Sorry I haven't written in a while! I got the flu, and have been staying home from school L I have so much makeup to do! Horrid! And then I lost my laptop, and couldn't update! But that's okay, because I found it, so enjoy!
Vivette drawled a Russian folk song under her breath as she absently scratched under the chin of her bloodhound. It had been two whole days, and none of them knew the dog's name. It was getting ridiculous!
Lip sat down beside her and patted the dog on his wrinkly head. "What's his name?"
She huffed. "'his'? Bah! HER name is Atropa! Do you know the story of Atropa?" She glanced up at him through red wisps and her dark eyes held happiness. He'd never known such happiness, but when he was with her is felt a little of her happiness reflecting on him, like the sun's light does to the dark, dark moon.
He shook his head.
She grinned in excitement and smoothed her dress. She was wearing an antique, probably priceless, Regency gown of baby blue, with white lace embroidery, and her hair was woven into intricate Celtic braids. "Atropa was one of the three Fates in Greek Mythology. The Fates where beings that where said to control the lives of humans, isn't that nice? I would have fun! Anyway, there is Clotho, the one that spins the Thread of Life, and many in ancient Greece prayed to her during the times of their pregnancy. There is Lachesis, the one that measures the life allotted to each person on the thread, and dyes the thread with colors that plan out their journey through life, the good times and bad. Then, there is Atropa. She determines when they die, and cuts the thread at that time with her abhorred shears," she giggled and scratched Atropa's ears.
Lip furrowed his brows. "Why would you name your dog that?"
She looked at him with a withering look and ever so slight amusement. "Death is something to be revered, Lip! By saying goodbye, you also say hello to another. You ARE aware of The Day of the Dead, are you not?"
He thought of Karen, and how when she said goodbye to him, he said hello to Vivette. In a sense. He still didn't know what to make of her.
He felt a sensation on his back, and looked over at her. Her pale hands where patting him comfortingly on the back. "Uh, you don't need to pat me, I'm not upset."
"Of course not!" but she winked and continued to pat him.
"Really, I'm good."
"Oh, I know," she said, but then she winked again and kept patting.
He sighed and let her.
Two hours later:
"Would you like to go out and sightsee?" Vivette asked, poking him on the arm. Everyone else had left to go look around New York, and Lip had stayed behind, and Vivette had been taking a 'rosewater bath' and threw a role of toilet paper at Steve when he tried to ask her to join them.
She pouted, "They didn't even properly ask me!"
Lip cocked an eyebrow and ignored her muttering. "You have a car?"
She smoothed her dress and looked slightly offended. "Of COURSE I do!" She hurried over to a witch cauldron gathering dust in the corner, and kneeled down in front of it. She stuck her arm deep inside till you could only see her elbow. She rooted around, biting her lip, pulling out random books, fans, and feathery hats, examining them a moment before throwing them over her shoulder and diving back in the pot again, looking for something.
Lip caught sight of a well worn, leather-bound book sitting on a tiny end table. He reached over and grabbed it. It was a thick book, and she had to have read it many times. He opened to a random page and found letters that didn't make sense, written in an unknown language. But it looked elegant, the way all the words flowed effortlessly into the next, like a waterfall on yellowed paper. However, what shocked him was the words written in loopy ink within the margins, in every nook and cranny, on the page. There were arrows pointing to certain words, underlined quotes, and some parts completely and violently scratched out, re-written underneath in the small space between the lines. He noticed that there were darker spots on the page, tear stains.
There were many of them.
"I found it, my lad!" Vivette cried, pulling out an iron key from the cauldron. Lip jerked his head up and quickly returned the book to it's rightful place.
"What's that?" He asked.
She looked down at her palm. "Oh, dear, why was I looking for this?"
Lip scratched his head. "I believe you were looking for a key to your car?"
But she obviously wasn't listening to his answer, staring blankly at the key. It was iron, coal black, and was shaped at the top to look like a curly, swirling black bat. She sank ever so slowly to the floor, her robins egg skirts flayed out around her like she was rising out of a Caribbean, silk ocean. The key she was holding looked nothing like a regular car key; it had some other purpose, and by her face, it wasn't to just start a vehicle.
Caressing the old key with her fingertips, she flicked her gaze to look in his direction, but not really. She was gazing past him, and he leaned back and looked behind him to see what she did. He followed her gaze and saw a dotted painting of a starry night sky over a river. He looked back at her and she looked utterly gone, spaced away. Her eyes were wide, staring intently at the painting, her blood red lips parted slightly, hair falling out of the braids in a cloud of crimson curls.
He let her be, and looked out the giant picture window that overlooked downtown Manhattan. It was about nine o'clock, and all the twinkling lights and bustling New Yorkers looked so far away from this menagerie so far, far above. He wondered how many of them, if any, even knew of the girl who belongs in a fairytale, locked away in her very own tower, right above them.
He felt a tugging on his jeans, and looked down to see her looking at him, her cute forehead crinkled in confusion. "What ever are you looking at?"
"Well, what were YOU looking at?"
She huffed in surprise. "If you must know, I was looking at my favorite painting, Starry Night Over the Rhone, by Vincent Van Gogh. He painted in 1888, ever one hundred years ago," she smiled absently and unconsciously started patting his leg, gripping the iron key in her other hand. "Isn't that an odd thought? That it survived so many humans in such good condition. My father bought it from a little Gypsy vender in Italy, and I don't even want to know how that man got HIS hands on it," she shrugged, looking back up at him.
He felt himself reaching down and taking her hand, which was still latched onto his leg, and giving it a comforting squeeze. He only meant for it to be a nice gesture for such a lonely girl, but she seemed ecstatic over it. Her eyes got shiny and sparkly, and her rose lips widened to an elegant, free grin. Lip felt his heart pause as she smiled, really smiled, and he realized he would walk through the gates of Hell and suffer through the eternal fire to see that smile bestowed on him again. He knew it then:
He was royally fucked.
"May I tell you something that I have never told another, Lip?" She whispered, bringing him out of his thoughts.
He nodded, trying not to laugh like a maniac and jump out the window. Wasn't realizing you were falling in love with someone supposed to have a positive effect, not a oh-shit-I'm-screwed effect?
She scurried up to sit beside him on the bed and sighed. "My father wasn't really Dmitry Vorahnov. That was just a name that my father took. My mother, who really was the Duchess of Latvea, fell in love with my father, who's real name was Garreth MacRieve, while she was traveling through the Highlands of Scotland. She couldn't marry him however, because he was a lowly fisherman, so they devised a scheme to pose him as a Russian Duke! He changed his accent, which was impossibly Scottish when he wasn't pretending, changed his name, the whole deal. It was all really romantic, I assure you.
"But then someone found out, Lord Reading of England I believe, and we had to flee the country. I was only five when we left Russia and we lived in an old castle near my Da's old village in the Highlands," she paused, looking down at the iron key before continuing, her voice barely above a whisper. "They loved me very much, and I think I was much like my mother. She wasn't normal either, Lip. Maybe that's why my father loved me with everything, because I was so similar to Mama," She lowered her voice even more to where he had to strain to hear. "I may have been locked away from the outside world, but I was never alone. Da would come and read to me and play with me, and Mama would come and teach me how to do ballet.
"They both got very sick when I was nine, I believe. I will never forget, no matter how much of my mind I will lose, them both laying in their big bed, both stroking my head and saying they will never leave me even if I don't see them."
She looked up at Lip, her eyes dim and gloomy. He wanted to wipe the sadness away from her, but he knew from experience that the only one that can make you happy is yourself. But dammit, he was going to try.
"This doesn't look like a car key," Lip said gently, taking the key out of her white-knuckled grip. She stared at the key now in his hand, then looked up at him with a shaky smile. She whispered, her voice like what he imagined a fairy's would sound like, "No, it isn't. It's a house key. Can you guess what it opens?"
Lip grinned. She was back. "No, no I can't. Give me a hint?"
She patted his hand, her eyes twinkling devilishly. "Fine, fine, if you insist. I'll give you a riddle: Emma, Emma of the Three, under the tree, hacked him in three. Darling, he's supposed to give me the ring!" She bounced of the bed and hurried off into some unknown room.
Lip sat there, looking down at the key. He felt his lips curling, already trying to decipher her little riddle. He probably never would…..but he would have fun trying.
R&R, my lovelies!