~If you want to listen to Erika's song, search: "Sleepsong, by Secret Garden" on YouTube.
For her dress, google: Abyss Keeper by Hwan on ArtStation
Enjoy!
KeshaRocks~
Bela brings me to the music room adjacent to the opera hall. Unlike the usual high ceilings and velvet red and gold curtains, this one is more for storage, but still decorated and organized like any other room of the castle.
It's the size of a parlor, with a grand piano squatting in one corner, a golden harp in the other, and a stain glass window poised between the two. The gold filigree of the castle still seeps into this room, a plump couch and chair surrounding a low-lying coffee table. Red velvet drapes hang from the other window on the right wall, and a single glittering chandelier hangs at the epicenter.
The moment I walked in with Bela, I nearly fell to me knees at the wide variety of instruments just simply hiding away in the shadow of the hall. One of every group hang along the walls or sit atop shelves and tables. Brass and string and wind and percussion fill the brim of this room, each looking well taken care of despite the fact they might not have seen the outside in gods know how long. Gleaming and elegant decoration.
I turn in a circle, taking in every instrument I can, some familiar, some not. I can practically hear their sounds in my ears. And in the hands of a professional –
"I knew you loved music, but I failed to realize just how much." Bela comments as she meanders over to the piano.
Before I can stop myself, I say, "Sometimes it was the only thing that made life beautiful."
I fold my lips in, flicking my eyes to Bela – the eldest daughter's brows lifted. I follow her steps, carefully stepping around a black, leather case; one of a few stacked tall around this room, no doubt holding more foreign and fascinating instruments.
"What kind of song do you want me to sing?"
Bela shrugs. "What kind do you know?"
I snort as I step towards the harp. "Nothing worth singing at a party. Mostly commoner songs, lullabies."
I've only ever glimpsed such extravagant parties around the village. Most of the singers they wished to have been opera singers – women and men able to hold notes for minutes despite not being able to understand a word they say. The next thing you know, their high notes of ecstasy have dropped to a somber number of grief and loss.
"You're performing for me, not them."
I curl my lip slightly at her in mockery as I step up to the harp. It's large, carved out of a beautiful walnut, the top of the pillar fashioned like wings in flight. The bronze neck gleaming like liquified ore. I lift my hand, but I look to Bela first – casually leaning against the piano with a hand on her hip. When she nods her head, I run my fingers over the longer strings.
The harp hums to life in a roll of deep notes. I half-expected the thing to be out of tune, but it sounds as if it were purchased just yesterday.
A door opens in my mind, and I hear the familiar tune of a lullaby I'd learned from Luiza when I was young – before Lacy was born. I begin to hum the vocal melody, trying to pick out the notes accompanied by the harp. There, but still beyond my reach as I've memorized the vocal melody, the sounds of the harp a faint echo.
I pull up a stool and sit. Bela doesn't say anything, but she does approach; eyeful as I lean the harp's shoulder against mine.
My thumb trails along the middle strings, trying to find the starting note through which I can navigate the song. It takes a couple of tries, but soon I can grasp the notes and my muscle memory takes over the simple tune.
"Lay down your head, and I'll sing you a lullaby. Back to the years, of lu-li-lai-lay. And I'll sing you to sleep, and I'll sing you tomorrow. Bless you with love, for the road that you go."
As the chorus progresses it has a couple more layers of notes, but I never advanced beyond this. I keep the timing for both melodies, each note twining with another to create a beautiful plait of song.
The first half of the song always told me of a mother singing to her child as they prepare for some kind of adventure. One that would take them far from their home, and into a world of possibilities. The second half is told from the mother's perspective as she watches her child fall asleep, for the last night they will spend together.
But as I got older, I started to dissect the words more, seeing a different meaning behind them as I grew and encountered the world in my own way. The song is about saying goodbye, but under what circumstance?
I began to wonder if the mother was abandoning her child because she was dying. Or perhaps the child is dying, and she's trying to make their final moments meaningful. Or maybe she's abandoning the child because she can't take care of it. So many scenarios, so many possible situations . . . and each of them more justified than what my mother did.
Lu-li-lu, Li-lu-li-lai-lay
The song was so beautiful yet haunting, so impressionable that I had to learn each word, learn each trailing of notes until I could decorate my world with ribbons of color and sound. Slowly waltzing around the dew-covered grass of our backyard, the early-morning fog my only witness, my only partner; curling and undulating and twining like ink water until I was tangled in a world where I had a mother, a father.
Where I was a sister and not a parent. A lover, not a hunter.
Lu-li-lu, Li-lu-li-lai-lay
A young girl who had friends, who hadn't sold her soul to a family of killers. Who was stable in mind and body and home.
Lu-li-lai-lay
The song comes to a delicate close, like the ending of a child's tale, and my mirage is broken. Pulled back through the darkness of my mind, back to my real body – here, sitting within the walls of Castle Dimitrescu, my life always at risk, and owned by the eldest daughter like property.
My fingers aren't willing to let the illusion go, and they limply pluck at the harp strings. The sound barely a whisper even in the quietness of the room. My foot meaninglessly presses on the pedals, as if I actually know how to use them.
I keep my gaze downcast until I can bare to look at Bela. Music always had a way of drawing out emotions I've kept buried, or even ones I didn't even know I'd been harboring. Too many times had I found myself sobbing at the waves of music, their quick pace, elated notes making me want to dance forever, to its slow somber pieces that had ripped open old wounds I had forgotten about.
Music was always my release. It wasn't just singing that helped me cope with the miserable existence that is my life – though a majority of it did help me more emotionally than I will ever tell – but the way that simple pieces of carved wood and sharpened brass can create such sounds, the way they translate the emotions of the player into something that is reached beyond all words . . .
Sometimes I would think the instrument is using the player than the other way around. Like a weapon, instruments become an extension of the self. There is beauty in everything about it. Something far more primal than I care to understand, only glad to be able to access it.
And in that moment, Bela's want for me to be her servant makes so much more sense now.
Finally, I look up to her when my fingers have stopped fiddling with the strings. It's not what I expected.
Where I thought I would see her arms crossed, leaning against the back of one of the chairs, instead I see her hands folded at her front – almost, respectfully. Her shoulders are relaxed, her head tilted to the side, as if I had indeed put her in a trance. Her golden eyes shine with a delicate line of silver.
She takes a hesitant – hesitant – step forward, as if she fears spooking me, and carefully rounds about towards my side of the harp. Its shoulder still resting against mine. I carefully lean it back on its stand. Bela takes her finger and gently strums the lower strings.
"You know a lot of pretty songs."
I shrug my shoulder, blinking away my own moisture in my eyes. "They're just lullabies. Nothing really special."
"They seem special to you." Bela says with heartbreaking gentleness.
I blink, trying to calm my heart which skips a beat. "I mean . . . they helped put Lacy to sleep. Kept me relatively sane these past couple of years." I brush my finger along the soundboard of the harp. "I like music," I say slowly, "because when I hear it, I . . . I lose myself within myself, if that makes sense. I become empty and full all at once, and I can feel the whole earth roiling around me. When I hear it, when I sing, I'm not . . . for once, I'm not destroying. I'm creating. But it's still nothing compared to what some other people can sing."
"I'm not around other people much. At least, no one really interesting."
I arc a mischievous brow at her. "You're saying I'm the best singer you've met with all of the lavish parties you've hosted?"
She gives a feline smile in return. "I mean, one that I can understand. And tolerate. You can't imagine how many glasses I've broken from gripping them too hard with annoyance. Always imagining it's those opera singers' necks. I don't know how mother even likes them."
A laugh breezes past my lips, breathy and light. Bela hums in company. After a heartbeat of comfortable silence, I say, "I get it." Bela looks to me, her brows tenting as she tilts her head to the side. "When you made me your personal servant, because of my singing, I thought you were kind of mad. But, now I get it. I've rarely met another person who appreciates music as much as I do."
Her features are wiped from her face, and she straightens into a posture I'm too familiar with. Distancing. "My decisions and their reasoning are none of your business." She growls.
It doesn't have the heavy bite like I expected, but enough of a warning that I should keep my nose out of her business.
"But, I suppose you have earned enough of my trust to know this truth."
"Oh, I'm so flattered." I say flatly. My eyes dip to her neck, where that pigeon-blood ruby shines like a crimson eye.
"You should be." She grins, but her face relaxes into something I've never seen.
Vulnerability.
She begins to walk her way around the harp, arms loosely folded. "I don't know much about who I was before I became a Dimitrescu daughter, and frankly, I don't really like to explore that part of me. But, when I first heard you sing, it was like I was . . . whole, again. I was seeing things I can't recall in my waking hours. I'm feeling something I've never felt before. And I was scared, but I wanted more. It was like having a full pitcher of water, and then the pitcher just shattering into pieces."
I recall when she told me when her birthday was, how old she claims to be. How long and deep of searching it took for her just to remember that.
She was still in her clothes, and while she looked beautiful, that did nothing to mask the killing potential that lay beneath. It's present in her strong jaw, in the slope of her eyebrows, in the perfect stillness of her form. She is a honed blade made by Lady Dimitrescu. She is a sleeping animal — a mountain cat or a dragon — and her markings of power were everywhere. I shake my head as the wall-mounted clock chimes one.
Bela looks over to it and sighs. "Better start getting ready."
I give her a perplexed look as I stand from the stool. "Isn't the party until later? Like, five-thirty in the evening?"
She's already sauntering towards the door. "Yes, which is why we need to start getting ready now."
"Why me?"
Bela whirls to me with her hand on the doorknob. "Because you'll need your hair and makeup done, and then we still need to find a mask for your dress."
"Mask?"
"Yes, we're hosting a masquerade ball." She annunciates with heavy exaggeration. I stick my tongue out at her. "Which is why I was hoping you'd have picked out a dress by now so we could arrange to have your mask made."
She yanks open the door and waltz out with a flourish of her fingers. Suddenly the lights of the opera hall are too bright. I follow her out, closing the door behind us. "I did pick out a dress, but you declined it."
"I was trying to save you."
"From your mother?"
"And from yourself." She points an accusatory finger at me. I nearly bite it. "I understand you were unfortunate to not have much interaction with fashion, but I had hoped you would at least know the difference between casual and evening dresses."
I roll my eyes with an annoyed groan. "Ugh, you're starting to sound like my mother. And need I remind you, it's very hard to wear dresses when you're hunting for your only meal for the day."
It has a little more bite than I anticipated, but I won't have her insulting my lack of knowledge when I was spending my time trying to feed Lacy. A roll of her eyes is her only median, and her apology – as close as I can get it.
"I do recall saying I'll help you pick out your dress and I intend to keep that word." She claps and another twiddle of her fingers. "Come along. We have to make sure it's right."
I follow her out of the hall and back towards my rooms. It would be a lie if I said I wasn't looking forward to it. I'm excited to see what dress she'll pick.
It's not at all what I expected.
As I cast a glance over towards my wardrobe filled to the brim with yards of silk and skirts and ruffles, I can't help but feel . . . plain. And that's saying something considering my upbringing.
Unlike Bela's prediction, the cosmetics were kept to a minimum; a little compliment I tucked away in my heart as the tailor's green-eyed assistant – whose name I learned is Gabriella – kept complimenting how smooth my skin was.
I was given a light dusting of powder over my face, a deeper tan color along my cheekbones to add shadow and dimension, and my lips painted a rose red. The color seemingly light compared to Bela's usual deep crimson. My eyes were dusted in a pale gold shimmer, delicately outlined in kohl to mimic that of a cat. I don't really know why; I'm going to be wearing a mask anyway – which I still haven't seen.
Bela left shortly after picking out my dress for the evening, claiming it'll return just before the makeup is done. All I caught was a glimpse of black – and no straps.
As Gabriella finishes ironing my hair into a pin straight curtain, I blink in awe as it reaches the middle of my back. I didn't realize it was that long, but I do braid it up most of the time.
Gabriella had washed and dried it, combing through an oil that makes my hair shine; the usual cornsilk color gleaming like polished silver.
"You look lovely." Gabriella smiles at me. Her own blonde hair pulled into a tail at the crown of her head. Despite being apprentice to the tailor, her dresses are mostly homespun.
"Thank you." I blink, feeling my darkened lashes tangle.
On cue, there's a knock at the door, Gabriella near skipping over to it with excitement. She opens it slightly, poking her head out to speak to whomever has visited. I rise from the vanity, careful to stay out of view since I'm only wearing a short, silk robe.
With a chipper thanks, Gabriella steps back inside, her arms full of the black dress before shutting the door with a backwards kick.
As she approaches me with a beaming smile, I peer down at the length of fabric. It looks a little more than scandalous even from here. And definitely not appropriate for an autumn ball, given how low the back goes. Low enough to reveal through I won't be wearing a corset beneath it.
"There's no way Bela approved of this."
Gabriella frowns at me. "She did. She just wanted to add some additions to it."
"It looks like she didn't add anything," I say, attempting to peer closer as she lays it on the bed. "She's trying to get me killed."
It's supposed to be a mutter, but Gabriella clicks her tongue at me. "Please, no way they're this creative. And not in front of people."
I resist the urge to shush her. Such talk – at least outside of me and that stone coffin of a room six feet beneath the castle grounds – is dangerous. And Gabriella is too likable to let her be killed.
"I'm a servant. I'm supposed to be plain, unnoticeable."
"You're also Bela's Lady-Maid, and you have to represent."
I fold my arms, leaning against the bedpost. "I feel like I'm going to get flogged by Alcina if she sees me."
"You never know; but I think you're fine."
I don't like how casually she shrugs her shoulders. As if my life wasn't on the line with every step I take in this castle. "But –"
Gabriella simply waves her hand and motions me to step forward. As we get ready, she keeps me turned away from the mirror, wanting to make it a big reveal.
The dress fits – actually fits without the need for added padding. I might have felt exposed with its fitted design, but in the three months I've been there, my sharp bones and skeletal form are filling out more each day. A woman's body. I run my hands over the sweeping, soft curves of my waist and hips. I had forgotten what it's like to feel anything but muscle and bone.
The gently flowing skirt pools at my feet, the close-fitting bodice pushing up my breasts. I want to just change back into my loose tunics. Especially when I hear the delicate tinkling of metal.
But I bite my tongue as Gabriella starts to clasp some golden jewelry to my right arm. A cuff on my bicep, pointed at the top and bottom from directional arrows carved in its side. Two thin, looping chains nestling against my skin. Then an ornate vambrace fashioned with such intricacy that it reminds me of a spine, breaking off into connecting points before narrowing down to a chained ring on my middle finger.
I keep eyeing it, thinking it looks like a bird's skeleton when Gabriella places the mask on my head.
It too is intricate, but light. She fiddles with my hair, and I feel a line trail back along the top of my skull, stopping at the crown. I can feel the soft press of flattened chains on my hair, connecting the piece from my temples to my crown.
Finally, Gabriella turns me towards the mirror.
I go completely and utterly still as I take in the ensemble.
The dress's close-fitting bodice gives me a deliciously curving shape, the gently flowing skirt puddling at my feet, the matte material hugging every curve and hollow, revealing each too-shallow breath.
And the mask . . . it's a golden skull. At least, the upper half. The eyes and nose are hollowed out, its canines delicately pointed before transitioning into a soft jaw – my jaw. A long horn grows tall from the ornately carved forehead, two smaller ones branching from either side of my head like a primal headdress.
With Gabriella's encouraging, wide grin, she turns me to show the back — to the golden spine that pinches the fabric at the small of my back, trailing down to my thighs before narrowing into a thin ribbon along the rest of the skirt. Then widening into a three-pointed band along the back hem.
I don't recognize the creature staring at me.
Not Death itself. Not even its harbinger.
But a guardian. A sentinel.
A Keeper of the Abyss.
I don't even know what to say, my mouth just popping open in shock.
"You look incredible." Gabriella nearly squeaks.
I do. I look unrecognizable.
"Men are going to combust at the sight of you."
I give her a sharp look "I'm not supposed to be drawing attention." I say, weirding myself out as I watch the creature – my reflection – mimic my words.
"They might look at you, but they'll be too frightened to approach you. You could win the hand of a king, looking like that," says Gabriella. "Or perhaps a Dimitrescu Daughter will do."
"Where in the world did you find this dress?" I murmur.
"Don't ask questions," clucks the young woman.
I smirk. "Fair enough." I wonder why my heart now feels too large for my body, and why I am so unstable in my shoes. I have to remember why I am going — I have to keep my wits about myself. I'm not there to have fun. I'm there to serve. And that's the only thing keeping me from shaking right now.
The clock chimes four-thirty, and Gabriella gasps.
"Gods help me. Go!" she suddenly cries, herding me towards the door to the hall. "Go, you'll be late!" Gabriella flings open the door to the hallway. "Bela Dimitrescu won't be pleased if you're late!"
"Thank you," I say.
"No more dawdling!" the servant woman cries, and almost knocks me off my feet as I'm pushed out the doorway and it's slammed shut behind me.
I stand there in the hall, dumbfounded and frozen like a doe. I know where to go, how to maneuver my dress, but I won't move. Can't move.
The silence of the hall roars in my ears as I look left and right, almost afraid of someone seeing me. Bela never said anything about meeting me at my rooms, or if I'm to just attend the party on my own, maybe meet her there –
"You look nice," Bela says shyly.
I whirl around to find her standing a foot away, not dressed in a gown. Instead she wears a black pantsuit – the sleeves of the fitted blazer stop at the middle of her forearm, cinched at the waist, the front buttoned low to reveal the pane of skin between her breasts. Their shadowed forms peeking from behind the folds of the jacket.
Modern and somehow sophisticated. She wears a single black leather glove on her right hand, her mask black lace with a single ruby to mimic her now-absent necklace. She doesn't wear any other ornamentation, but it's not needed. Her golden hair styled into loose curls. Her eyes shadowed black and her lips still their deep crimson.
"You look, better." I say. It's not a total lie. "Did you really approve of this."
Bela nods.
"Why?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I wanted to see you in something you've never tried before."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to attract attention."
"I don't think you will. And it'll be nice to have someone like you at my side for the party."
I'm grateful the mask hides my blush. Without another word, Bela ushers me to follow. Our walk is in comfortable silence, both of us admiring my dress and mask.
But as we near the opera hall and the sounds of a waltz can be heard, a swarm of bees take flight in my stomach. I can't forget why I'm here. I've never played this part before, and it certainly didn't involve linking arms with another woman.
The double oak doors appear, and I can see the wreaths and candles that bedeck the massive hall. It would have been easier if I could have slipped into the ball through a side door and remained unnoticed, but I probably would've attracted more attention from the other servants, and I certainly don't need anyone's burning gaze upon my back as I'm trying to ignore the fact of how exposed I feel.
I feel an urge to vomit and run back to my rooms. I just have to make it inside and past the guaranteed remarks of Dimitrescu and Bela's sisters, then I can stick to Bela's side like glue for the rest of the party. Then she can slip out when she gives me the nod.
My shoes seem frail, and I take a few steps back, ignoring Bela as I lift my feet high and set them down to test the strength of the shoes. When I'm assured that not even a jump through the air can snap the heel, I approach Bela waiting at the top of the stairs.
Tucked into my bodice, the knife pokes my skin. I had slipped it in while Gabriella was busy fidgeting with my skirt.
I look to Bela, her golden eyes heightened with the black makeup and lace. She nods her approval to me. I clamp my hands together to hide their shaking. I pray to the gods, to every god I know, to Mother Miranda, to whatever is responsible for my fate, that I won't have to use it. that I will be ignored and overlooked just like every other time in my life. Before and after tragedy.
Bela opens the doors, the sounds erupting from within.
I square my shoulders and step forward.