December 27, 1998
Youth is such an amusing thing. A child is so impressionable, so innocent, and so unscarred. How easily those qualities are taken away, sometimes overnight or even the blink of an eye. As hard as it may be to believe, I was once this way; the content, carefree child who only wished to bring happiness to the world. That was many years ago, and how soon my mind changed.
As I understand, fundamental attitudes, values, and ethics are learned at a relatively young age through peers and family members. Although I shiver at the thought of acquiring any objectives or beliefs from my father and Alfred, I accept the fact that a child with no playmates has little other ways to glean information on what is expected of her. After years of exposure to my family, no longer did I enjoy the smiles on people's faces or the laughter that emanated from them; instead, I relished the control that my intellect commanded and the fear that shown in the eyes of my biological experiments.
Father set his futuristic goals into motion before Alfred and I could even speak, and my childhood was one of constant over-achievement despite the barriers that presented themselves. In younger days, my triumphs were a feeble attempt at making Father proud, much like any young child would wish to please their parent; however, as years went by, I began to understand that my father's life-long plan wasn't for me to excel but to polish the name that he had single-handedly tarnished through his folly. In a way, I was little more than the proverbial sacrificial lamb to be offered unto the most prestigious bidder when the time was right; pushed through extensive studies, refined as any formless lump of clay would be. This infuriated me.
However, it taught me the art of using the inferior underlings to obtain power.
My thoughts are becoming sporadic, as it is rather difficult to think clearly when I am forced to breathe in the horrid stench that the T-Virus carriers expel. The pitiful creatures shuffle around me, watching me from a distance with dead, hollow eyes...fearing me. It is absolutely rapturous knowing that they recognize the danger, although the corpses are nothing more than walking rotted waste. Even in their soulless, unresponsive mind, a primordial instinct warns them to steer clear of me, and they know that I am superior - a force not to be reckoned with. It is but a small taste of what is to come: the world-wide spread of the T-Veronica virus. Men, women, and children will bow before me as mindless servants, dedicating their pathetic lives in benefit of the Queen.
-Alexia Ashford
________________________
Thin tendrils of smoke curled around his slim fingers, ascending in serpent-like coils to the sky blue ceiling tiles and dying there. Alexander brushed away the liquid forming at the creases of his lids and took another slow drag, watching the angry, red pinpoint of light near the end of the cigar inflame like a short temper. He tapped the cigar, listening to the ash fizzle in the damp grass.
Veronica's shining mausoleum stood before him like a stone giant, casting him into a cold artificial shadow. Pastel pink and yellow tulips dotted with fresh water droplets bloomed against the marble walls, their inverted bell shapes following one another in neat, meticulous rows. Over the loudspeaker played the serene sounds of birds chirping, a creek's soothing waters, and a light breeze. It was as close to Heaven as one would ever find in the Antarctic tundra.
Dutifully, Alexander placed a dozen black roses near the entrance and kneeled on the concrete walkway, the abrasive surface scuffing the knees of his black suit. "Veronica, it has been three years. Can you believe it? The children have progressed more than I could have imagined, and it is all thanks to you," he spoke as he bowed his head low. He brought his cigar to his lips and breathed in, then exhaled a ghost of rich, fragrant smoke.
'You shouldn't smoke, Alexander. It is bad for your health,' a female voice responded in his head. She was stronger today, her tone more reprimanding than he was used to. 'Put that out if you wish to speak with me. I'll not have you desecrating my final resting place with that awful thing.'
"Yes, my dear." Alexander stubbed out the cigar as if it'd burned his hands and rapidly flicked the remainder near the far corner of the room. He heard an almost inaudible thump as it ricocheted off of Beatrice's headstone and landed in the plush vegetation near her burial plot. Shrugging his shoulders, he returned his attention to the mausoleum's entranceway and laced his hands together as if in silent prayer.
'Good,' Veronica mused. 'It is wonderful to see you again, Alexander. And I must agree with you; the twins have exceeded my expectations thus far. Alexia is extraordinarily gifted. She will do great things for the Ashford name.'
"Indeed she will; however, I can't say that I am as enthusiastic about Alfred. He has potential, but seems rather unstable. Also, the way he follows Alexia's every move is rather disturbing. She is by far the dominant of the two, and I believe he'd do anything that she asked. He is quite protective of her, even at such a young age. It is bizarre, to say the very least," Alexander whispered, licking his lips nervously. His mind raced with the dreams that he'd been having for the past week; nightly dreams that left his pillow soaked with perspiration and his heart hammering in his chest. He wished that he could tell Veronica about the dreams, but she'd see no connection. 'They're just children,' she'd say. Attempting to shake the possible omens from his cluttered thoughts, he tenderly ran his fingertips across the smooth marble wall and took in a ragged breath.
'He realizes that he'll never better Alexia. Perhaps his actions consist of the love/hate relationship that he has for her. In his mind, protecting her is a form of being the dominant twin. I fear that it will become a problem in the future, but the best course of action is to be the careful watchman. They are only three years old, and many things can change in the next few years,' Veronica added, her voice growing dimmer by the second. 'I must rest now. My strength is leaving me. Glory to the Ashfords.'
She was gone. Alexander's eyes shot open as if being awoken from a trance, and he absently dusted imaginary lint from his jacket. Veronica's thoughts had echoed his exactly, and he found it uncanny how much their opinions paralleled. She had seemed to sense that he felt inexplicably nervous and tried to soothe his anxiety. She was so wise; he wasn't sure what'd he'd do if she ever left him.
He rested his damp forehead in his hands, clamping his eyes closed once again. That dream...He couldn't be at peace until he figured out what it meant. For the hundredth time this week, he ran it through his mind like a picture show, each disturbing image so realistic that he trembled.
*In his dreams, Alexia had grown to be a beautiful woman. She stood before him assertively, sharp sapphire eyes half hidden by her long blonde lashes, and strands of pale hair blew about her pallid cheekbones. She was clothed in a long, flowing gown of the deepest, darkest purple that he had ever seen, and her delicate hands were adorned with flawlessly white elbow- length gloves. She smiled to him softly, almost affectionately, rose- colored lips parted slightly to reveal perfectly aligned teeth. Her voice beckoned to him, deep and throaty, and she repeated the same three phrases over and over:
'Father, I've missed you. I haven't seen you in so long. Alfred wants to see you again.'
All of the plans for the twins, his years of research, the scrupulous preparation and unending studies had paid off - and she still loved him. With open arms, he rushed towards her, tears falling from his eyes and drying in the brisk wind. She continued to smile warmly at him, even after he reached her and enveloped her in a long hug. With a satisfied sigh, he released her from his embrace, but continued to hold tight to her slender fingers, afraid that she would disappear before his very eyes.
'Alexia, I'm so glad to see you again. Where is your brother?' Alexander rushed out, his breath coming in gasps.
At the mention of Alfred's name, Alexia's eyes went cold. The joyful shine faded from her face, and only tight, livid features remained. 'I'll let you see him, Father,' she rasped out, her voice almost inhuman. 'He's right behind you.'
Alexander swiveled happily, ecstatic at the chance to see his son once again; however, his face quickly fell when he saw a being that could barely be called human. Alfred's physical appearance had changed dramatically; he was as thin as a stick, his skin carried a sick purple color, and the eyes that once held the softness of youth were pinpoint pupils incased by maniacal red irises. Alexander let out a frightened wheeze as Alfred's bony arms extended towards him, trying to encase him in a hug. Fighting off his son's advances, Alexander backed against his daughter's body and felt her arms clasp his shoulder with an iron grip.
'Alfred, you know what to do. For the glory of the Ashfords,' Alexia declared, and Alexander's blood chilled.
Beatrice. It was her voice in Alexia's mouth.
His throat began to burn as if there was fire blazing through his lungs, and he cocked his head to see Alexia's face. In her place stood a misshapen female figure with flames erupting like volcanoes from her once supple, white skin, and each escaping blaze singed her hair and eyelashes, matting them together. Her eyes were like two twin, golden suns, and her charred lips carried a malicious grin - one of long-awaited revenge. Alexander's legs quaked beneath him, unable to carry him away from the female abomination. He tried to pivot his body towards Alfred's peculiar form, letting his arms sprawl out awkwardly, and he silently prayed that his son would come to his assistance.
'Help me, Alfred,' Alexander pleaded. 'Your sister is mad!'
Alfred lowered his head, an angry sneer spread across his sunken face. His skin began to peel away in large, wet chunks, falling haphazardly to the floor with loud plops. The already lanky form stretched longer, bones cracking and snapping, and what was left of his arms stretched out perpendicular to his body. The ulna shattered and clanked to the floor, and a net-like covering enclosed his humerous and radius, sagging until it formed what appeared to be wings. Two of his ribs burst from his chest, snaking outward and accumulating netting until they were nearly the length of the first set of wings, while the other ribs formed six small legs. Alfred's eyes glowed an iridescent color and he let out a long howl of pain, his legs binding together to form a segmented abdomen. With a loud rattle, the wings began to flap, pushing Alfred into the air with intense speed and agility. The remnant of his son hovered above him, transformed into some sort of flying creature.
A dragonfly.
'Kill him, Brother,' Alexia - no, Beatrice - commanded, her voice abrasive. Alexander could feel the heat radiating from her body in sweltering waves, and searing flames began to lick up the side of his clothing and onto his skin. He tried to escape her vice-like grip, but she held him firmly in place, her hands burning through his jacket and leaving large, bubbling blisters on his shoulders.
'Yes, Sister,' Alfred responded monotonously, and without another word, the airborne insect swooped in. Baring the sharp fangs of a wolf, he dove into Alexander's chest, and the panicked man felt himself make brutal contact with his smoldering daughter. Alexander closed his eyes in terror...and saw only black after that.
He could hear Beatrice's voice in the darkness of the dream, aggressive but soothing at the same time. The tone carried many conflicting emotions: retribution and pity, satisfaction and remorse, love and hate.
'You will suffer for what you've done, Alexander.' *
That's when he would wake up, his mouth rounded in a silent scream, his skin still burning from the flames. He would rush like a madman into the master bathroom and splash cold water on his face, certain that his cheeks would be reddened and marred from the blaze and that his hair would smell of charred flesh. After a few minutes of continuous soaking and inspecting his face in the mirror, his disbelieving eyes would return to their former icy glaze, and he would shake his head in disgust.
The dream always ended in that manner; with Beatrice's ominous words echoing in his ears even after sleep had left him. Alexander had confided in Harman regarding the dreams, explaining every grave detail to the butler's listening ears. Harman, being the superstitious man that he is, became deathly pale, the blood draining from his face.
"It's Beatrice's spirit, and she seeks revenge even in your dreams," Harman countered, his hands locked firmly at the small of his back and his eyes twitching nervously. "I fear that she still exists in this mansion and will be making trouble for us. I have heard many unusual sounds; low, guttural moans of the undead. She is very displeased by our actions."
Alexander had forced a good-natured laugh and nonchalantly clapped a hand over the butler's shoulder. "Harman, if that woman is still lurking about even in death, we'll have to have an exorcism to get rid of her. She always was perseverant. Besides, I believe that it all ties into the timeframe that we are in. With the twins' birthday drawing near and the newest additions to my research projects, I think that I am overworking myself. Or it could have been the pot roast that you cooked for dinner."
The butler had nodded mechanically, not amused by his master making light of the subject, before stalking out of the room stiffly. Alexander had almost regretted telling Harman about his dreams, as since that time, the man had been performing odd tasks to "safeguard" the house: spreading sea salt, lighting white candles, attaching crucifixes to a few of the walls, and other preposterous rituals to ward off evil spirits.
However, Alexander couldn't explain the horrendous dreams either. He didn't really believe the fabricated explanation that he'd created in an attempt to appease Harman, but he didn't think that Beatrice's ghost had rose from the grave to irritate him in his sleep. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on what the problem might be. He promised himself that next time Veronica and he spoke, he'd bring up his nightmares and see if she could shed some light on the strange visions.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the door to the cemetery creak on its hinges and latch softly, and he wheeled his head around in time to see the outline of a petite Alexia hovering in the shadows. She stepped briskly onto the lawn, a bundle of white daisies tucked neatly in the crook of her elbow. Her lavender gown grazed the blades of grass, bending them backwards with a soft rush.
"Hello Father. I finished my lessons already, so I thought I would come and place flowers on the gravestones," Alexia spoke, her voice child- like and sophisticated at the same time.
"Very good." Alexander approached her and patted her head, gently smoothing out the unruly strands of golden hair that had come loose from her barrette. The way the blond locks of hair circled her rosy cheeks reminded him of his dreams, and staring into the innocent eyes of his daughter didn't seem to quell the uneasy feeling flitting in the pit of his stomach. "How is Alfred coming along?"
Alexia frowned slightly, her rose-colored lips pouted. "He isn't doing very well, Father. He is still stuck on fraction-decimal conversions. I tried to help him, but he refuses, saying that he wants to do it on his own." Her delicate shoulders shrugged, causing her gown to rustle beneath her, and her blonde brows knitted together thoughtfully. "I think he is mad because I am nearly five lessons ahead of him."
Alexander smiled, although his eyes carried a cold chill and his heart still felt lodged in his chest. "I will speak with him about it tonight," he responded coolly. "So, my Queen Alexia, how does it feel to be three years old? It seems that time has flown by."
She tilted her head to one side, her aristocratic chin angled, and her ocean-blue eyes emotionless. Alexander thought that the pose caused her to look much older than her years, almost the way that she'd looked in his nightmares; her facial features reminded him very much of Beatrice. For a long moment, she stood in silence, seemingly preoccupied.
"It is good and bad, as all of my birthdays are. I am happy to have aged another year, but this time also makes me think of Mother's death," she replied, forced indifference in her voice. "I'm sure you understand, Father." She gently brushed his hand from her head and started walking leisurely towards the far corner lot, the daisies bunched snugly in her tiny hand.
Alexander felt his throat constrict and his palms begin to sweat. Her voice had carried a tone that was almost one of accusation, although that couldn't possibly be true. He reasoned with himself, assuring his mind that he was overlapping his children's innocuous behavior with the malevolent intent of the two beings in his dreams. As if confirming his deductions, Alexia looked over at him with adoring eyes and waved at him cheerfully, requesting that he join her at her mother's grave. Adjusting the buttons on his suit nonchalantly, he followed her to Beatrice's plot and watched her plop down in the grass, dirt clinging to the soft fabric of her dress.
"Do you think Mother would like these daises? I picked them out of the greenhouse just for her," Alexia beamed, painstakingly smoothing each ivory petal before placing them on the mound of dirt. The artificial rays of sunlight bounced off of her hair, causing it to sparkle like spun gold.
Alexander squatted down, pulling up the pant legs of his suit, and squinted towards the headstone of his deceased lover. "Of course she would. Your mother's favorite flowers were daisies. Did you know that?"
"She told me that!" Alexia exclaimed, clapping her hands together gleefully. She rose to her knees and began to spread the bunch of daisies along the length of the rectangular plot, perfectly spacing them apart. Using her fingertip, she shoveled out a small hollow in the earth, placed one of the daisy's stems inside, and covered the remaining space with more dirt. "The daisy looks like it's growing out of the ground, doesn't it?"
Alexander quirked a brow, his lips set into an unsure frown. He leaned in closer to his oblivious daughter and brushed away a glob of dirt resting in the folds of her gown. "Alexia, your mother is dead. She couldn't have told you that. Are you sure that you didn't overhear Harman or me talking about it?"
Alexia giggled, sound especially youthful. Seeming satisfied with her artwork, she seated herself and carelessly plucked a blade of grass from the earth, peeling the green strip into insignificant pieces. She wadded them up into a large, green ball and rolled it between her palms, coloring her hands a light shade of lime. "Oh, Father. Mother told me that you'd say that. She tells me many things!"
"How does she talk to you?" Alexander inquired, routinely clearing his throat. The burning sensation in his lungs...he could almost feel it again. "Does she talk to you in your room?"
Alexia shook her head, discarding the vegetation ball and choosing a new blade of grass. "No, she visits me in my dreams. She tells me that she is very proud of how smart I am and that she misses me." Wiping her stained hands on her dress, she began to carefully study her blurred reflection in Beatrice's shining headstone, seeming to have already lost interest in the subject.
"What does your mother tell you?" Alexander pressed. Perhaps he was over-exaggerating, as Alexia had always had a more than healthy imagination. Even so, he couldn't make that burning feeling go away; in fact, it had begun to work its way through his trachea.
Alexia turned her attention back to him and looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes lighting up as if remembering a faint detail. "I forgot! She told me a few nights ago that she visits you in your dreams, too. She said that she wants you to know what will fruit from all of your hard work, although I don't really know what she meant. Does she give you nice dreams about Alfred and me?"
Alexander felt nauseous, and he clenched his fists together until his nails dug into his palm. He pasted a pleased smile on his face, although he felt the smoldering heat not just in his lungs, but throughout his whole body. He stood, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep his body from quivering.
"Of course, Alexia. You're mother gives me wonderful dreams about Alfred and you," he replied, chuckling tensely. "In them, you're the smartest girl in the world!"
Alexia lay on her back, the plush lawn supporting her like a pillow. She laughed, her eyes catching some of the beams from the artificial sun. "Father, you're so silly. Mother doesn't really come to you in your dreams, does she? You're just saying that so I don't feel funny about having Mother talk to me, right?"
"Maybe so, but I know that you'll grow up to be a wonderful woman. Alfred and you will be at the top, and everyone will listen to you because you're so intelligent. Now, I have to get going. It's getting late and I have a lot of paperwork I need to do. Don't stay out here much longer. You will have time to complete some of the next lesson before it is time for dinner," Alexander commanded, turning so that he didn't have to look at his daughter anymore. He didn't await a response, but began a swift walk towards the cemetery doors.
"Alright!" Alexia called after him, but he was already through the exit. She shrugged, confused by her father's bizarre response to her dreams. Maybe he thought that she was weird, but she had overheard him talking to Lady Veronica in this cemetery many times before. Peering into the stone that marked her mother's final resting place, she neatly trimmed away the overgrown weeds that choked the group of daises sprawled across the mount. "Why do you think Father's acting so peculiar, Mother?" she inquired aloud, more to herself than anyone else.
Alexia's eyes flew open in surprise when she heard a soft response, a voice that gently resounded in her mind.
'You'll find out in due time, my love.'
Alexia dropped the weeds onto the ground and frantically searched the cemetery grounds for the person whose voice she'd heard, but she was alone. She looked at her mother's headstone once more, studying it carefully for some sort of sign. Only her shocked features stared back at her, distorted from the rock beneath the glaze. Rising to her knees, she peered closer, looking at her face as if looking in a mirror. The contorted features seemed to melt together, and a different, more adult face appeared - the face of her Mother.
Alexia screeched in terror, jumping from her kneeled position and running from the cemetery. She didn't stop screaming until she'd entered the confines of the mansion, closed the door behind her, and locked it securely. Alexander was there in seconds, Harman and Alfred following close behind him, and all three of them questioned her at once.
"I saw Mother's face! In her headstone! It was her, I know it!" Alexia shouted, her lips trembling. Alexander picked up her shaking body, exchanging looks with Harman. The butler nodded knowingly and placed an arm over Alfred's shoulders, escorting the bewildered boy towards the door. The male twin turned to look at his sister, afraid to leave her alone, but Harman dutifully shuffled him through the exit beyond earshot.
"Calm down, Alexia. You're just imagining things. Our conversation must have worked you up," Alexander cooed, brushing away long strands of hair from her tear-streaked face. After a few minutes, the frightened girl quieted, her cries becoming little more than sniffles.
"You can put me down now. I think I'm alright," she offered, her voice still wavering. Alexander obliged, placing her on her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She seemed on the verge of tears again, but stubbornly held them back. "I believe that you were right, Father. I was just imagining things, trying to make Mother there when she isn't. I don't want to see her in my dreams or talk to her ever again."
"Perhaps that is for the best," Alexander offered, his heart still pounding in his chest. "Sometimes people see what they want to see, and it isn't a good thing. Put your mind elsewhere, such as your studies, and you'll find that the feelings will go away. I promise you that." He smiled slightly, taking her small hand in his. "Now, I was just about to call you. We're ready to have Alfred and your birthday party. Harman has made his famous coconut cake, and I have some gifts for you. Are you ready to join us?"
"I think so," Alexia sniffled, taking in deep breathes.
"Good. Go wash up in the bathroom and join us in the dining hall," Alexander insisted, pushing her back slightly to get her moving. As an added precaution, he gave her instructions, his face solemn and grave. "And Alexia, I would prefer it if you wouldn't mention this incident to your brother. He is not as mature as you are, and it would probably only scare him."
Alexia appeared puzzled for a moment, but nodded her affirmation. "Yes, Father. I will not say a word." With that, she hurried from the room, the door slamming behind her.
Alexander let out a whoosh of breath, his greatest fears realized. What if Beatrice had somehow visited Alexia and informed her of their true birth? Or that he was responsible for her death? What would the children do?
He shook his head, telling himself to be practical. The girl had just seen what she thought to be the face of her mother in a gravestone; she was clearly imaginative. Besides, if Beatrice had found a way to communicate with her daughter, Alexia would have questioned him immediately. He was overestimating Beatrice, even in her death. The twins could never find out the truth, and it would be his duty to make sure that it didn't occur. All of the papers regarding his genetic research, their birth, and Beatrice's life would be locked away in his secret underground study, the one that only he and Harman knew of, and he would make it nearly impossible for them to have knowledge of the location. He would split the inconspicuous key to the hidden study between the three of them, a key that didn't appear to be one. How he'd set it up, he wasn't yet sure, but he'd come up with a fool-proof way before his curious children stumbled upon something. Veronica would help him think of a way; he would visit her when the children went to bed.
Adjusting his disheveled hair, he marched confidently towards the dining room, feeling secure in his plans. Come hell or high water, the children would never know the secrets that he lived with. The consequences would be disastrous.
________________________
Alexia silently watched her father's steps from the partially open doorway, her shallow breathing quiet and discreet. She had overheard him mumbling mindlessly, and his features had appeared distraught. Something was troubling him, and his eyes seemed almost sad. She hoped that it wasn't the fact that she'd seen her mother's face that had upset him; he must have loved her mother very much and it probably pained him to be reminded of her death. Wiping the chilly water from her cheeks, she sighed, wishing that her father was happy. She promised herself that she would work extra hard at her studies; that always seemed to make him cheerful.
She never saw, heard, or dreamt of her mother again.
Youth is such an amusing thing. A child is so impressionable, so innocent, and so unscarred. How easily those qualities are taken away, sometimes overnight or even the blink of an eye. As hard as it may be to believe, I was once this way; the content, carefree child who only wished to bring happiness to the world. That was many years ago, and how soon my mind changed.
As I understand, fundamental attitudes, values, and ethics are learned at a relatively young age through peers and family members. Although I shiver at the thought of acquiring any objectives or beliefs from my father and Alfred, I accept the fact that a child with no playmates has little other ways to glean information on what is expected of her. After years of exposure to my family, no longer did I enjoy the smiles on people's faces or the laughter that emanated from them; instead, I relished the control that my intellect commanded and the fear that shown in the eyes of my biological experiments.
Father set his futuristic goals into motion before Alfred and I could even speak, and my childhood was one of constant over-achievement despite the barriers that presented themselves. In younger days, my triumphs were a feeble attempt at making Father proud, much like any young child would wish to please their parent; however, as years went by, I began to understand that my father's life-long plan wasn't for me to excel but to polish the name that he had single-handedly tarnished through his folly. In a way, I was little more than the proverbial sacrificial lamb to be offered unto the most prestigious bidder when the time was right; pushed through extensive studies, refined as any formless lump of clay would be. This infuriated me.
However, it taught me the art of using the inferior underlings to obtain power.
My thoughts are becoming sporadic, as it is rather difficult to think clearly when I am forced to breathe in the horrid stench that the T-Virus carriers expel. The pitiful creatures shuffle around me, watching me from a distance with dead, hollow eyes...fearing me. It is absolutely rapturous knowing that they recognize the danger, although the corpses are nothing more than walking rotted waste. Even in their soulless, unresponsive mind, a primordial instinct warns them to steer clear of me, and they know that I am superior - a force not to be reckoned with. It is but a small taste of what is to come: the world-wide spread of the T-Veronica virus. Men, women, and children will bow before me as mindless servants, dedicating their pathetic lives in benefit of the Queen.
-Alexia Ashford
________________________
Thin tendrils of smoke curled around his slim fingers, ascending in serpent-like coils to the sky blue ceiling tiles and dying there. Alexander brushed away the liquid forming at the creases of his lids and took another slow drag, watching the angry, red pinpoint of light near the end of the cigar inflame like a short temper. He tapped the cigar, listening to the ash fizzle in the damp grass.
Veronica's shining mausoleum stood before him like a stone giant, casting him into a cold artificial shadow. Pastel pink and yellow tulips dotted with fresh water droplets bloomed against the marble walls, their inverted bell shapes following one another in neat, meticulous rows. Over the loudspeaker played the serene sounds of birds chirping, a creek's soothing waters, and a light breeze. It was as close to Heaven as one would ever find in the Antarctic tundra.
Dutifully, Alexander placed a dozen black roses near the entrance and kneeled on the concrete walkway, the abrasive surface scuffing the knees of his black suit. "Veronica, it has been three years. Can you believe it? The children have progressed more than I could have imagined, and it is all thanks to you," he spoke as he bowed his head low. He brought his cigar to his lips and breathed in, then exhaled a ghost of rich, fragrant smoke.
'You shouldn't smoke, Alexander. It is bad for your health,' a female voice responded in his head. She was stronger today, her tone more reprimanding than he was used to. 'Put that out if you wish to speak with me. I'll not have you desecrating my final resting place with that awful thing.'
"Yes, my dear." Alexander stubbed out the cigar as if it'd burned his hands and rapidly flicked the remainder near the far corner of the room. He heard an almost inaudible thump as it ricocheted off of Beatrice's headstone and landed in the plush vegetation near her burial plot. Shrugging his shoulders, he returned his attention to the mausoleum's entranceway and laced his hands together as if in silent prayer.
'Good,' Veronica mused. 'It is wonderful to see you again, Alexander. And I must agree with you; the twins have exceeded my expectations thus far. Alexia is extraordinarily gifted. She will do great things for the Ashford name.'
"Indeed she will; however, I can't say that I am as enthusiastic about Alfred. He has potential, but seems rather unstable. Also, the way he follows Alexia's every move is rather disturbing. She is by far the dominant of the two, and I believe he'd do anything that she asked. He is quite protective of her, even at such a young age. It is bizarre, to say the very least," Alexander whispered, licking his lips nervously. His mind raced with the dreams that he'd been having for the past week; nightly dreams that left his pillow soaked with perspiration and his heart hammering in his chest. He wished that he could tell Veronica about the dreams, but she'd see no connection. 'They're just children,' she'd say. Attempting to shake the possible omens from his cluttered thoughts, he tenderly ran his fingertips across the smooth marble wall and took in a ragged breath.
'He realizes that he'll never better Alexia. Perhaps his actions consist of the love/hate relationship that he has for her. In his mind, protecting her is a form of being the dominant twin. I fear that it will become a problem in the future, but the best course of action is to be the careful watchman. They are only three years old, and many things can change in the next few years,' Veronica added, her voice growing dimmer by the second. 'I must rest now. My strength is leaving me. Glory to the Ashfords.'
She was gone. Alexander's eyes shot open as if being awoken from a trance, and he absently dusted imaginary lint from his jacket. Veronica's thoughts had echoed his exactly, and he found it uncanny how much their opinions paralleled. She had seemed to sense that he felt inexplicably nervous and tried to soothe his anxiety. She was so wise; he wasn't sure what'd he'd do if she ever left him.
He rested his damp forehead in his hands, clamping his eyes closed once again. That dream...He couldn't be at peace until he figured out what it meant. For the hundredth time this week, he ran it through his mind like a picture show, each disturbing image so realistic that he trembled.
*In his dreams, Alexia had grown to be a beautiful woman. She stood before him assertively, sharp sapphire eyes half hidden by her long blonde lashes, and strands of pale hair blew about her pallid cheekbones. She was clothed in a long, flowing gown of the deepest, darkest purple that he had ever seen, and her delicate hands were adorned with flawlessly white elbow- length gloves. She smiled to him softly, almost affectionately, rose- colored lips parted slightly to reveal perfectly aligned teeth. Her voice beckoned to him, deep and throaty, and she repeated the same three phrases over and over:
'Father, I've missed you. I haven't seen you in so long. Alfred wants to see you again.'
All of the plans for the twins, his years of research, the scrupulous preparation and unending studies had paid off - and she still loved him. With open arms, he rushed towards her, tears falling from his eyes and drying in the brisk wind. She continued to smile warmly at him, even after he reached her and enveloped her in a long hug. With a satisfied sigh, he released her from his embrace, but continued to hold tight to her slender fingers, afraid that she would disappear before his very eyes.
'Alexia, I'm so glad to see you again. Where is your brother?' Alexander rushed out, his breath coming in gasps.
At the mention of Alfred's name, Alexia's eyes went cold. The joyful shine faded from her face, and only tight, livid features remained. 'I'll let you see him, Father,' she rasped out, her voice almost inhuman. 'He's right behind you.'
Alexander swiveled happily, ecstatic at the chance to see his son once again; however, his face quickly fell when he saw a being that could barely be called human. Alfred's physical appearance had changed dramatically; he was as thin as a stick, his skin carried a sick purple color, and the eyes that once held the softness of youth were pinpoint pupils incased by maniacal red irises. Alexander let out a frightened wheeze as Alfred's bony arms extended towards him, trying to encase him in a hug. Fighting off his son's advances, Alexander backed against his daughter's body and felt her arms clasp his shoulder with an iron grip.
'Alfred, you know what to do. For the glory of the Ashfords,' Alexia declared, and Alexander's blood chilled.
Beatrice. It was her voice in Alexia's mouth.
His throat began to burn as if there was fire blazing through his lungs, and he cocked his head to see Alexia's face. In her place stood a misshapen female figure with flames erupting like volcanoes from her once supple, white skin, and each escaping blaze singed her hair and eyelashes, matting them together. Her eyes were like two twin, golden suns, and her charred lips carried a malicious grin - one of long-awaited revenge. Alexander's legs quaked beneath him, unable to carry him away from the female abomination. He tried to pivot his body towards Alfred's peculiar form, letting his arms sprawl out awkwardly, and he silently prayed that his son would come to his assistance.
'Help me, Alfred,' Alexander pleaded. 'Your sister is mad!'
Alfred lowered his head, an angry sneer spread across his sunken face. His skin began to peel away in large, wet chunks, falling haphazardly to the floor with loud plops. The already lanky form stretched longer, bones cracking and snapping, and what was left of his arms stretched out perpendicular to his body. The ulna shattered and clanked to the floor, and a net-like covering enclosed his humerous and radius, sagging until it formed what appeared to be wings. Two of his ribs burst from his chest, snaking outward and accumulating netting until they were nearly the length of the first set of wings, while the other ribs formed six small legs. Alfred's eyes glowed an iridescent color and he let out a long howl of pain, his legs binding together to form a segmented abdomen. With a loud rattle, the wings began to flap, pushing Alfred into the air with intense speed and agility. The remnant of his son hovered above him, transformed into some sort of flying creature.
A dragonfly.
'Kill him, Brother,' Alexia - no, Beatrice - commanded, her voice abrasive. Alexander could feel the heat radiating from her body in sweltering waves, and searing flames began to lick up the side of his clothing and onto his skin. He tried to escape her vice-like grip, but she held him firmly in place, her hands burning through his jacket and leaving large, bubbling blisters on his shoulders.
'Yes, Sister,' Alfred responded monotonously, and without another word, the airborne insect swooped in. Baring the sharp fangs of a wolf, he dove into Alexander's chest, and the panicked man felt himself make brutal contact with his smoldering daughter. Alexander closed his eyes in terror...and saw only black after that.
He could hear Beatrice's voice in the darkness of the dream, aggressive but soothing at the same time. The tone carried many conflicting emotions: retribution and pity, satisfaction and remorse, love and hate.
'You will suffer for what you've done, Alexander.' *
That's when he would wake up, his mouth rounded in a silent scream, his skin still burning from the flames. He would rush like a madman into the master bathroom and splash cold water on his face, certain that his cheeks would be reddened and marred from the blaze and that his hair would smell of charred flesh. After a few minutes of continuous soaking and inspecting his face in the mirror, his disbelieving eyes would return to their former icy glaze, and he would shake his head in disgust.
The dream always ended in that manner; with Beatrice's ominous words echoing in his ears even after sleep had left him. Alexander had confided in Harman regarding the dreams, explaining every grave detail to the butler's listening ears. Harman, being the superstitious man that he is, became deathly pale, the blood draining from his face.
"It's Beatrice's spirit, and she seeks revenge even in your dreams," Harman countered, his hands locked firmly at the small of his back and his eyes twitching nervously. "I fear that she still exists in this mansion and will be making trouble for us. I have heard many unusual sounds; low, guttural moans of the undead. She is very displeased by our actions."
Alexander had forced a good-natured laugh and nonchalantly clapped a hand over the butler's shoulder. "Harman, if that woman is still lurking about even in death, we'll have to have an exorcism to get rid of her. She always was perseverant. Besides, I believe that it all ties into the timeframe that we are in. With the twins' birthday drawing near and the newest additions to my research projects, I think that I am overworking myself. Or it could have been the pot roast that you cooked for dinner."
The butler had nodded mechanically, not amused by his master making light of the subject, before stalking out of the room stiffly. Alexander had almost regretted telling Harman about his dreams, as since that time, the man had been performing odd tasks to "safeguard" the house: spreading sea salt, lighting white candles, attaching crucifixes to a few of the walls, and other preposterous rituals to ward off evil spirits.
However, Alexander couldn't explain the horrendous dreams either. He didn't really believe the fabricated explanation that he'd created in an attempt to appease Harman, but he didn't think that Beatrice's ghost had rose from the grave to irritate him in his sleep. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on what the problem might be. He promised himself that next time Veronica and he spoke, he'd bring up his nightmares and see if she could shed some light on the strange visions.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the door to the cemetery creak on its hinges and latch softly, and he wheeled his head around in time to see the outline of a petite Alexia hovering in the shadows. She stepped briskly onto the lawn, a bundle of white daisies tucked neatly in the crook of her elbow. Her lavender gown grazed the blades of grass, bending them backwards with a soft rush.
"Hello Father. I finished my lessons already, so I thought I would come and place flowers on the gravestones," Alexia spoke, her voice child- like and sophisticated at the same time.
"Very good." Alexander approached her and patted her head, gently smoothing out the unruly strands of golden hair that had come loose from her barrette. The way the blond locks of hair circled her rosy cheeks reminded him of his dreams, and staring into the innocent eyes of his daughter didn't seem to quell the uneasy feeling flitting in the pit of his stomach. "How is Alfred coming along?"
Alexia frowned slightly, her rose-colored lips pouted. "He isn't doing very well, Father. He is still stuck on fraction-decimal conversions. I tried to help him, but he refuses, saying that he wants to do it on his own." Her delicate shoulders shrugged, causing her gown to rustle beneath her, and her blonde brows knitted together thoughtfully. "I think he is mad because I am nearly five lessons ahead of him."
Alexander smiled, although his eyes carried a cold chill and his heart still felt lodged in his chest. "I will speak with him about it tonight," he responded coolly. "So, my Queen Alexia, how does it feel to be three years old? It seems that time has flown by."
She tilted her head to one side, her aristocratic chin angled, and her ocean-blue eyes emotionless. Alexander thought that the pose caused her to look much older than her years, almost the way that she'd looked in his nightmares; her facial features reminded him very much of Beatrice. For a long moment, she stood in silence, seemingly preoccupied.
"It is good and bad, as all of my birthdays are. I am happy to have aged another year, but this time also makes me think of Mother's death," she replied, forced indifference in her voice. "I'm sure you understand, Father." She gently brushed his hand from her head and started walking leisurely towards the far corner lot, the daisies bunched snugly in her tiny hand.
Alexander felt his throat constrict and his palms begin to sweat. Her voice had carried a tone that was almost one of accusation, although that couldn't possibly be true. He reasoned with himself, assuring his mind that he was overlapping his children's innocuous behavior with the malevolent intent of the two beings in his dreams. As if confirming his deductions, Alexia looked over at him with adoring eyes and waved at him cheerfully, requesting that he join her at her mother's grave. Adjusting the buttons on his suit nonchalantly, he followed her to Beatrice's plot and watched her plop down in the grass, dirt clinging to the soft fabric of her dress.
"Do you think Mother would like these daises? I picked them out of the greenhouse just for her," Alexia beamed, painstakingly smoothing each ivory petal before placing them on the mound of dirt. The artificial rays of sunlight bounced off of her hair, causing it to sparkle like spun gold.
Alexander squatted down, pulling up the pant legs of his suit, and squinted towards the headstone of his deceased lover. "Of course she would. Your mother's favorite flowers were daisies. Did you know that?"
"She told me that!" Alexia exclaimed, clapping her hands together gleefully. She rose to her knees and began to spread the bunch of daisies along the length of the rectangular plot, perfectly spacing them apart. Using her fingertip, she shoveled out a small hollow in the earth, placed one of the daisy's stems inside, and covered the remaining space with more dirt. "The daisy looks like it's growing out of the ground, doesn't it?"
Alexander quirked a brow, his lips set into an unsure frown. He leaned in closer to his oblivious daughter and brushed away a glob of dirt resting in the folds of her gown. "Alexia, your mother is dead. She couldn't have told you that. Are you sure that you didn't overhear Harman or me talking about it?"
Alexia giggled, sound especially youthful. Seeming satisfied with her artwork, she seated herself and carelessly plucked a blade of grass from the earth, peeling the green strip into insignificant pieces. She wadded them up into a large, green ball and rolled it between her palms, coloring her hands a light shade of lime. "Oh, Father. Mother told me that you'd say that. She tells me many things!"
"How does she talk to you?" Alexander inquired, routinely clearing his throat. The burning sensation in his lungs...he could almost feel it again. "Does she talk to you in your room?"
Alexia shook her head, discarding the vegetation ball and choosing a new blade of grass. "No, she visits me in my dreams. She tells me that she is very proud of how smart I am and that she misses me." Wiping her stained hands on her dress, she began to carefully study her blurred reflection in Beatrice's shining headstone, seeming to have already lost interest in the subject.
"What does your mother tell you?" Alexander pressed. Perhaps he was over-exaggerating, as Alexia had always had a more than healthy imagination. Even so, he couldn't make that burning feeling go away; in fact, it had begun to work its way through his trachea.
Alexia turned her attention back to him and looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes lighting up as if remembering a faint detail. "I forgot! She told me a few nights ago that she visits you in your dreams, too. She said that she wants you to know what will fruit from all of your hard work, although I don't really know what she meant. Does she give you nice dreams about Alfred and me?"
Alexander felt nauseous, and he clenched his fists together until his nails dug into his palm. He pasted a pleased smile on his face, although he felt the smoldering heat not just in his lungs, but throughout his whole body. He stood, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep his body from quivering.
"Of course, Alexia. You're mother gives me wonderful dreams about Alfred and you," he replied, chuckling tensely. "In them, you're the smartest girl in the world!"
Alexia lay on her back, the plush lawn supporting her like a pillow. She laughed, her eyes catching some of the beams from the artificial sun. "Father, you're so silly. Mother doesn't really come to you in your dreams, does she? You're just saying that so I don't feel funny about having Mother talk to me, right?"
"Maybe so, but I know that you'll grow up to be a wonderful woman. Alfred and you will be at the top, and everyone will listen to you because you're so intelligent. Now, I have to get going. It's getting late and I have a lot of paperwork I need to do. Don't stay out here much longer. You will have time to complete some of the next lesson before it is time for dinner," Alexander commanded, turning so that he didn't have to look at his daughter anymore. He didn't await a response, but began a swift walk towards the cemetery doors.
"Alright!" Alexia called after him, but he was already through the exit. She shrugged, confused by her father's bizarre response to her dreams. Maybe he thought that she was weird, but she had overheard him talking to Lady Veronica in this cemetery many times before. Peering into the stone that marked her mother's final resting place, she neatly trimmed away the overgrown weeds that choked the group of daises sprawled across the mount. "Why do you think Father's acting so peculiar, Mother?" she inquired aloud, more to herself than anyone else.
Alexia's eyes flew open in surprise when she heard a soft response, a voice that gently resounded in her mind.
'You'll find out in due time, my love.'
Alexia dropped the weeds onto the ground and frantically searched the cemetery grounds for the person whose voice she'd heard, but she was alone. She looked at her mother's headstone once more, studying it carefully for some sort of sign. Only her shocked features stared back at her, distorted from the rock beneath the glaze. Rising to her knees, she peered closer, looking at her face as if looking in a mirror. The contorted features seemed to melt together, and a different, more adult face appeared - the face of her Mother.
Alexia screeched in terror, jumping from her kneeled position and running from the cemetery. She didn't stop screaming until she'd entered the confines of the mansion, closed the door behind her, and locked it securely. Alexander was there in seconds, Harman and Alfred following close behind him, and all three of them questioned her at once.
"I saw Mother's face! In her headstone! It was her, I know it!" Alexia shouted, her lips trembling. Alexander picked up her shaking body, exchanging looks with Harman. The butler nodded knowingly and placed an arm over Alfred's shoulders, escorting the bewildered boy towards the door. The male twin turned to look at his sister, afraid to leave her alone, but Harman dutifully shuffled him through the exit beyond earshot.
"Calm down, Alexia. You're just imagining things. Our conversation must have worked you up," Alexander cooed, brushing away long strands of hair from her tear-streaked face. After a few minutes, the frightened girl quieted, her cries becoming little more than sniffles.
"You can put me down now. I think I'm alright," she offered, her voice still wavering. Alexander obliged, placing her on her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She seemed on the verge of tears again, but stubbornly held them back. "I believe that you were right, Father. I was just imagining things, trying to make Mother there when she isn't. I don't want to see her in my dreams or talk to her ever again."
"Perhaps that is for the best," Alexander offered, his heart still pounding in his chest. "Sometimes people see what they want to see, and it isn't a good thing. Put your mind elsewhere, such as your studies, and you'll find that the feelings will go away. I promise you that." He smiled slightly, taking her small hand in his. "Now, I was just about to call you. We're ready to have Alfred and your birthday party. Harman has made his famous coconut cake, and I have some gifts for you. Are you ready to join us?"
"I think so," Alexia sniffled, taking in deep breathes.
"Good. Go wash up in the bathroom and join us in the dining hall," Alexander insisted, pushing her back slightly to get her moving. As an added precaution, he gave her instructions, his face solemn and grave. "And Alexia, I would prefer it if you wouldn't mention this incident to your brother. He is not as mature as you are, and it would probably only scare him."
Alexia appeared puzzled for a moment, but nodded her affirmation. "Yes, Father. I will not say a word." With that, she hurried from the room, the door slamming behind her.
Alexander let out a whoosh of breath, his greatest fears realized. What if Beatrice had somehow visited Alexia and informed her of their true birth? Or that he was responsible for her death? What would the children do?
He shook his head, telling himself to be practical. The girl had just seen what she thought to be the face of her mother in a gravestone; she was clearly imaginative. Besides, if Beatrice had found a way to communicate with her daughter, Alexia would have questioned him immediately. He was overestimating Beatrice, even in her death. The twins could never find out the truth, and it would be his duty to make sure that it didn't occur. All of the papers regarding his genetic research, their birth, and Beatrice's life would be locked away in his secret underground study, the one that only he and Harman knew of, and he would make it nearly impossible for them to have knowledge of the location. He would split the inconspicuous key to the hidden study between the three of them, a key that didn't appear to be one. How he'd set it up, he wasn't yet sure, but he'd come up with a fool-proof way before his curious children stumbled upon something. Veronica would help him think of a way; he would visit her when the children went to bed.
Adjusting his disheveled hair, he marched confidently towards the dining room, feeling secure in his plans. Come hell or high water, the children would never know the secrets that he lived with. The consequences would be disastrous.
________________________
Alexia silently watched her father's steps from the partially open doorway, her shallow breathing quiet and discreet. She had overheard him mumbling mindlessly, and his features had appeared distraught. Something was troubling him, and his eyes seemed almost sad. She hoped that it wasn't the fact that she'd seen her mother's face that had upset him; he must have loved her mother very much and it probably pained him to be reminded of her death. Wiping the chilly water from her cheeks, she sighed, wishing that her father was happy. She promised herself that she would work extra hard at her studies; that always seemed to make him cheerful.
She never saw, heard, or dreamt of her mother again.