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Chapter XLIX - Making Oneself Up

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She waited for them to leave. Sauntering footsteps echoed in the hallways until finally the door shut and their sibilant whispers could no longer be heard. They left her with their whiteness.

The house was white; its grand walls were white; the noon sun was white; bringing a baby into the world was white; everyone she knew seemed to be in a state of white.

The vanity was white—the wood was supposed to be dark and earthy, but instead had been falsely painted white at her father's request. And in the mirror of the vanity, there were reflections of her room all around. White canopy bed with silvery ghostlike drapes. White linens and white sunlight reflecting onto them.

But her heart remained black.

She tried to catch a glimpse of herself, just one peek out of the corner of her eye. But she lurched back immediately. It wasn't that she couldn't stand seeing the black—the black of her veil and gown, or the black of her onyxes and earbobs, or the black of her deep pupils.

It was the parts of her that had once been white that she couldn't stand.

Those dainty little hands that were once so pale and pretty with the faintest flush of pink now were covered in scabs and dead skin she didn't care to wash off. Scars from scratching, and rough nail beds that had once been clean. He wouldn't want to hold her hands now, would he? If he were alive? He wouldn't want to hold her scaly hands that reminded him of his dragon form.

And he wouldn't want to see her starved form, skinny like a snake or lizard. He couldn't bear to see her without her plump cheeks and full bust. They had deflated like a hot air balloon, revealing her bones and what meat she had left on them.

But none of that would have mattered if her face had remained the same. If her eyes hadn't sunken into the back of her skull, two little silvery-black buttons pressed into an old faded fabric. If her lips hadn't lost their fullness and strawberry color and faded away until all that remained was a slit in her face.

She looked like a poorly-made doll, one of those from her childhood of straw and pine, with little pebbled eyes and a slit-open mouth where stuffed hay fell out. She looked like that and not the china doll she had always been since birth.

Even Henri's masterful handiwork couldn't salvage her. The dazzling onyxes, garnets, and emeralds encrusted into the bodice of the silk taffeta gown couldn't bring their shine to her face. If anything, they only gathered more attention to her state due to the great juxtaposition.

She tugged at the black veil, draping it farther over her face, below her chin. Then she brought her hands around her snake-thin waist, feeling her ribcage and counting the bones. Pressing her chin into her chest palate, the woman murmured to herself in the hoarse voice of an old grandmother.

"She's bound to become an old maid if she doesn't take one of those suitor's hands soon."

"It's not as if he were her husband—merely a friend, an employer. Her mourning period should have ceased months ago."

"If only she would try on one of those new gowns Henri made for her. She won't even look their way, and now her whole wardrobe is black."

She lifted her head, her nostrils flared and her eyes drawn and her face gaunt. A cold, aloof gaze. She stared at herself through the veil, before tearing it off. The woman jutted out her chin and a cold, black fire formed in her eyes, like staring into the dark murky ocean waters in wintertime. She then placed her hands under her chin.

"You are not young, Ms. Everleigh. Since when have you been young? Young and rosy like the wildflowers that bloom in the fields? How many years has it been, Ms. Everleigh?" She scoffed but then, suddenly, a playful, childish gleam broke across her features, though it was still a woman's face. "But what does it matter if I am not young? For I am still a lady at heart. I still have all the beauty and grace and charm I always have. Just because I am bound to become an old maid doesn't mean that I am not a young lady at heart." She pressed her skeletal fingers into her chest where her black heart lay. "Why, it's still there. They act as if I'm dead. But don't they see?" She pinched her cheeks, then clawed at them, scraping until a faint color of blood streamed across her face. "Don't you see? I am still alive. I am still alive…."

Like the sunrise at dawn, the girl rose out of her chair—slowly at first, still clinging on to the black and blue of night, before standing all the way up. Her mouth fell open and her jaw unhinged. Her eyes opened for the first time since Claudius's passing—the beady buttons snapping to reveal shimmery river waters underneath.

The woman reached her hand out, fumbling with the knob on one of the vanity's dresser drawers. She pulled it out, revealing a small container Aunt Helena had given her. Taking the case out, she smelt of it, feeling the leather straps. It was dark red, burgundy.

She unwound the leather straps then clicked and opened the case, laying it down on her vanity. Before her lay all sorts and combinations of paints and pastels. An entire case of *Rimmel cosmetics that had never even been opened. In the upper corners, rouge and lip paints and lipstick; at the bottom, Rimmel mascara, which she had never once applied in her life. An eye beauty pencil, liquid makeup, pearl powder, creams, and ointments.

The woman slid her shaky hand, grasping onto the white, creamy pastes. Untwisting the cap, she took a whiff then felt the cold cream on her fingers. It smelled like roses. She vigorously smeared the cold cream all across her cheeks and chin and nose and forehead, like a child smearing mud all over herself for the first time. She caked herself in it, before dabbing powder over the cream. A glossy sheen lay across her face.

After putting the cold cream and powder back into the case, she took hold of the rouge. The woman coated her cheeks with it, rubbing it all into the sides of her face. It altered her face shape, making her high cheekbones disappear. The look was similar to that from her girlhood when her cheeks had been beautiful and plump. But this appearance came with the gauntness that womanhood brings. The cosmetics did not return her to a former state of girlhood, but rather something new was created.

She had never applied Rimmel mascara or eye beauty pencil before but remembered seeing advertisements in windows outside of Henri's shop, of women with silvery-clear skin and big bright eyes using them. She brought the tip of the pencil up to her eyebrow and streaked a big dark line all across her forehead, where she wanted the new eyebrow to be. After she had two new eyebrows, the woman picked up the Rimmel mascara. Shakily, she brushed a stroke through her light brown lashes, almost stabbing herself in the eye with the thick black bristles. Her breath quickened as she saw something—someone else taking shape.

She almost looked like her Aunt Helena with cosmetics, but her face wasn't full and round like her aunt's. A part of her also felt as though she looked like a woman of the night but her gown and jewels told a different story.

Then who was she? If not a girl, if not the melancholic figure she had come to know, if not her Aunt Helena or a woman of the night… then who was she?

She put the Rimmel mascara back into its spot in the case, then saw the lipstick. Her eyes ran over its sleek design and she reached out a slender figure to touch it. Pulling it out of the case, the woman "humphed" then laughed.

"It doesn't matter whether or not the rose is fake, at least it's still a rose."

She twirled the stick around in her hand before taking the cap off and swirling it all over her lips, leaving a deep red stain. The woman puckered her lips and made a kissing noise in the mirror.

"You're so lovely, Ms. Everleigh," she spoke through smiling teeth in a high-pitched voice. "Why, you could most certainly dance with every gentleman at the ball tonight if only you weren't wearing that nasty black dress!"

Her nose pinched together and the two black lines on her forehead drew nearer together. "Well, we will just have to see about that."

Waltzing over to her bright white wardrobe, she opened one of the drawers and pulled out a freshly-made gown. She hadn't even looked at the thing. It was dropped off in a carriage only the day before, wrapped up in crinkly paper. Someone—her mother likely—laid it in the dresser drawer.

The woman pulled it out, pinching the fabric at the shoulders of the gown, and whipped it about her room, dancing with it as though it were one of those gentlemen at the ball.

"Now, shall we get ready?" she spoke, facing the mirror, with the gown draped over her body.

It was made of pale silver and blush-colored chiffon, with white lace at the top covering the collarbones and upper chest. Around the mid-waist, a drapery of darker, blush-colored wild roses made of chiffon fell across the gown, in a spiraling fashion about the waist and bust.

"How could I have ever missed such a positively perfect gown?" the woman called, her soft Dublin accent leaving her and being replaced with a posh English one.

She took off her dark jewelry and other accessories before pulling the garment off over her head. It fell to the floor in bustles. The girl tightened her corset slightly in the waist and then loosened it in the bust so that what hips she had left would flare out. Then she stepped one foot into the silver and blush gown, pulling it up to her shoulders. She spread the lace out over her collarbones.

The gown fit her perfectly, and in the mirror, she didn't look starved or snakelike—but rather, like those silvery ladies in the advertisements with their waists cinched.

"Oh, Henri, you're wonderful," she called, clasping her hands together. He had even made lace gloves to fit over her hands, covering up the scabs and scars. She raced over to the drawer to fish them out and slipped them on.

In the corner of the room, a white pair of shoes with a dainty little heel winked at her. Walking over, she slipped her feet into them and pranced about the room, listening to the clickety clacks against the floor.

She fixed her hair, teasing it up, and then laying a little, round hat on top of her head. The woman admired herself in the mirror and brushed away loose dust on the hat. But then she gasped: "Oh, I almost forgot!" and reached into a jewelry box. Out came two little earbobs with roses dangling off of the end. She put them on and stood still in front of the mirror.

Everything was so glossy and shiny. It almost didn't look real. Like in the morning, out on the docks, when the color of the world is pink and silver and mists hang around the boats in the harbor, and the sun's rays create ripples upon the ocean. Bright white ripples that aren't really real the closer you get, that fade when you try to touch them. It's just an illusion, the sun's tricks.

So she was just an illusion, a ripple in space, a ripple in the sky, in the air. Something made up, a story.

The longer she looked, the longer she longed to be real. She wanted the realness that came with love again.

And when she began to think of love, her eyebrows lifted. The dark, thick black lashes tried to hold back the tears. She breathed in, squeezing her eyes together, clasping onto her new gown and ruffling it. Her neck tensed.

Then it streaked down across her face—a droplet making its way down her cheeks, breaking through the dam of mascara and flooding into the pearl powdery land below.

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She took one of her father's white mares, riding sidesaddle to the castle. While on the way through the forest, she reached her hand out to the leaves and touched them, feeling their greenness.

They came upon the break in the woods, leading to the fields. Stalks of soft white wheat twirled in the wind, and wildflowers bloomed in-between them—most of them were small, but they were multi-colored and had varied shapes within themselves.

The mare's hooves clonked down the pebbled driveway. Athena had ordered they lay an entirely fresh batch, and so these pebbles were softer and more brightly colored than the dull gray, moss-covered ones of before.

She stepped down off of the mare and tied her reins to a newly-planted post in front of the castle doors.

Everything had been cleaned. The door handle had been polished and gleamed gold. The sides of the castle had been stripped of their dirty top layer, and even a few stones had been replaced, to reveal a silvery-gray masterpiece.

It shone in the sun, glimmering gloriously. The tip-tops sparkled, little explosions taking place on the rooftop.

Not a single day had passed that the woman did not visit. Even with it being completely refurbished and cleaned, she made plans to come by each day.

Entering Beochaoineadh Castle, the lady took a breath of the air. It wasn't the same. It didn't have that musky scent to it—something ancient had been lost in the cleaning process. The curtains that hung from the windows at the top of the castle were see-through now, allowing more light to filter in. She could see the entire way to the Grand Hall and fireplace.

The Grand Hall had been reimagined with a vision of the trends of the new century, while pieces of the late century were left in the details. It adorned new accessories and amenities, such as lights and lamps instead of torches. But dreams of days gone by still remained in some places—for instance, the original molding and detailing remained on the fireplace.

The woman wanted it to be liveable but still retain its sophistication and style. She nodded her head, pleased with the look of the castle.

Instead of taking a seat in her chair—the mistress's chair—she made headway to the lower quarters of the castle. Walking by, she noticed the servant's quarters and supply closet where her tools from years before still remained. She would never have to touch them again, for soon, she would hire servants of her own to maintain the castle's grand, gleaming state.

She went deeper and farther into the belly of the castle, which had been left mostly untouched. Of course, they had been cleaned and lights adorned the sides of the hall, but the cobblestone remained. It was just as simple and plain and eerie as it had ever been. Like stepping back into the Dark Ages, but with a lamp to guide oneself instead of a torch.

Swinging the dungeon door open, she plodded down the stone steps, her dress rustling behind her. Her head faced the far side of the dungeon, where Claudius's stone figure laid.

"Hello, dear," she cooed, walking up to him. "I know I look very different today than I have in the past." She sighed. "You haven't seen my face in a while, I know. I've been wearing that dreadful veil for so long." Lifting her hat up, she looked into Claudius's stone eyes. "I hope you do not mind the makeup. At least I look better now than I did. Perhaps I will continue to wear it." She twirled around. "Oh, but look at this new dress Henri made me! Isn't it just lovely? I believe it's my favorite piece he's ever accomplished."

The woman twisted and turned for the stone figure. Her smile broke across her face as she thought of how lovely she was, and how Claudius must just adore her. A part of her felt like a child twirling in the falling leaves of autumnal.

But, as it always does, winter arrived. And the woman was reminded of the icy stone figure in front of her, and reminded, too, that beneath the layers of makeup there was still an old maid.

An old maid.

"Oh!" She collapsed to the floor, her hair falling out of its do and draining across the ground. Her chest heaved up and down, in spastic motions as she wailed and wailed, screaming into the stone. She kicked the white shoes off then beat the balls of her feet into the ground. "An old maid. An old maid. An old maid."

She was never to be loved again, never to dance at parties again, never to be kissed again, never to be told she was beautiful again, never to be wed and make love as she had always dreamt of, never to be the mistress of a castle with her master beside her as she had always dreamt of, never to write poems and read books and venture into the gardens and listen to records and stroll into the forest and transform into Milly and….

The woman lifted her head from the stones. Her pupils dilated in and out of focus, as she slowly turned her head to face the stone figure.

She picked herself up and marched straight over to him. Pointing a finger at him, she screeched in her Dublin accent this time: "This is all your fault! I'm an old maid because of you."

Throwing her arms up in the air and twisted on her heels, she growled. "You were the one who could have changed! You could have mated with Heart of the Flame willingly, which I had no issue with!" Crossing her arms, she huffed. "You were the one who turned me into this! How could you have been so selfish? I had my entire life in front of me, and you twisted me into loving you and caring for you and you knew you would die the whole time. You knew that you would die and I would suffer." She pivoted on her heels again, her blue flame eyes boring into his, melting the stone. "You weren't a monster because you were a dragon. You were a monster because you corrupted me. You manipulated me and used your selfish trickery to make me believe that I was a part of you. That I was whatever you wanted me to be."

She fumbled with her fingers, pinching them and digging into the lace gloves. "For so long—years—I devoted myself to you. I gave myself up for you. I should have just listened to Ma and stayed home and taken care of my brothers and sisters, instead of fulfilling father's greed and falling for your manipulation." Her lips twisted and curled into a snarl. But then the look fell and her face became drawn and gaunt and numb and lifeless. "But I suppose I also fed that girl's curiosity. She wanted…" her eyebrows kneaded together and she winced, "she wanted to know and understand a life different from her own. She was so eager to learn and understand all you set before her." The woman shook her head, staring up at the ceiling, her mouth open as she gasped through rising tears. A knot tied in her throat. "Oh, it's my fault, too." She hunched her shoulders and brought her fist to her eyes, covering them. "My fault for being so naïve and disobedient, for being so young and immature, for thinking that… love could somehow save you. Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault at all, but mine." Her ribcage caved in on itself as she knelt down to the floor once more.

"What a fool I was. A blasted fool," she spat. "To think that your life somehow could be saved if only I loved you enough. I fought for your life like it were me own. At points, it felt like it were. It felt… like you and I were one and the same. Like we were two trees that had grown beside each other and twisted 'round one another. That's what it felt like. And I 'spose that's a lovely thing, but what does one tree do when the other rots? What… what am I supposed to do, Claudius? What am I meant to do with myself?"

She rubbed her eyes and the black flecks of mascara came off on her palm and knuckles. A reminder that it was all a façade.

The woman licked her lips, tasting the redness, then a small smile came across her face. Small and sad, but a smile nonetheless.

"It seems as though I've forgotten who I am. And I seem to have forgotten that you are dead and gone, too. You are… not here to tell me who I am or tell me that I am loved or that I am beautiful." She laughed through choking tears. "You are no more. And I— I don't know what to do about that. Because for so long, you were all I relied upon." Her lips stiffened and went numb. She felt her face falling off. The smile washed away.

"I… I can't do this anymore," she wept, bearing her face in her hands. She was still on her knees in front of him, almost praying. "I can't live like I'm dead. I can't live life like I've died, Claudius, I can't," she pleaded. "Please don't be upset with me…." She reached out for his stone claws, grasping onto them and pulling herself forward. "Please don't be upset with me for what I must do," she sobbed, her chest beating into his arm.

The woman clung to him tightly, feeling the stony scales. She rubbed her fingers up and down them.

"I have to let go…" she whispered, her steamy breath bouncing off of the stone. She closed her eyes so tightly and clenched onto him so tightly, but he could never hold her back.

Slowly, muscle by muscle, she loosened her grip on the stone. "I have to say goodbye, Claudius. I can't keep coming here every day. I can't… die every day like I have been. I'll still send the servants for you, and I'll make sure there are workers to keep the grounds clean. Your library is all in order and your journals and letters are all safe and tucked away where no one will ever be able to find them."

Athena turned away from him, wobbling onto her feet. The ground felt like water beneath her.

"Perhaps I'll visit someday when I'm stronger but— For now, I must say goodbye."

She caught one last glimpse of him and noticed his stony eyes were closed in the slumber that would last for all time. Even centuries later, when the castle would inevitably fall, and vines and wildflowers would grow all around, his eyes would still be closed.

It was the hope that somehow he would survive, live, come back to life that tortured her so. Hope had murdered her—turned her into an old maid. Hope, not death, had turned her heart black.

Athena's eyes lifted, and she pondered for a moment, before speaking, "You know, I thought for so long that you would somehow come back to life—like in all of the stories I read as a little girl. I thought that, perhaps, a true love's kiss would save you." She smiled through the tears. "With you, my life was a fairytale. But now I realize…" her smile shifted into an expression of wonder and deep thought, "my life has always been a fairy tale. With or without you."

Athena picked herself up, brushing off the dress, standing, and smelling the clean air. "When I transform into Milly…" she shook her head, her eyes glowing, "I always look the same. I'll always be the same. I don't have to worry about what other people think, or if I'm to become an old maid. I don't even have to worry about love. I can just… bask in the sun."

Lifting her arms out as though she were about to fly, Athena shed another tear. But this tear was white, not black.

"You wanted me so badly to be human, Claudius. You wanted me to always be human, and the truth is, I can never be fully human. I don't want to be."

Winds broke in through the windows of the castle.

"A part of me will always be untamed, an animal, a wild rose. Perhaps… that's who I am. Who I've always been." She looked back at him. "I always dreamt we could balance our time together. Wild beasts half the time, and the other half, man and woman. That was always my dream. But… you never wanted to share that part of yourself with me, no matter how I longed for it. I wanted a balance between two worlds; you wanted only one. I never understood that until now."

Athena sighed, turning away from him once more. "Thank you, Claudius," she said, "for listening when no one else would."

She unclenched her jaw and stood in the faint sunlight echoing in through the chamber windows. She rocked on her heels. A small puddle lay at her feet, and she glanced down into it. The water of the puddle rippled, revealing someone new and yet someone she had always known. Wiping away the tear stains, Athena found herself once again. Most of the makeup had actually stayed on, even if it had faded slightly. This look suited her.

"Goodbye, Claudius. Goodbye."

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*Rimmel - Rimmel is a British cosmetics brand, now owned by Coty, Inc. The House of Rimmel was founded by Eugène Rimmel as a perfumery in 1834, in Regent Street, London, England. Within a year of opening, Eugène Rimmel came to create many makeup products, including his best known, mascara.