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"...life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either."
- Carmilla, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
They are a strange procession as they make their way up to the castle. Madame Pearce leads the way, with the prostrate body of the stranger floating behind her, while Bonnie follows, hands raised. Bringing up the rear is the horse, pulling at the now repaired carriage trundling loudly over the gravel.
Madame Pearce had been reluctant to bring their new visitor home, but the apothecary's house is more than two miles away, and even she cannot deny the encroaching darkness of twilight. The villagers are often reluctant to travel after sunset.
Bonnie's eyes are on the top of the man's head, on his curls freed from the hood of his cloak which swings from his neck.
When he had touched her face earlier as she crouched on the road she had wanted to close her eyes, turn her face into his hand.
"Why have you been looking for me?" she had murmured.
His only response had been a slow, secret smile, as if the answer was too obvious to bear repeating, before his eyes became lidded once more, and his head slumped onto her shoulder.
Now she watches his curls shift slightly in the evening breeze, the setting rays glancing off them in a shimmering halo. She longs to run her fingers through them and is only too glad for Madame Pearce's presence.
When they finally reach the gates, Robert, the groundskeeper drops his gardening shears and runs towards them, hat in hand.
"Everythin' all right, ma'am?" His curious glance flickers over the floating body.
"There was a carriage accident, Robert, and Miss Bennett thought it prudent that we care for the traveller within the castle." Madame Pearce's voice is matter of fact but there is no mistaking her disapproval of Bonnie's decision.
It is of no consequence. The only other option would have been to leave carriage and traveller on the road, and even Madame Pearce is not so indifferent to the stranger's fortune.
They leave Robert to tend to the horse and carriage and Bonnie ushers the floating body into the castle. She casts her mind to the guest bedroom, but they no longer expect visitors and it has been shut up for the better part of a year. There is, of course, Grams' room, but Bonnie's mind immediately shies away from the thought.
Her own room, of course, is out of the question. Bonnie would not have cared one way or the other, living as she has done on the outskirts of society, but Madame Pearce is a stickler for the rules of propriety and Bonnie has no desire to further increase her ire.
Bonnie lowers the visitor onto the chaise lounge in the drawing room. He lies there, his features so serene that it seems incredible to think that he had been involved in a deadly carriage accident only a half hour before. There is only his faint pallor and shortness of breath to indicate that something is amiss.
But that is nothing that cannot be remedied soon enough. Bonnie rings the bell, tells Leah to heat up some soup. With a flick of her hand, she has cushions piled around the man, and blankets covering his outstretched limbs. She clicks her fingers, and the fireplace is alive with flames, almost startled into performing its duty. She and Mrs. Pearce almost never use this room, the small sitting room at the back being more than enough for the two of them.
The man stirs, and Bonnie notes that his boots are still on. Instead of removing them with a click of her fingers, she finds herself moving to the foot of the chaise, her fingers working at the boot ties. Her movements are slow, ponderous. She slides off one boot, and goes to remove the other when she feels his gaze on her.
Flames flicker in his eyes, and the same, secret smile from earlier dances on his lips.
"I know I could not have gone to heaven. And yet here you are."
Leah enters the room, breaking the spell, holding a bowl of steaming soup on a tray.
Bonnie drops the other boot and moves to take the tray. She dismisses Leah with a nod then turns to him once more. He watches her as she sets the tray down, before picking up the bowl and spoon and moving to sit on the edge of the chaise.
The smile returns with a vengeance, and though he is indisposed, pale, and panting for breath, it has the devastating charm of a debonair rake's.
Bonnie feels the foolish need to tuck her hair behind her ears. She is thankful for the bowl of soup in her hands, the practical reason for her proximity to the stranger.
Don't be a fool for a man. It is as if Grams is there in the room. They easily make fools of us without our aiding them.
"What must have I done in my past life to deserve such an administering angel?" he muses quietly, tugging at his gloves. Though his words are careless, light, his eyes appraise her with urgency. The look is so bold and intimate that Bonnie drops her eyes. She concentrates on spooning some soup, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck.
"I fear you are delirious, sir. You are in need of sustenance." She raises the spoon to his lips.
He watches her, wordless for a minute, before parting his lips. He grimaces slightly, as if he had not expected the warmth of the soup, but concedes to a few more spoonfuls, before his hand lifts to stay her arm.
"Thank you. That will do."
She observes him for a second. There is some colour in his cheeks, but it is a very small improvement.
"I fear my stomach cannot keep much down," he says, his smile self-deprecating.
"Very well."
Bonnie sets the soup down on the table.
"Will you have some whiskey then? You are still quite pale."
"If you insist, my lady." His eyes appear soft, though she cannot tell if it is from the effect of the firelight playing across his face.
She busies herself at the sideboard, pouring out a sliver of the liquid and bringing him the glass.
He had been reclining against the cushions, but proceeds to sit up once more, his movements slow, languid. His fingers are cold against hers.
She watches him raise the glass to his lips, his throat working as he swallows. A second passes before she realizes that he is watching her, watching her staring and Bonnie turns away. She tends to the fire, pretends it needs her attention, and lets its warmth hide her flushed cheeks.
She turns back to see him finish the last of the whiskey and lie back against the cushions with a wearied sigh, holding the empty glass against his torso. His fingers are slack, as if it is tasking him too much to keep hold of the glass.
She plucks it out his fingers.
"I will send for the apothecary tomorrow morning. I would have called on him this evening, but I am afraid no one dares to venture out after sunset around these parts."
The man sighs. "I doubt there is anything the apothecary could tell me that my physician already hasn't." His words are softened by the small smile that he directs at her.
"Are you quite certain, sir? I believe you would benefit from a visit."
"I am more than certain," he huffs with laughter. "I have lived with this condition all my life."
Bonnie falls silent. She cannot insist on bringing the apothecary if he does not wish it, and yet she feels that it would be wise to do so. The carriage accident must surely have taxed him. She wants to inquire after his condition but dares not intrude.
It irks her, the fact that she keeps second-guessing herself around this stranger.
"I must thank you for rescuing me."
His words break through her reverie, and she blinks at him. He lies there looking up at her with glittering eyes.
"You said you were looking for me," she says.
A pause. "Did I?"
She nods silently.
His cold hand rises to take hers, his fingers caressing the inside of her palm. The touch sends something slithering down her spine and she shivers. The tips of his fingers brush against her palm lines, his hand massages her, clasps her wrist, tugs her down, and she is next to him once more, his eyes pulling her forward, his curls shining under the firelight, begging her to run her fingers through them, his lips curving-
The door opens and Bonnie pulls back.
Madame Pearce bustles into the room. "Well, my dear, the guest room is ready and waiting. I've not started a fire there yet, as the rooms seems to be quite warm. As it is, I thought I had better check with you, and - oh!-" She pauses, staring at the man. "I did not expect you to be up, sir."
The man nods at Madame Pearce, a gesture that strikes Bonnie as regal.
"It is all thanks to the careful attentions of my nurse here." His glance brushes over Bonnie again, who rises to her feet, putting some distance between herself and the chaise.
"Thank you, Madame Pearce." Bonnie clears her throat. "I believe it would be best to have the fire going, after all."
"Very well, my dear. I shall get it ready. Don't tarry too long." With a cautioning glance, the woman leaves.
"I think I had better show you to your room, sir," Bonnie says, turning with reluctance to face the man.
He shifts, lowering his legs onto the floor, gripping the side of the chaise as he gets up. His movements are jerky, faltering, but for some reason Bonnie cannot move closer to help him.
He straightens, his breathing slightly laboured.
"Please, call me Klaus." A corner of his mouth lifts in that overly familiar smile.
Bonnie can feel her spine stiffen. "You may call me Miss Bennett."
His chuckle is like velvet against her skin. Her neck prickles some more, whether in indignation or satisfaction she cannot tell.
He moves forward, then stops, grasping the back of a nearby chair. Again, Bonnie feels the conflicting forces, urging her towards him, holding her back. She remembers the old cane in the coatroom. That will do for now. That will allow her to continue pretending that it isn't fear that keeps her away from him. Fear of him...and of herself.
The cane sails through the door, coming to bob by his right hand. He glances down at it, pausing for a second before curling his fingers around the handle.
His eyes find hers. "A witch?"
Bonnie says nothing, stands ramrod straight. That fact is no longer a welcome piece of news around these parts.
"Well, that explains it," he says with a tilt of his head.
She cannot help her curiosity. Her brow furrows.
"You must have cast a spell over me."
"I would never do anything of the sort, sir," Bonnie bites out.
His laughter is unrestrained but gravelly, as if he does not find much reason to laugh. "My lady, I am only too happy to be bewitched."
Bonnie knows she should be disapproving, but the glare she summons is half-hearted. She turns on her heels, leading him upstairs. Their progress is slow. His breathing already strained, only becomes more laboured as they make their way up. When they finally reach the door of the guest bedroom he leans against the wall, head falling back to rest on the crumbling stone.
She frowns up at him.
"Are you certain you don't want me to call for the apothecary?"
He looks at her through lidded eyes, a faint smile touching his lips. "I am certain. Your care is more than enough."
Bonnie can only stare.
He chuckles, pushing himself off the wall. "You look quite puzzled." His fingers find hers, gasp them in a cool grip. His eyes hold hers as he lifts her hand to brush his lips over her knuckles. His touch is feather light and yet she finds she cannot move.
"Goodnight, sweet Bonnie."
It is only after he has disappeared through the doorway and she has made her way downstairs, heart beat erratic and mind half dazed, that she realizes that she never told him her name.
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