A Winter's Tale
Chapter One: Liara
The snow fell, fast and soft, feathery flakes swirling on and on from an expressionless sky. Walking down the hall to the library, I paused by a window to watch the flakes sift under the eaves and pile up on the ledge. They stung the window panes with cold kisses. The world was blanched and frozen, the sky an oppressive pewter-gray, and still the snow fell, like a silent lullaby that lulled the word to a cold sleep. Or a least a drowsy wakefulness, as all activity in the palace had slowed to a creeping, sleepy pace with this first heavy snowfall of the season. Though the window looked out over the central courtyard, not a soul was to be seen, not on the pathway that circled the now frozen fishpond, nor the on balcony that circuited the entire yard. The snow piled up, fresh and unmarred, and the courtyard fountain stood at the very center like a stony sentinel, frosted with pearly trim.
Turning away, I continued down the hall, my feet pattering on the stone floor, footsteps tapping timidly at the thick silence. I reveled in it. Usually at this time, in the late afternoon, the tapestry-hung hallways echoed with the laughter and footsteps of courtiers on their way to promenade in the courtyard, or crossing the palace to and from calls. Everyone, no matter how casual an acquaintance, required a greeting and a curtsey of varying degrees of warmth and depth. One should never leave their rooms expecting to take a mere stroll; we move about the castle as players on a chessboard, with our specific range of movements and our formality.
I rather wonder sometimes if we are not all pawns, the bishop, the rook, the lot of us, all moved about by our own silly rules.
My mind was full of a line of poetry as I rounded the corner and approached the double doors of the library. Something about light-propound- snow.
A serious-faced servant bowed and pulled the doors open for me. All day snow fell/ Snow fell all night. The doors closed behind me; like a moth caught in the draft I was propelled deep into the library, to the great empty space around which all the shelves were centered. I tip-tapped across the green and white tile to the very center, suddenly reduced to a mouse that wishes to scurry amongst history, darting between legendary figures, giants of our memory: I, an insignificant intruder, for a brief space in Time.
I moved to the nearest bookshelf, brushed my fingers across the leather-bound spines packed so relentlessly row-by-row. I waited for the terrible weight in my chest to drop away, but no relief came. Oh, my books. You have always managed to help me.why not now?
A little bit of the hope which I had felt upon entering the library ebbed away, and I grabbed a red leather-bound book, a sort of talisman against the depressing thoughts which threatened to invade me. Leafing through it, I wandered into the next room, ducking under the red gold- embossed tapestry, stopping once by the tall, rectangular window. Peering through the blurry glass, I could just make out the corner of the fishpond. There lay the gray, opalescent ice, like a prison door. Were there fish? I like to think that the fish lay sleeping underneath, frozen in Time, weaving dreamily through the waterweeds, and that they gleamed like jewels under their encasement of ice: fiery, red-orange gold fish, smoky crayfish, carpe striped like topaz, or with pearly scales flushed with rose quartz pink.
Slowly, my hand crept up my bodice to my heart, felt it beating there. Oh, I felt so cold inside, as if I were turning from the inside-out into on of the twelve snow princesses. First, my heart would freeze into a vaulting chamber of glassy ice. Then my breath would slow and frost, the surge of blood in my veins become a cold trickle, my throat become so tight and cold that words would die before they even left my mouth, and I would spend most energy struggling to stay awake between the breaths that allowed life in. And then-as I believed it then-my heart would shatter, and the shards would fall, clink, clink down the icy cavern.
I smiled, shaking my head. "Stop your romanticizing," I whispered mockingly.
It was a beautiful image, though.
The snow lay like a plump pillow on the ledge. My silent lintel/silted white. my mind's voice intoned.
Before the window stood a desk, a very handsome one with a scroll- back cover and gracefully curving sides. It was unclear who exactly used the desk, as it was always locked shut. But today, the cover had been pushed back to reveal many tiny pigeon-holes stacked one atop the other, with beautiful cloisonné glass ink bottles lined at the head of the desk. One bottle was unstoppered. The quill pen lay gently balanced atop its rim, and a few papers were neatly stacked beside. One page was crammed with looping, urgent writing, the other page only half-finished. I should have moved away; my proximity to the desk could be misconstrued, but I lingered, alternately reading my book and glancing at the half-finished letter. What sort of courtier would leave his or her personal papers lying in the open? It showed a general trust of humankind, tactlessness. or just plain stupidity.
The minutes dragged into hours, and still the snow fell. Glowglobes flickered into being as the sky darkened, and night closed in on my fastness. The chiming of the bluebells passed, signaling the end of the dinner hour, and the world seemed to transform into one of hushed shadows, rosy light, and rushing snow.
Ten minutes after the bluebells rang, a sudden sound made me jump. Apprehensively, I raised my head and listened to a soft tap-tap-someone walking in the adjacent room-and I gently closed my book ad inched away from the desk. The tapestry was flung aside, and a young woman entered, her skirts rustling noisily.
She seemed intent on the desk, but upon catching sight of me, she stopped, saying, "Oh. I didn't know someone else was here."
Was it just my imagination, or did dismay flash across her eyes? She gestured towards the desk. "You don't mine if I."
"Not at all," I said politely, and retreated to the other side of the room, immediately opening my book so that she would not feel inhibited.
She knelt down on the black, gold-trimmed cushion, pulled the paper towards her, and began writing. Soon the only sounds in the room were the scratching of her pen across the paper and the faint sighing as I turned pages. But sometimes she coughed, a dry cough that stabbed at the silence, and I noticed that she wore a heavy silver and blue shawl draped round her shoulders; perhaps the cough was the last sign of a sickness. She bent over her letter, pen scrawling line after line unceasing, and I admired the rapidity and continuity of her thought. She could not have been much older than me, perhaps one or two years older, though somewhat small in build. Nevertheless, despite her thin wrists and jutting collarbones, her dress had been tailored perfectly to fit her: An emerald green dress tapered snugly at her waist, then billowed out in long, whispering folds. A silver lace overdress dipped below her shoulders to clasp under her bosom, parting again and trailing over the green skirt. I glanced at from time to time, observing, but she seemed absorbed in her letter, and gradually I too became immersed in my book.
After awhile she pushed the papers away and turned to look at me, watching me turn the page with eyes the color of her dress. I glanced up expectantly from my book, but for a moment she didn't say anything, only smiled. At last she tucked a lock of hair-it was a burnished red color, very long-behind her ears and said, "I am sorry. I cannot write for very long with someone else in the room unless I talk to her. There is something so intimate about a library.and about writing letters.I feel that I ought to share whatever compels me to be here.Besides, I don't believe I have seen you anywhere before-" She broke off, coughing, but took a deep breath, shaking her head fiercely. "Sorry. As I was saying, I haven't seen you anywhere before, and you look like a nice person."
I smiled at her quaint speech and friendly manner. "Nor I you," I said. "Are you new here, then?"
"Yes, relatively."
"My name is Claudi," I said, curtseying.
"And I'm Liara," was the reply. We both smiled at each other, mutually pleased by what we saw and heard. She turned back to her letter, and I picked up my book again, but instead of resuming her writing she stacked the pages-they were finished, I could see, glistening with her energetic scrawl-and began folding them. Reaching for a wax wafer, she said, "That is done. And glad I am that it is, for it so much needed to be written. Harol will be expecting it, and I've never missed a day yet." She sighed. "But I need to write it for myself as much as for him. I miss him so terribly." A little bit of the coldness returned. My mouth puckered. Wrapping my hands around my book, I attempted to say nonchalantly, "Is he. are you two betrothed?" "What, Harol? No!" She laughed, or tried to, before she began coughing. "Harol is my brother. We are no more than two or three years apart, I the older. We are very close." She looked sad, turning a little towards the window. "I miss home and Harol and all the younger children, but my mother won't let me return home because of. Well, you know." I smiled sympathetically, but didn't say anything, for she did not look as though she wanted to hear any pitying words. There was a pause; she stared out the window, and I was about to return to my books, when she said suddenly, "Do you have any brothers?" "No. Only one sister, Damara. She is but five years younger than me." "That's right. You must be from the estate in Rosehall. Your mother is the countess, I believe?" I nodded, though somewhat puzzled as to how she knew. "And you?" "Oh, I'm from the mountains," she said, rather vaguely. She stood up, shaking her skirt until the folds fell into place, and taking up her letter, she said: "I'm afraid I must leave you now. This cough, you see. Mama will be all nerves if I don't reappear soon." I nodded. She looked at me with a strange expression on her face, then said, "I would like to get to know you better, though. You seem.I don't know, like a kindred library spirit. like someone who moves easily in the book-air." I smiled, recognizing in her awkward words my own thoughts. "And I would like to know you," I said warmly, standing up and taking her hand. "There is little chance of me being at social gatherings," she said, "but I often come to the library in the evenings, just to be alone." "Of course," I said. She coughed, moved towards the door. "Good evening." And she ducked around the tapestry door. She was such a strange, proud girl-proud, yet spontaneous. And a book friend, no less. I smiled, returning to my book. I read late into the night, until the bells for white change rang accusingly. Mother would be returning from her meeting with his Majesty; I had just enough time to scurry back to bed. Bleary eyed, I slid the book back between its shelf mates and moved out into the empty, cold hall, skirts hush-hushing wearily behind me. Outside, the snow still fell lazily down, down, down, as though Time had paused over the courtyard. I rubbed my eyes, blinking and yawning. Down.down.down.
Chapter One: Liara
The snow fell, fast and soft, feathery flakes swirling on and on from an expressionless sky. Walking down the hall to the library, I paused by a window to watch the flakes sift under the eaves and pile up on the ledge. They stung the window panes with cold kisses. The world was blanched and frozen, the sky an oppressive pewter-gray, and still the snow fell, like a silent lullaby that lulled the word to a cold sleep. Or a least a drowsy wakefulness, as all activity in the palace had slowed to a creeping, sleepy pace with this first heavy snowfall of the season. Though the window looked out over the central courtyard, not a soul was to be seen, not on the pathway that circled the now frozen fishpond, nor the on balcony that circuited the entire yard. The snow piled up, fresh and unmarred, and the courtyard fountain stood at the very center like a stony sentinel, frosted with pearly trim.
Turning away, I continued down the hall, my feet pattering on the stone floor, footsteps tapping timidly at the thick silence. I reveled in it. Usually at this time, in the late afternoon, the tapestry-hung hallways echoed with the laughter and footsteps of courtiers on their way to promenade in the courtyard, or crossing the palace to and from calls. Everyone, no matter how casual an acquaintance, required a greeting and a curtsey of varying degrees of warmth and depth. One should never leave their rooms expecting to take a mere stroll; we move about the castle as players on a chessboard, with our specific range of movements and our formality.
I rather wonder sometimes if we are not all pawns, the bishop, the rook, the lot of us, all moved about by our own silly rules.
My mind was full of a line of poetry as I rounded the corner and approached the double doors of the library. Something about light-propound- snow.
A serious-faced servant bowed and pulled the doors open for me. All day snow fell/ Snow fell all night. The doors closed behind me; like a moth caught in the draft I was propelled deep into the library, to the great empty space around which all the shelves were centered. I tip-tapped across the green and white tile to the very center, suddenly reduced to a mouse that wishes to scurry amongst history, darting between legendary figures, giants of our memory: I, an insignificant intruder, for a brief space in Time.
I moved to the nearest bookshelf, brushed my fingers across the leather-bound spines packed so relentlessly row-by-row. I waited for the terrible weight in my chest to drop away, but no relief came. Oh, my books. You have always managed to help me.why not now?
A little bit of the hope which I had felt upon entering the library ebbed away, and I grabbed a red leather-bound book, a sort of talisman against the depressing thoughts which threatened to invade me. Leafing through it, I wandered into the next room, ducking under the red gold- embossed tapestry, stopping once by the tall, rectangular window. Peering through the blurry glass, I could just make out the corner of the fishpond. There lay the gray, opalescent ice, like a prison door. Were there fish? I like to think that the fish lay sleeping underneath, frozen in Time, weaving dreamily through the waterweeds, and that they gleamed like jewels under their encasement of ice: fiery, red-orange gold fish, smoky crayfish, carpe striped like topaz, or with pearly scales flushed with rose quartz pink.
Slowly, my hand crept up my bodice to my heart, felt it beating there. Oh, I felt so cold inside, as if I were turning from the inside-out into on of the twelve snow princesses. First, my heart would freeze into a vaulting chamber of glassy ice. Then my breath would slow and frost, the surge of blood in my veins become a cold trickle, my throat become so tight and cold that words would die before they even left my mouth, and I would spend most energy struggling to stay awake between the breaths that allowed life in. And then-as I believed it then-my heart would shatter, and the shards would fall, clink, clink down the icy cavern.
I smiled, shaking my head. "Stop your romanticizing," I whispered mockingly.
It was a beautiful image, though.
The snow lay like a plump pillow on the ledge. My silent lintel/silted white. my mind's voice intoned.
Before the window stood a desk, a very handsome one with a scroll- back cover and gracefully curving sides. It was unclear who exactly used the desk, as it was always locked shut. But today, the cover had been pushed back to reveal many tiny pigeon-holes stacked one atop the other, with beautiful cloisonné glass ink bottles lined at the head of the desk. One bottle was unstoppered. The quill pen lay gently balanced atop its rim, and a few papers were neatly stacked beside. One page was crammed with looping, urgent writing, the other page only half-finished. I should have moved away; my proximity to the desk could be misconstrued, but I lingered, alternately reading my book and glancing at the half-finished letter. What sort of courtier would leave his or her personal papers lying in the open? It showed a general trust of humankind, tactlessness. or just plain stupidity.
The minutes dragged into hours, and still the snow fell. Glowglobes flickered into being as the sky darkened, and night closed in on my fastness. The chiming of the bluebells passed, signaling the end of the dinner hour, and the world seemed to transform into one of hushed shadows, rosy light, and rushing snow.
Ten minutes after the bluebells rang, a sudden sound made me jump. Apprehensively, I raised my head and listened to a soft tap-tap-someone walking in the adjacent room-and I gently closed my book ad inched away from the desk. The tapestry was flung aside, and a young woman entered, her skirts rustling noisily.
She seemed intent on the desk, but upon catching sight of me, she stopped, saying, "Oh. I didn't know someone else was here."
Was it just my imagination, or did dismay flash across her eyes? She gestured towards the desk. "You don't mine if I."
"Not at all," I said politely, and retreated to the other side of the room, immediately opening my book so that she would not feel inhibited.
She knelt down on the black, gold-trimmed cushion, pulled the paper towards her, and began writing. Soon the only sounds in the room were the scratching of her pen across the paper and the faint sighing as I turned pages. But sometimes she coughed, a dry cough that stabbed at the silence, and I noticed that she wore a heavy silver and blue shawl draped round her shoulders; perhaps the cough was the last sign of a sickness. She bent over her letter, pen scrawling line after line unceasing, and I admired the rapidity and continuity of her thought. She could not have been much older than me, perhaps one or two years older, though somewhat small in build. Nevertheless, despite her thin wrists and jutting collarbones, her dress had been tailored perfectly to fit her: An emerald green dress tapered snugly at her waist, then billowed out in long, whispering folds. A silver lace overdress dipped below her shoulders to clasp under her bosom, parting again and trailing over the green skirt. I glanced at from time to time, observing, but she seemed absorbed in her letter, and gradually I too became immersed in my book.
After awhile she pushed the papers away and turned to look at me, watching me turn the page with eyes the color of her dress. I glanced up expectantly from my book, but for a moment she didn't say anything, only smiled. At last she tucked a lock of hair-it was a burnished red color, very long-behind her ears and said, "I am sorry. I cannot write for very long with someone else in the room unless I talk to her. There is something so intimate about a library.and about writing letters.I feel that I ought to share whatever compels me to be here.Besides, I don't believe I have seen you anywhere before-" She broke off, coughing, but took a deep breath, shaking her head fiercely. "Sorry. As I was saying, I haven't seen you anywhere before, and you look like a nice person."
I smiled at her quaint speech and friendly manner. "Nor I you," I said. "Are you new here, then?"
"Yes, relatively."
"My name is Claudi," I said, curtseying.
"And I'm Liara," was the reply. We both smiled at each other, mutually pleased by what we saw and heard. She turned back to her letter, and I picked up my book again, but instead of resuming her writing she stacked the pages-they were finished, I could see, glistening with her energetic scrawl-and began folding them. Reaching for a wax wafer, she said, "That is done. And glad I am that it is, for it so much needed to be written. Harol will be expecting it, and I've never missed a day yet." She sighed. "But I need to write it for myself as much as for him. I miss him so terribly." A little bit of the coldness returned. My mouth puckered. Wrapping my hands around my book, I attempted to say nonchalantly, "Is he. are you two betrothed?" "What, Harol? No!" She laughed, or tried to, before she began coughing. "Harol is my brother. We are no more than two or three years apart, I the older. We are very close." She looked sad, turning a little towards the window. "I miss home and Harol and all the younger children, but my mother won't let me return home because of. Well, you know." I smiled sympathetically, but didn't say anything, for she did not look as though she wanted to hear any pitying words. There was a pause; she stared out the window, and I was about to return to my books, when she said suddenly, "Do you have any brothers?" "No. Only one sister, Damara. She is but five years younger than me." "That's right. You must be from the estate in Rosehall. Your mother is the countess, I believe?" I nodded, though somewhat puzzled as to how she knew. "And you?" "Oh, I'm from the mountains," she said, rather vaguely. She stood up, shaking her skirt until the folds fell into place, and taking up her letter, she said: "I'm afraid I must leave you now. This cough, you see. Mama will be all nerves if I don't reappear soon." I nodded. She looked at me with a strange expression on her face, then said, "I would like to get to know you better, though. You seem.I don't know, like a kindred library spirit. like someone who moves easily in the book-air." I smiled, recognizing in her awkward words my own thoughts. "And I would like to know you," I said warmly, standing up and taking her hand. "There is little chance of me being at social gatherings," she said, "but I often come to the library in the evenings, just to be alone." "Of course," I said. She coughed, moved towards the door. "Good evening." And she ducked around the tapestry door. She was such a strange, proud girl-proud, yet spontaneous. And a book friend, no less. I smiled, returning to my book. I read late into the night, until the bells for white change rang accusingly. Mother would be returning from her meeting with his Majesty; I had just enough time to scurry back to bed. Bleary eyed, I slid the book back between its shelf mates and moved out into the empty, cold hall, skirts hush-hushing wearily behind me. Outside, the snow still fell lazily down, down, down, as though Time had paused over the courtyard. I rubbed my eyes, blinking and yawning. Down.down.down.