A/N Beta'd by the wonderful StoryWriter831. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.
Chapter edited to include new content July 2018.
...
Sleep was hard won and came fitfully that night, as I tossed and turned in my bed, my mind reeling sickeningly with splintered fragments from the day's devastating events. ...Glossy feathers, cracking mirrors, visions in a clouded glass...snarling portraits, kisses on the bed, eyes in my head...tap-tap-tap, 'our special secret, little worm'...'where were you today?' ...'one cannot so easily escape one's memory, conscience, and regrets'...
Exhaustion finally over-ruled the over-activity of my troubled mind, and I found oblivion at last.
It seemed only moments later that I was dragged from slumber by a tapping on the window-pane, and I lurched up in terror...but then I realised it was only the staccato patter of rain on the glass, and it was morning.
Getting up to draw the curtains, I observed the moisture-laden clouds hanging heavily over a dreary sky. It felt more like autumn than early summer, as if the weather was mirroring the gloominess in my heart. Wearily, I went through to the bathroom and saw that the shattered glass had been replaced at some point during the night. I was not shocked, only imbued with a numb uncertainty as to whether the incident had really happened.
I bathed slowly, turning over and over in my mind how I might have handled things differently with Lucius. I regretted wounding his pride, and spurning him so abruptly and completely. But I had acted instinctively, overflowing with terror, frustrated by my inability to speak of what had happened, and confused by his apparent duplicity. In hindsight, I had gone too far, too suddenly, and I was afraid the rift might be difficult to repair.
I thought of those heart-breaking confessions he had made. ...How terrible they were!
No wonder he had hated me so deeply. No wonder he had treated me so cruelly from the moment I first arrived. ...God, I had been so scared of him back then, half-convinced I had run into the lair of some murderous psychopath or rapist...and I had been right to be afraid of his cruelty. During the ensuing months he had given me a fair taste of it: I had known the vicious sting of his words, I had worn the marks of his brutality on my skin, I had felt the terror of helplessness when he forced me onto his bed and threatened the worst... But his cruelty was beginning to make a kind of sense, now; with every new, tragic revelation his mistreatment of me gained a context that I had no way of understanding before. I knew, now, that it had not been the calculating abuse of a sadist, but the burning rage of a man half-consumed with grief. A man who found, literally on his doorstep, the person whom he blamed most for his misfortunes. ...Perhaps I shouldn't wonder that he had hurt me; it was rather a wonder he hadn't murdered me outright.
...Had that been Her original intention? Did She guide me, like a lamb to slaughter, through that fog-strewn forest, with the design that I would meet my demise, my 'punishment for existing', at the hands of a man who had every reason to wish to mete it out?
I trembled at the gruesome idea. Perhaps 'Alice' wasn't supposed to have made it past that first night. Perhaps 'Alice' should have been buried somewhere in the frozen sod, the victim of a brutal, vengeful murder.
But murder me, he had not. This sworn enemy of mine, who hated me so thoroughly and despised me so deeply, had learned not only to tolerate me, but to feel something for me. Perhaps even to...to...
Don't, Alice! Don't even think the word. You can't, remember? Not anymore. It's too dangerous.
But I could not help at least thinking about him. And the more I thought, the more I regretted how I'd left things with him last night... I should have offered him some words of comfort, but I had not trusted my precarious self-control. It was wrong of me; Lucius deserved more from someone who professed to love him.
I would apologise to him at breakfast. I owed him that at least, even if I could not change my resolution.
As soon as I came to that decision, I felt an almost frantic desire to fulfil it as soon as possible, and hurried to complete the rituals of dressing.
Quickly selecting a pale-green dress from the wardrobe which I had never worn before, I slipped it over my head, breathing in the now-familiar waft of sweet herbs. I fastened the tiny buttons on the front bodice, noticing as always how slack the fabric was around my frame, and how it heavily swept the floor instead of whispering elegantly about my ankles. How slight and insignificant I must seem, compared to the rightful owner of the garment...
I smoothed out the folds of fine material. But as I did so, my hands encountered a hard little lump near one hip. With a start of surprise I realised that there were pockets sewn into the side-seams of the skirt, and that one of them contained a small, round object, about the size of a walnut.
I fumbled in the narrow passage of material and my fingers encountered something cool and metallic. Drawing the object out, my eyes widened and my breath caught as I discovered I was holding a little silver locket. There was nothing sinister in the design, not like the bird-skull pendant that Lucius had ripped from my neck; rather, it was pretty and feminine, and seemed almost to hum in the hollow of my hand—or perhaps that was just my nerves, thrilling with the excitement.
Three words, in exquisitely scrolled, miniature lettering, were engraved upon its lid.
"Happy Birthday Mother".
Turning it over in my palm, the other side revealed more elegant engraving.
"To N.C.M with love from D.L.M".
At its apex, there was an empty loop meant for a chain. A small hinge was fixed to one side of the rim and a little button to the opposite. Barely breathing, my fingers trembling, I pressed the button, and the locket sprang open with a small click.
Who knows how long I stood there, gazing at the two monochrome photographs resting in their twin frames? My eyes drawn back and forth, back and forth, in a kind of trance of fascination.
Two sets of eyes looked steadily out at me, occasionally blinking. One was a perfect stranger to me; the other, seen only in brief flashes and blurred dreams—and once in a younger form, playing with his train-set upon a moving canvas. They were unmistakably mother and son.
So this...this was she. Lucius's wife. The woman whose dress I wore, whose scent clung to me, whose sad fate haunted me...
She was all I had imagined her to be. A woman with a face as lovely as a Venus, of the same fair ilk as Lucius, her tresses falling in a long mane, as smooth as my hair was unruly, as lustrous as mine was mousy. A pair of large, limpid eyes, their expression cool yet not unkind, her demeanour rather poised than haughty. The perfectly fitting feminine counterpart to her imposing husband.
...'She was always wiser than I'... Recalling those words spoken last night, I knew that Lucius had respected his wife; by the softness of his tone with which he said them, I believed he had also loved her. Of course he had. Besides her breathtaking beauty, she was the mother of his son, the sharer of his burdens, the keeper of his secrets... Yet, no twinge of jealousy pricked my heart, only a profound sadness for what she had suffered, what she had lost...
Her son was strikingly similar. Although I could see much of Lucius in the young man—in the sharpness of his cheekbones and the arrogant tilt of his head—I saw that he had his mother's large eyes, her more finely-drawn features and pointed chin. The triangularity of his face gave an almost fox-like impression, reminding me of the shimmering, ghostly animal which sometimes appeared in my dreams.
I don't know why, but an irresistible urge came over me to speak to them. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Whatever happened to you, I'm sorry."
For a split-second I imagined that both of them looked at me and nodded, but then I realised it was simply a welling of tears in my eyes, distorting their images. And yet I felt oddly relieved, as if my words had been heard and accepted.
I could only hope that Lucius would hear and accept my apology, too. With a shiver, I recalled his cold reassurance that he would never "over-reach his privilege" with me again, and I wondered how he would greet me today. Closing the locket and slipping it back into the pocket of my dress, I made my way downstairs to find out.
...
The main door was firmly closed, indicating that breakfast was served in the dining room, as was customary on colder or rainy days.
But when I entered the room, the sight which met my eyes caused me to halt in my tracks and gasp with utter dismay. It was different, changed. Changed back. He had changed it back. The small, intimate table by the window had disappeared, and the long slab of mahogany was back, grand and impersonal, dominating the centre of the room.
He was seated in his old place, and did not acknowledge my arrival beyond a slight turn of his head, his eyes sweeping indifferently over me, but not connecting with mine.
I felt by turns hot and cold, ambushed by unwelcome and humiliating memories connected with that piece of furniture. ...That first day, when he had shaken and hurled me against it, and taunted me with my fears of his raping me upon it...those countless hours of his drawling sarcasm and loathing stares...that horrible night when The Woman appeared, and the two of them amicably dined while I lay prone and soaked in urine upon the floor...and finally, those mortifying days when I had been spoon-fed by Lucius's hand like a pathetic, helpless baby...
I was appalled by such a callous gesture. Did Lucius really, intentionally wish to remind me of those traumatic times? Not content to merely deconstruct the bridges of intimacy between us, but preferring to completely burn them down?
My heart sank sickeningly, but I did not comment as I approached the table and assumed my old place at right-angles to him. Stealing a glance at his face, I was intimidated by the impassivity of it as he poured out his tea and commenced to peruse a letter laid out beside his saucer.
The silence surrounding him was not laden with negative energy or underlying rage; it was simply empty and cold.
I toyed with my food, bereft of appetite. The small mouthfuls I managed to swallow seemed to stick painfully in my gullet. I wanted to speak, to break the ice, but my confidence was undermined by the presence of the table at which was sat, and by Lucius's daunting taciturnity.
Finally, I tentatively enquired if he had slept well.
"Quite well," he replied almost under his breath, not looking up from his correspondence. Soon after, he folded up the letter and tucked it in his breast pocket.
I half-expected him to strike up a conversation, even if it was a prickly one, but he did not. Instead, he continued to finish his tea in his usual fastidious manner, but without any outward sign that I were sitting only a few feet away...as if I were not even there.
I shrank from this rebuff, and did not speak again, but pushed my food about with my fork, my eyes fixed on my plate.
Somewhere in my throat, those two small words, 'I'm sorry,' were stuck between mouthfuls of undigested food.
After what seemed like an interminable time listening to the heavy thud of my heart, there was a light scraping of chair legs on wooden floor, and Lucius arose to stand. I looked up but he was already walking away. "Good day," he said briefly, his voice polite and perfunctory, without any trace of mockery or chagrin. He could have been addressing some obscure visitor with a claim upon his hospitality but not upon his regard.
I watched him move to the door and disappear through it, my heart stricken anew with anguish. Yet how could I possibly blame him for withdrawing? After all, it was I, not him, who had created the terrible gulf which now stood between us.
...
Days passed in this way. How many exactly I couldn't tell, for they seemed to blur into one endless, grey smudge of time.
I would rather have faced Lucius's anger or spite, or even aroused his vicious streak, than to become...simply ignored.
At least before, in those dark days as his prisoner, he had acknowledged my existence, even if the acknowledgement had been couched in contempt or cruelty. I had known what it was to crave his affection, but never his attention. I had never... I had never been completely invisible before. His casual disregard of my presence felt like a devastating corroboration of The Woman's vicious words...'Indeed, you are not a thing. You are nothing...'
I had no heart to renew my explorations of the house. Until so recently, I had really started to believe that Lucius himself would finally unlock the secrets of my past; that the trust growing between us must eventually lead to truth... I was not ready to extinguish these cherished hopes. I was not ready to admit to myself that everything between he and I was all over, almost the moment after it had begun. I was locked in a paralysing impasse between my love for Lucius, and my fear of the terrible, unknowable fate The Woman had planned for us.
Perhaps inevitably, I fell back into the routine of former days, spending long hours between meals shut in my room. I avoided the library with its laden walls of frustratingly empty books, and the pavilion with its too-painfully romantic atmosphere. Even the bright sunshine and warbling birds outside brought me no comfort; they seemed only to mock the desolation of my heart. It was almost as if, in my misery and guilt, I had shut myself back up in the prison I had once been so desperate to escape.
Each early-summer day seemed to drag like a bleak mid-winter's week. To be barely spoken to, never touched, was somehow worse than if Lucius had insulted or hurt me. I longed for some evidence that he cared that I had pushed him away; that he was hurting as much as I.
I missed him. I missed his companionship and his softly spoken words, I missed the way he looked at me with that slow smile, half-taunting, half-tender, and the surging flame of desire in his eyes. But more than anything, I missed his touch. The warmth of his hands brushing my skin, the security of his arms wrapped about my shoulders, the scorch of his lips pressed to mine... He seemed so impossibly remote, even when we dined together—perhaps then, most of all. So physically close, so emotionally distant. ...At times, my cravings were so unbearable that, half-maddened by his presence, I would abandon my meal and run to my room, hurling myself on my bed like a child.
But unlike a child, I could not cry. It was as if my tears had been petrified by the ball of stone in my heart. There was no relief to be found, only a hard, cold pain lodged in my breast.
...It felt like a thousand years ago since I had discovered the door behind the knight, and taken the steps leading me to discover the overgrown glasshouse. A different girl had made that descent, a girl who had not yet experienced the hope of happiness in the fervent embrace or the passionate kisses of the man she had fallen head over heels in love with...nor the crushing desolation of turning her back on that hope...
Lucius was now wrapped in an impenetrable cloak of impassivity, from which he never emerged. It was clear that he did not intend to humble himself again to me, for he was not a man to risk or bear rejection a second time. If we were to salvage anything of our relationship, the person to make the first move would certainly have to be me. But the more time that passed by, the more impossible that seemed.
As before, my emotions found an outlet in an escalation of disturbing and recurring dreams of mocking portraits, briar-thorns, a stone labyrinth, a ghostly fox disappearing up a spiral staircase...and always, always, a sinister black-feathered bird: sometimes small, pecking on a pain of glass, and sometimes as large as a full-grown woman, screaming threats through a beak filled with bloody fangs...
It was not long before I began to sleep-walk again, finding myself every night a little further down the staircase leading to the ground floor. I had no idea where my feet were taking me and I was terrified to think where I might end up this time, and what peril I might find myself facing.
Worst of all, I did not even know if Lucius would come to my rescue.
...
I kept the locket under my pillow at night, and on my person during the day, tucked into a pocket or sleeve. I derived a strange kind of comfort from having the two subjects near me, and a glimpse of their smiling faces seemed somehow to alleviate the loneliness and darkness which threatened to overwhelm me at times.
Lucius's wife...the mysterious 'N.C.M' of the cuckoo-clock...the woman who was gone, and yet who was somehow still here...
Even knowing so little about her, I felt I understood her in a way that no-one else ever could. It was as if I had absorbed something of her within me, a part of her spirit that had lingered on in the echoes and shadows of this sad house. I felt as if I knew her grief and her fear; I had seen the walls of her prison and witnessed the place of her demise...I had worn her clothes, and even, once, I had somehow become her.
...And, of course, I had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with the man that she had loved.
I wondered if loving him had hurt her, as it hurt me.