her hands, faking sobs. I could have nearly laughed out loud, at the irony of it all. Instead I stifled a cough. Anne was placid, but smiling.
Miss Jones shrieked. Miss Larson rushed to Cece's aide. "Oh, darling, don't be afeared." Miss Larson kneeled next to Cece. "You are beautiful. You will have a wonderful husband."
Cece's head shot up. She amazed me. I wasn't sure I could make it. "I am truly beautiful?" Cece's eyes sparkled. "Really, truly, will I be married?" She bounced up and down, as if she was a small child wanting sweets.
"Of course, dear. You are beautiful." Miss Larson soothed.
"Oh, Miss Larson, I was so terrified. Anne and Charlotte must have heard me. They came into my room, and we didn't want to bother you or Miss Jones. But I was to terrified to go back to sleep. We all came here, and..." Cece feigned another spell of sentiment, to overcome to speak. I could have died from not laughing. "Charlotte and Anne... they are so good to me. Truly the best of friends. They stayed with me all night."
"Well." Miss Larson stood, straightened her gown. "Good job, ladies. Breakfast is served at the same time. But please, don't hesitate to call on Miss Jones or myself. You gave us quite a scare." And then she's gone, leaving us to collapse in laughter, leaving us gasping for breath.
We walked downstairs arm in arm, all wearing both pinafore and blouse in white, hoping to fend off evil with our light clothing. Miss Jones made us tromp back to our rooms to get cloaks, as an early morning sun shower was upon us. We all grabbed our Larson's cloaks: black colored wool trimmed fashionably in false fur.
We skipped through the courtyard, hoods down, faces and bodies exposed to the rain, droplets big as pennies. Miss Jones hardly tried to run after us, fearing she get wet. We intended to enjoy our freedom before it was gone, before someone could take it away. Life could be lost all to quickly. We would just ignore Miss Larson's punishment, smiling happily like idiots.
We sat in the courtyard during lunch, in the raw sunshine, away from the girls in the skin-saving shade. Cece seemed worried. So I explained about lines, about the good and evil in all of us, about my grandmother's wisdom. Cece seemed heartened, but a little worried still. She gazed at the other girls, looking, but not seeing anything.
"Do you think..." She wondered. "Am I, am I unclean, damaged?" She looked down in shame.
I put an arm round her shoulders, gave her a smile that would light the North Pole afire. She didn't smile back. I squeezed her, then said meaningfully, "We're all damaged somehow." (Libba Bray, A Great and Terrible Beauty, p399)
> > > > > > > > > >
And its true. All three of us, we're all damaged, in some way. Everyone is.
The experience changed Cece. She was kinder, less shrill, more patient. Through her vanity, her dramatics, her malicious planning, she was truly wonderful. She was a charmer, a girl that makes everyone shine a little brighter, simply because she gives off her own shine of confidence. She was fun, a big flirt, but that was all part of what made Cece so irresistible. She was great to have at a party, she attracted all the attention. Men were often wary around her, but to everyone who knew her a little more, she was the best type of friend. You could always forgive Cece. Maybe because she lived a little closer to the evil inside her is what makes her all the more real. Of course, she is not all charm. She can be shrewd, shallow, unforgiving. But only because she wants so badly to be heard. To be asked her opinion, how she feels about the matter. She wants every second of her life to be like declaiming a poem– dramatic, exciting, sentimental.
Anne, the clever one. Beautiful in her own way, she was opinionated, joyous, determined. She was directed, sure of herself in a way Cece was not. Although Anne was always in conflict with herself, she knew the way about herself very well. She was a writer. A Shakespeare. She was a philosopher, and analyzer of the situation. The experience made her rational, controlled. She let more of the kind, shy Anne come through, but the outspoken Anne was more vibrant. Anne always let herself show her emotions. She would laugh out loud if something funny was said. She would weep when we passed the slums in London, throwing her last pence to the starving children rather than buy the new gloves she wanted. She was impulsive, lived for the moment. But Anne, too wants to be heard. She is scared of not being heard, being left in the shadows. Sure, she could be blunt, a little cheeky. But she spoke great with others. She always knew the right sort of thing to say.
And then there was me. The mysterious one, I suppose. The one plagued with cryptic, evil dreams. The creative artist. The shy one. I did not know myself well enough to say much, but I knew I was too diffident. I let other people to decide for me. But I didn't want to be this way. I wanted to make my own waves, not ride along with the current. Cece and Anne helped bring out the best in me. They made me speak my mind, be bold, strong. Cece and Anne helped to mold me into the rebellious girl I was becoming. They picked me up lonely in the hallway, taking me for my odd eyes, keeping me for my friendship, staying with me even after I almost got them killed. They were the best friends I could ever dream for.
Chapter 7
I had finished my painting. Of the dream. After our experience, I could barely stand to look at it. But I had to cope with myself.
I realized that evil will never go away. Like the evil inside me, my dreams would be apart of me, something to contend with. I didn't plan to visit the Land for awhile, but I knew I had to keep the demons from taunting people. The others who knew the ways of the Land of Dreams could help me, if they understood. But I fully intended to have a little (okay, a lot) of fun while I could.
I had added the people after the experience. At first, I would paint only me, as it was in the dream, but now I knew. Cece and Anne belonged in the picture as much as I did.
I had painted them as we had been in the dream: the essence of ourselves. Cece's hair was less curly, slightly tangled, Anne was slightly taller and longer, me... I wasn't too sure. It wasn't only those things. We looked truly free, away from problems.
Of course no one could recognize it was us in the painting, because we faced backwards. But I could pick them out a mile away. It was improper for a woman to paint something like this. But I had a good idea.
Tomorrow was the day Larson's girls showcased their talents to parents, a way to show of our learning. I was, of course, displaying a painting. Of course, it was a still life. But tonight, Cece, Anne, and I would switch it for my real painting. It was ingenious.
At midnight we all gathered outside the intermediate building with our cloaks. We had turned them inside out, so the fur trim would not be exposed in the night. We wrapped ourselves tightly and scuttled furtively through the courtyard to the art room, quickly collecting the painting, and then to the dining hall and sitting area.
We trooped through the halls on tiptoe, praying no maids were about. When one wandered by, Anne just saved us by pulling us into a nook behind a pillar. My canvas fit nicely over the still life, so no one could tell two paintings were there. We rushed back to our rooms and into bed, eager to find what tomorrow would bring.
Cece declaimed another sonnet, to the delight of everyone. Anne was able to read an original poem that she showed Mister Finn, but it wasn't like her real writing. But nonetheless, it received great review.
When it came time for the paintings, I was last. "Now, everyone. Miss Charlotte Bryn is our artist." Miss Larson declared, as if she had seen my work. "She is a charming painter. This is one of her finest works. And she removed the top with a flourish. Everyone gasped. Miss Larson shrieked. "Charlotte! Get up here right now!" I walked up with all the dignity I could muster. My head held high, I curtsied as I was supposed to.
"Yes m'lady?"
"What on Earth is this!"
"Its my painting. I know it is not the one you suggested, but I wanted to do something different. It is my favorite." I curtsied again for effect.
"Well. It is certainly improper..." She huffed, at a loss for words. I swear I could hear Cece laugh.
"I think 'tis beautiful!" I heard a man declare. All turned to look at him.
"Thank you." I whispered back.
Later, Miss Larson dragged me into her office, threatened to expell me, even got Miss Temple in with me. She was going to blame her, and she was going to tell Miss Larson that she allowed it, but I spoke up first, eager to defend my favorite teacher, the one who allowed me freedom. I told her I did it all in secret. I was lucky to be out alive, and still enroled.
But I always had my friends. We had talked with a Mister Braden Howe, the one who appraised my painting. He was a nice man to talk to, knew much about art that I didn't know.
That night as I sat in my bed, a beam of moonlight shone in my window, illuminating Josephine's book I had carelessly tossed on the floor. One thing my mother said that day rang in my mind. 'Charlotte, dear, we can do nothing to change who we are.' No, Mother. Its what we have to do. To be happy with ourselves, we must mold ourselves to our liking, make yourself a person you are happy to see in the mirror. Josephine had helped me to see that. I could never forget her.
Lines are never clear.
Between good and evil,
light and dark,
love and hate,
friendship and enmity,
necessity and greed,
dreams and nightmares.
We have to look inside ourselves to see when we cross from one to the other. Me, I regret nothing. Where will lines take you?