VIII. Sleep Walking
The Roosevelt was grand enough, Ulaauq Christiansen thought to herself, the ceiling high, the décor regal, the victim of an opulence she had rarely seen outside of the Royal Houses of Europe. Velvets and down and rich satins in jewel tones served as contrast to the carved stone walls. The bed could easily have fit three of her--and half a dogsled team--and still would not have creaked under the weight.
She lay in it and looked over to the faux front armoire that opened into the adjoining dressing room and on to the bath beyond. She had hung her gown over one of the doors, and she watched it now, in the semi-darkness, as it caught and played with the moonlight from the balcony, the gown seeming to change in both color and composition. It was the only thing in the room at that moment that she thought she could stand. The only thing that didn't make her want to start screaming or hyperventilating--that didn't make her want to weep.
She couldn't sleep in a prison such as this--no matter how exquisitely appointed it might be.
She had tried taking a cold bath to no use. The porcelain, shot through with hot water pipes, heated the basin of the tub itself, without respect to the fact one might be filling the oval bathtub from the cold water tap for a reason. Even the towel rack was created to toast the soft towels it held to what she found an uncomfortable temperature. She had left open the French doors leading to the fourth story balcony, but even that gave her little relief. She must have passed several hours of the night lying awake in the large bed--unable to make so much as a dent in its mattress with her body's weight.
She sighed and got up. There was a mini-refrigerator in the dressing room. She went to look at it again, to seat herself in front of it with its tiny door open. Nothing. She began randomly opening a door here or there among the cabinets and closets, finding them empty except for a small selection of men's clothes. By their size they were Irons'. She did not question what brought them to be in this room; instead she took a tailored silk dressing gown and wrapped her small frame in it neatly, using a satin bedsheet as a makeshift obi. Thus attired, she advanced on the balcony, the long hem of the oversize dressing gown swishing behind her like a bridal train.
It was useless to try the door, she knew. It would be locked. The balcony was her only real choice for escape.
It was surprisingly easy, she found, to step onto the limestone balcony of the Valhalla estate's Roosevelt Bedroom, pull herself up, onto the railing, and skim it (she had never had trouble keeping her balance and did not suffer from vertigo) across several other balconies until she came to a room with a door open to the lighted hallway.
What she did not know was that Ian Nottingham had opened that very door for her express convenience, increasingly concerned that if he did not she would continue to precariously circle the mansion in fruitless pursuit of balcony after balcony, until ground security found her, or day broke, and Mr. Irons did.
The Witchblade had been talking to Ian. From what he could tell, what it was saying was not important enough to share with Mr. Irons, yet. Only, it was restless like him, lonely, and having trouble sleeping when it was supposed to.
Ulaauq followed the hall down to the Great Room, thinking she might pass what remained of the night most easily among some of Irons' sheet music collection. But before she could make her way up the staircase to the library, something else called to her.
Perhaps it was the fact the great fire was banked for the night, its embers glowing just enough to see by. Perhaps she had always felt this sensation when she was in the room. Perhaps it was the true impetus for her night wanderings. She did not imagine another would even notice it, the tincture it gave the air was so subtle. But it crept up from the floor to her toes like chilled electricity, a winding, satisfied desire relaxing through her spine. Cold. There was something nearby very Arctic, very cold, and very frozen.
She forgot the library and her previous plan, and turned instead to examine the walls opposite the fire, from where she could smell the ice. Immoveable curtains hung, covering the wall's face, but even through their heavy insulation she could feel whatever lay behind the wall was what exactly she was searching for, though she could not get to it. For the moment that sensation, however diminished, was enough.
...to be continued...
2002 (c) Neftzer
See Chapter One for disclaimers.